#belle lavellan

[ivee-draws]

doodle dump of various blorbos :)

[hanalghilan]

hit me with a #15 microstory combo

15. trembling hands (prompt list)

"Have you not killed before?" Beryl looked up from her trembling hands and shook her head. "Only monsters, never..." She said, staring at the corpse of the mage who had rushed them. Her eyes brimmed with tears. "Take comfort," Cassandra said gently, though staying her hand from Beryl's shoulder. "It does not get easier."

[niceness-before-knives]

Replays are fun because I can remember all my silly headcanons. Like Mir does not vibe with Solas immediately because he just grabs his hand and forces a rift close.

Mir is instantly suspicious in a way he can't verbalize, and while they do eventually become something shade of friendly, that odd note suspicion never really leaves him.

[bulls-chargers]

Cullen and Lavellan La Belle Dame sans Merci style — or well, in this case Le Beau Garçon sans Merci

[liaragaming]

The problem with Solas' view of Mythal

Listen, this has been bugging me for a while, and I finally found a way to articulate it...

In Trespasser, Solas sounds completely devoted to her. And he's so bitter discussing her murder. It's almost like he didn't rebel to free the slaves but to avenge her. (He says he wrote that story "in desperation," so I'm not sure.)

In the Inquisition post credits, he takes Mythal's power, and in his mural he paints it as a betrayal. But it also seems like she gave him permission? She knows he needs her power, and there's no doubt in my mind she could stop him from taking it if she wanted. And we saw her put a soul through the eluvian. She's planned and prepared for this. And he's so wrapped up in his own grief that he doesn't see it.

And she tells him she's "sorry as well." And I don't think she's commiserating with him. It's almost like she's apologizing for something she's done that he doesn't realize? Solas thinks he's done something terrible, but I think he did exactly what she wanted him to do.

Like, I'm sure Solas believes Lavellan loves an idealized version of him that isn't true. But I'm thinking maybe he needs to look into a mirror about Mythal?

We've known Flemeth for three games. She always has a plan. She was waiting for you to come kill her in Origins. Just because she was curious about what you and Morrigan would do. You didn't just happen to be the only Grey Wardens she could save. She hand-picked you. Just like she did Hawke.

And Solas comes to this woman at the end of Inquisition thinking he stabbed her in the back??? Honey, sweetie, do you know this woman at all???

I have so many alarm bells going off in the back of my head.

[angelknives]

On Mythal, Solas and Lavellan

I'm sure it's kept ambiguous to keep the audience thinking, but I'm with Bell (you know, the resident ancient elven expert) on this one and I don't think Mythal and Solas were romantic.

I think the relationship Solas has to Felassan was written as a repeat of the one he had with Mythal, just with him in the position of leader.

If you look at how Solas talks to and acts around Mythal, it's with deference and not the kind you have towards your romantic partner, but someone you admire so much you put them high on a pedestal.

Now of course he loved her, and probably loves her still. And she is tied to almost all of his greatest regrets, so of course she needs to be there to help him move through the regret.

I don't think that diminishes his feelings for the Inquisitor at all; we've already seen he cares too much about Inqy to let her get anywhere near what his quest to take down the veil will do. So he can't be with her until he fulfills or drops that mission.

To do that he has to move through his regret and he needs the people tied to his regrets to do that. Same way the fallen companies help Rook through her regret.

That's why both fallen companions appear to her and not just one to help her through, it's an intentional mirror (even if with Rook it's not the actual companions but a manifestation of them).

Also I get it can be interpreted both ways, but Mythal calling Solas love doesn't mean anything romantic to me. Maybe because I have called friends that, or maybe because context matters.

(On a side note, I am not saying Solas has had no lovers before Inqy, we know hes 'done it' in the Fade after all. Who knows, maybe that was even before he had a body.)

[lavenderprose]

The WAY that a Watcher Rook can just so absolutely match Emmrich's freak. Inquisitor Lavellan asking Solas shit like 'Who's Mythal' meanwhile my Watcher Rook meets Emmrich and immediately without hesitation leaves with him to go on a date in some 1000 year old mausoleum. Holding his hand while they ring bells for the departed. "Oh Emmrich thank you for showing me this tablaeu of skeletons. This is so cute. Omg that corpse is waving at me. Adorable!" And Emmrich is just like. God I can't NOT fuck them.

[littlelostmabari]

Day 18: Close Call

This week was shit but I'm still alive :) I have a backlog that I will post eventually when they're appropriately edited!

Pairing: f!Reader (Lavellan) x Cullen

Word Count: 1.5k

Summary: You don't want to go to a dress fitting. Cullen doesn't want to go to dance lessons. Broom closets exist.

SFW. Unresolved sexual tension, pre-relationship. Reader is Inquisitor f!Lavellan, otherwise not described.

You had been in hiding for a little more than an hour now, and you were quickly becoming bored with picking the bristles out of the second broom.

You were not a favorite of Josephine's, especially when it came to the… thing… at the Winter Palace. The Ambassador had woken you up at quarter past nine bells with thirteen fabric swatches in all different colors and styles. Josie hadn't even bother to intentionally wake you: you had opened your eyes as the third swatch flitted over the skin of your shoulder. Your blinking eyes had met warm brown skin and yellow ruffles and a square of the most hideous puce taffeta.

And Josie had brought backup in the form of Vivienne and Dorian, who guarded the exit to the staircase and the grand doors to her balcony, respectively. Their positions had necessitated launching yourself in nothing but your nightgown over the railing and down the stairs. The only thing left behind you was the frost along the walls from her Fade Step.

It was too early in the morning to come up with a clever solution, so you defaulted to the easiest, and now you had to start working on the third broom.

About halfway through the first broom there had been annoyed footsteps and voices to match. A searching spell pinged through the closet, and you knew that Dorian had found you, yet the three passed by your hiding place without even approaching the door. You would owe him a bottle or two of the West Hill brandy.

The second broom had been fully plucked while you listened to a pair of laundry maids talking about who was bedding whom and with what frequency. There were things they spoke about that you did not need to know. They were almost done when one threw the door open, saw you, and squealed. A lot of hushing noises and promise of a sovereign later, when they finally moved on, you started to hear music from down the hallway which meant your way back to your room was compromised.

About ten percent of the way through the third broom, there was a commotion from the direction of the music, and a pair of hurried footsteps. You stayed quiet as a mouse, tucked up against the back of the broom closet with the broom clutched tightly in your hands — or, you tried to, but the broom closet was not the largest space even when it wasn't full of Inquisitor.

Unfortunately it was about to be a lot tighter squeeze, as with the briefest increase in music volume, the door swung open and another body with significantly larger shoulders than you quickly pressed into the closet and pulled the door shut behind them.

The darkness that didn't bother your eyes clearly befuddled the other person, who stumbled around in the darkness trying to figure out why the shelves in this closet were squishy and person-shaped.

"Maker's breath," came the exclamation as arms passed over your shoulders to press hands against the wall behind you, and you looked up into the wide eyes of your Commander who clearly couldn't see you, but knew he was not alone.

"'Ello, Cullen," you giggled, and relief shuddered through his shoulders followed quickly by a shiver of blush as he pulled away and pressed back towards the door.

"Inquisitor!" He clearly couldn't figure out where he should put his hands, especially because there was barely a foot of space between the two of you. He settled for behind his back pressed against the door, which only pushed his body that much closer to yours. When his eyes finally adjusted, you knew your grin would be unmistakable.

"Fancy seeing you here." You placed the palms of your hands on the end of the broom and placed your chin atop them, inching your face slightly closer to him.

"Yes, um, hello ��" Cullen rasped, "— hello Inquisitor." He coughed and tugged at his collar and that's when you realized that he wasn't wearing his normal armor. He still had on his boots, but he was sans breastplate and mantle and vanbraces and only wearing his breeches and linen shirt. The music suddenly made sense.

"Dance lessons?" you giggled, gesturing at his clothes.

"Morning dress fittings?" he snickered, making the same gesture back at you. Your grin quickly faltered as your eyes darted down to your feet. Right. The nightgown. The broom dropped to the side and you made to cover herself with your hands. There wasn't much you could do, and you praised the Creators that humans had poor darksight. Even still, you and Cullen were suddenly in a resonance of stammering and blushing and it was only broken when voices echoed down the hall from behind the door. It was Vivienne's and Josephine's voices specifically, complaining that the lesser minds of the Inquisition did not appreciate the effort that was going in to make sure the Inquisition held its own at Halamshiral.

You didn't realize you had made a noise, but you must have because suddenly one of Cullen's hands was over your mouth and the other was behind your head and his body had pressed itself against you so that you couldn't move and make incidental noises against the shelves. You were up on tiptoes, hands down against the wall and back stretched to its limit.

"Please," he whispered. "Don't make me go back there." Your eyes were wide as you looked up into his, which had now clearly adjusted to the light. He was darting across your face, looking for anything that might indicate you would call out and betray his location.

"Commander!" Josephine called from right in front of the broom closet. You both held your breath — you could feel the tightness across his shoulders so you knew he was desperately begging you not to give him away. The only noise was the soft hiss of breath out of his nose and the huffing from Josephine on the other side of the door. Then, a final huff, a "where is he", and footsteps retreating down the hallway.

A moment passed, then another.

And another.

And another, and Cullen gently pulled his hand away from your mouth. You took a deep breath and it filled your lungs with embrium and oakmoss and elderflower. As your chest expanded, it pressed into his, and you realize that he hadn't moved an inch away from you even as his hand dropped from your face. Underneath the smell of the herbs there was a hint of petrichor and just the hint of whiskey, or perhaps that flavor was there because suddenly your vision was filled with amber.

His chest pressed forward with each breath too, and there was something in the twitch of his lips and jawline that made your heart leap. You'd not been this close to him before, except in your dreams. Except when the night was lonely enough that you had to conjure images of the Commander to drown out the foreboding of Adamant or the Winter Palace.

You relaxed, allowing the heels of your feet to fall to the ground, which is precisely when you realized exactly how Cullen had pressed you to the back wall of the broom closet — with the side of his hip, with his knee in between your legs. You stopped, shock still, and when he didn't pull back you dropped just a little more until your barely-clothed core rested against his unarmored thigh. That's when several things happened at once.

His eyes darted down to your lips, opened just slightly to breathe.

You brought one hand up to rest fingers on the waist of his linen shirt.

His fingertips tightened in your hair against your scalp.

And a knock echoed on the wood of the door.

"They're gone, Curly," the voice called out, a Kirkwall lilt to Varric's easily identifiable voice. Cullen flinched back from you, releasing your hair, and his eyes shockingly wide. "But they'll be back around this way in a couple minutes. If the Inquisitor is somehow nearby, she might like to know that the kid grabbed a robe from her wardrobe, it's sitting out here whenever she's ready for it."

Cullen coughed, and you heard a chuckled 'close call' from outside the door, then footsteps fading away. Cullen turned his back and adjusted his clothing surreptitiously.

"Inquisitor," he rasped, his voice scratchy. He pulled the door open and looked down the hallway both ways before stepping out and glancing down to a soft grey robe at his feet. He moved to pass it to you but stopped as the light illuminated your disheveled form. A long moment passed in which you did not make an attempt to cover yourself, before he swallowed, pried his eyes away from you, and handed the robe back into the broom closet. When it was in your hands, he strode away down the hallway with great haste before you had a chance to don it.

[halla-hunts-the-wolf]

Do y'all know that Solavellan music video to the song "I Found" by Amber Run?

I think I watched that religiously when it was first uploaded - I haven't done a Solavellan playthrough in years and I've since deviated all of my love to Dorian Pavus (💞), but every time this song comes on I feel the air taken from my lungs. It's like Pavlov's Dog, except instead of bells it's this song, and while I'm not drooling at the mouth at the thought of Solas, I am filled with an overwhelming sense of sadness due to how tragic his romance with Lavellan is.

[scribeofmorpheus]

Var Lath Vir Bellanaris

PART 1: Vi'Revas Warnings: Veilguard spoilers, Solavellan spoilers, angst, yearning, the feels! Words: 2.5k, not proofed, straight word vomit. Sequel to: Harellan (post-Trespasser) & Not Some Fanciful Story Recommended song: In Cold Light NOT PROOFREAD

The sky was blackened. The spire covered in the entrails of Lusacan, the last Archdemon. So much of that moment reminded her of the final push at the Valley of Sacred Ashes, of the last fight to save all of Thedas.

“Bind yourself to the Veil,” Rook’s voice carried as clear as a bell. “…stop it from falling.”

Revas’ blood turned to ice, a gasp fighting its way out of her quivering lips.

This wasn’t how she’d imagined her future, crippled, heartbroken, beaten-down from losing friend after friend to the blight in the south. She hadn’t expected to survive her encounter with Corypheus all those years ago, but she had always imagined hope would endure if she fell in that battle; hope that there would always be a promise of tomorrow.

There was none of that now.

She’d felt it when she walked the streets of Tevinter, seeing so many feet sway above the hanging post, nooses digging through skin. Cries of loss trickled from near every home and it was worse back home. The Free Marches. The Dales. Denerim. There were no more roaming halla. The aravels were gone. Cities, older than she would ever be, were lost to the blighted growth of endless decay, lost to the sourness of rot and the heat of death. Skyhold remained. And the sick, the poor, the wounded, they all flocked to her walls. Last she was there, they had turned the rotunda into an infirmary. She’d watched as countless strangers and friends had erected a wall of remembrance over the frescoes.  Drawings, letters marked with the names of loved ones, red hand prints, every creative indicator of loss was mounted on those walls, a candle lit by the feet each night.

She had hung up the letter from Briala a few months ago, the one that spoke of the loss of the Dalish clans and city alienages, the loss of what little elvish resistance had begun to rise in the face of human tyranny. She had cried when she’d added the title of Last of Clan Lavellan to her speeches, rallying the dwindling number of her troops to their death as they tried to save Grand Enchanter Fiona and her Circle mages, and then the Arl at Redcliff, and then the entire city of Halamshiral. Walking the palace she had once danced in, seeing barely a soul, hearing no music, it broke her.

The morning after each hard-fought battle, when she went to count the new dead amongst the half-living, she’d hear the curse she’d once foolishly cast on the very walls that stood as the final bastion against complete ruination.

I hope, wherever you are, 'ma vhen'an, that you are as miserable in your lonely hunt as I am miserable in this broken body, carrying the weight of two hearts. May the dinan’shiral break you, for that is the only way I could ever hope to see you again; or let this cruel world open its maw and swallow me whole, into nothing, past the Fade and out of memory so my sadness can never touch another again.

Regret. O, such a dagger, blunted and rough, pushing past bone to tear at your insides. She understood it better than she did joy. Because why else would the world try so hard to tear itself apart if not to answer her prayer?

Was his dinan’shiral not breaking them both?

A week ago, she had placed a Chantry necklace at the foot of a pile of jewellery recovered from the dead for Mother Giselle and Charter. And then the letter from Varric… she had carried it with her, through everything. Her last shred of hope.

I found him, Freckles.

She had cried as she held the paper in her hands, Dorian’s hand pressed to her back as Rook walked out to face the last of the Evanuris.

Revas should have been used to losing. All those lessons of Wicked Grace she’d had with Varric, all the sparring matches with Bull, the debates with Dorian, the arguments on Circle infrastructure with Vivienne, talk of belief in the Maker with Leliana, belief in elven gods… Crestwood. Losing should have been as easy as breathing, but every breath was a shard of glass to her lungs, a battering ram to her spirit.

There were no ties left to bind her to her home in Thedas.  

There was but one choice to make.

Revas looked down at Elgar’nan’s body, disappointed at what rotten fruit the ides of godhood bore.  There was always someone bent on breaking the world. Uncertain, she looked ahead, dismayed by just how much the tide had turned in a few months.

It cut her deeply, to know that it was her heart that stood at the helm of this unending cycle.

From where she stood, she could see the Veil gouged open like the slit of a tired eye; poised to waken, yet still full of the promise of further sleep. That same light had once shone from her very palm.

Despite everything, she found herself fighting off the pull of a smile. Herald of Andraste here to face the very maker of the Veil. It was poetic enough to make a religion out of it. Varric would’ve made a killing with a twist like that. His best and last seller for all of Thedas. A love story.

She paused by the doorway, watching him ascend the steps slowly, unsure of what it was she was hoping to see, but when Solas bowed his head in that very same manner he had done before he bent to kiss her that last time, she knew the words that would fall from his lips before they even had a chance to grace the air.

He couldn’t do it.

Not on his own.

Thirteen steps. That was all she needed to surmount. Not a high dragon. Not a blighted, ancient Tevinter magister who had walked the Black City. Not the fall of the South. It was just thirteen steps across the divide, past Rook and past every decision that led them to this point.

Back turned to her, wrecked and ravaged by a hard fight, Solas’ body was wrapped beautifully in armour stripped down to its barebones, a remnant of the one she’d watched gleam through an eluvian, wolf pelt slung on the side in place of a sigil. It made him look vulnerable. Nowhere near as regal as he’d been in the Fade, yet neither draped in humility as he’d been in Skyhold.

When Solas climbed the final step, dagger balancing dangerously in his open palm, he declared full of regret: “I cannot.”

His voice, quivering and mournful, sent tremors through Revas.

She quickened her pace, half afraid she’d turn into a shemlen in the process.

He was so close. So close to touch. Her every muscle ached to reach out and be reunited with him, her chest heavy as though she could feel the very weight of him pressed against her bones. Yet, despite how much she desired it, she could not run to him. She had to take each step carefully.

Rook gave her a look of warning, but shifted to the side, letting her pass.

They would work together on this.

Revas would have her shot.

Until she wouldn’t.

The ground seemed to stretch farther with each step, creating even more distance the closer she got. The air, acrid with the smell of blight and blood, grew thick, electric in that habitual way the Fade had felt when it coursed through the anchor, when it bound her every fibre to a spark of light and used her very spirit as flint to cauterise the tears in the veil all those years ago.

Three steps left.

She could practically feel what it was like to be beside him, to be near his magic.

They had once been like ice and thunder. Her, this brewing storm like the kind that kissed the horizon on the Storm Coast. Him, the kind of avalanching cold that could rival the fall of Haven.

Whenever she’d been close to him in battle, feeling the strength of his barriers, nearly impenetrable, she’d felt unstoppable. And at the mark of terrifying blizzards that’d turn the skin of any enemy brandishing a blade against her to glaciers, she’d feel so possessively loved.

That is what she had to hold onto. Not the pain or the betrayal or the losses. The love that was always there, slipping through the cracks, chipping away at his polite mask, bolstering her with the knowledge that she was not so easily avoided, no matter how hard he’d tried to steer clear of her.

Elfroot, ozone and poultices. The scent of an apostate. A teacher. He was only three steps away.

Solas stared at the Veil, his back holding fast with purpose, his fingers twitching by the dagger's grip. He took a breath, and without looking back at Rook, he pressed on with his reasoning: “To stop now would be to dishonour those that I’ve wronged to come this far!”

Solas raised his hand, dagger’s edge close to his bleeding eye, and she knew not to wait any longer. This was it. The moment when she’d test how well she’d kept his heart.

Time went still. His body turned ridged as he turned to face her the moment she spoke.

“Even if those you’ve wronged asked you to stop?”

He looked so utterly broken. Revas watched in relief as she saw just how much of an effect those simple words had had on him.

Solas’ lips parted ever-so-slightly, his brow moving up a fraction, showing a hint of familiar awe—that surprise at having been affected so deeply by her. It was good to see that things didn’t change. And for a second, she imagined he’d smile. But then he bowed his eyes, snapping his eyes away from the heat of her gaze, turning his head to look downward.

Shame.

He was ashamed.

In a solemn breath, one meant for reunited lovers, not opposing forces at the end of the world, he whispered her title; her name; her place in his story: “Vhen’an…”

That simple word was enough to knock the wind from her, but Revas would not give him the satisfaction of being backed into a corner by pain. Not like in Halamshiral. Not again.

Her heart quickened as she took another step forward, “You think you’ve gone too far to come back but you’re wrong. I am here,” she gestured to the desolation around them, beseeching, “walking the dinan’shiral with you!”

Slowly, he lowered his dagger, his temples burdened by the dawning of his actions, by the gravity of what she’d just said.

“I lied,” he urged, trying to draw on any nerve that might still be raw, unwilling to believe she truly meant the words she’d spoken. “I betrayed you.”

And what did that matter?

Through everything.

How could that matter when she was beginning to remember what it was like to be in his gaze, to hear the tremors in his voice, to feel the power of his yearning across those steps?

“I forgive you!” She felt her voice crack. “All you have to do is stop!”

Please, for me, my heart, stop.

Solas turned to face her completely, his head, once high, was brought low in reverence. Humbly, as was his way all those years ago, he bowed before her and her heart broke.

“Ir abelas, vhen’an, but I cannot.” His head rose up, his eyes hardening, replacing humility with purpose. “Long before we met, I failed my oldest friend. She died for my failure. If I leave the Veil in place, I am destroying the world she wanted. And I will have… She will have died for nothing.”

He turned back to the tear in the veil, raised the dagger once more, and was halted by the cry of a raven—a creature Revas had once held sacred as a Keeper of Dirthamen’s Secrets.

Morrigan transformed before him, her entrances as memorable as always. She approached Solas with ease, speaking to him with the cadence of an old friend.

Revas took another step forward, mind focused on him. Always him. All she could do was push; pushing past the doubt that tried to claw up her spine when she witnessed him shrink with the realisation that he was not speaking to Morrigan entirely; pushing past the wrenching in her gut when she heard how torn he’d sounded as he’d spoken Mythal’s name; pushing past the anger as she learned of his corruption at her hands, past the devastation as she watched him crumble in the last light of forgiveness before Mythal vanished.

The petrifying sounds of his sobs sent her to her knees beside him, as he had knelt for her when she’d been wracked by pain when the anchor tried to rip its way out of her.

Finally, she would say the vows she had dreamed of saying.

“Banal nadas. Ar lath ma, vhen’an,” she could see him shake, hear him whimper, but it had been enough.

With a clenched fist, Solas resolved to stand tall, his hand ghosting the deep bruise near his forehead as he tried to control his sobs. With a steadying breath, he found the strength to turn to the Veil and do what must be done.

In the blink of an eye, he brought the lyrium dagger to his palm and sliced clean through, holding his fist up as he made his oath.

“My life force now sustains the Veil. With every breath I take, I will protect the innocent from my past failures. The Titans’ dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help to soothe its anger.”

Solas placed the dagger in Rook’s hand, finally turning to Revas to say his goodbye, “I will go and seek atonement.”

Then he paused in front of the tear, and Revas was certain this was where her path would always end.

“But you do not have to go alone,” she walked up to him, hands outstretched.

There was that look again. Awe. Disbelief, Adoration.

When next he spoke, he sounded so small, so mortal.

“Ar gelass vir banal,” she shook his head, his eyes gleaming with tears that were barely being held at bay. Soft. So unbelievably soft. Revas would not be talked out of this.

“Tel banal arama,” she refuted his excuse.

Solas swallowed down another sob, except this one was half laughter. Because, of course she’d cast aside any fears he might have used to persuade her otherwise. His hand pressed down on hers, hopeful, full of need, and she complied.

As a child, she’d heard lovers exchange the vows of eternity during marriage ceremonies. Once, she’d dreamed of uttering them to him, when they’d been in the Inquisition. Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris. The words had sounded so beautiful. Inevitable, even. But knowing what she knew of the Old Gods, if she were to make a vow of forever, it would not be in Sylaise’s name. It would be in honour of the distances they’d spent apart. The journey.

“Vir shiral ma’lasa, bellanaris,” she sealed the vow with a kiss. Gentle, compassionate, tangled with relief. They had endured. As Ar Bellanaris had, the burial grounds in the Dales, through war and occupation, an untouched beacon of old Arlathan. Bellanaris. Eternity, come what may. They had made the journey, and now all that remained was the love.

Solas deepened the kiss, wincing through it as he carefully moved his cut lip against hers, the taste of blood shared between them.

When they finally parted, they were one. Bound. Spirits entwined. And then they became the heartstone of the Fade. The place where Cole was from. The place where they had shared their first kiss. As Revas had made Skyhold a home, made Thedas a place worth living in, for however short a time, she knew Solas would do the same for her. A home for a home.

The Maker returned back to his beginnings, but he was neither alone, nor surrounded only by regret. He was with his bride. The Herald of Andraste. Inquisitor. Revasan Lavellan, the Last of Her Clan; a Paragon of Freedom.

Now all that needed to be done was face the regret.

[plasticfreckles]

🌙 moth to flame solavellan enjoy 🌙

He knows, even from so far away, without seeing the leaves break under boots or hearing the leather creak with the movement, the way Compassion crouches near her, awkwardly patting at her shoulder.

"He wanders, dwelling, watching, waiting. One last goodbye and seal it with a kiss."

"He's here?" It echoes, through wilderness and eluvians alike. For a moment, he could almost think himself back in Crestwood. Lathari looking at him as though instead of the Veil, he put up every single star in the nightsky.

Before he broke her heart, her spirit and everything she'd ever known.

The complete and utter relief in her shaky, exhausted voice all but renders him to dust.

"Yes." It rings in his skull like he stood inside of a chantry bell. Like it was the most obvious truth ever given voice. "He wants to save you. You can't die. Not you, never you. It was not supposed to happen this way."

Solas cannot find it in himself to purge Compassion from his mind. Not when the words give her even a miniscule amount of peace, even amist all.. this.

-

She can barely talk by the time he says his goodbyes. Too exhausted trying to catch breath the first few moments.

"Solas, wait," she breathes, eventually. He turns to look over his shoulder. She has moved to lie down on the ground, between petrified qunari, waterfalls and wilderness, content to exist and not feel lightheaded.

And, fool as he is, he waits.

"Compassion will come for me, I know, but-" she pauses, focusing again on breathing for a moment. Solas returns closer to her, the littlest charm to lighten the weight on her chest.

"They are close. But a few short moments. Hold on, Fel'a'lath." A new monicker, found in the heat of the moment, but none could be more accurate.

"Don't leave me here alone until they're here, please." He can barely make it out from how she whispers it against the stones beneath her cheek. "I won't ask you to return with us, you don't even have to say anything to anyone, just-"

He hushes her, a gloved hand in her hair. He teases her scalp with the claws, a well-practised motion that once made her sigh and lean back into his hand.

"You're tired, and scared, and aching. I understand."

And sad.

So utterly, profoundly sad he half-wishes, in a dark, vile corner of himself, she'd died in the Conclave.

Spare both of them this pain.

And so he sits with her, like he'd done countless times before. No sounds but their breathing, wind through leaves and the water. When they shifted so his lap cushioned her head, already scratched and bruised and bearing a greenish tint under the skin, so he could massage her skull and heal at least the little wounds, he cannot say.

He can barely feel fingers digging into his knee, through his armor, and if she wasn't in his lap struggling to breathe calmly, he would stand and shed it.

-

Compassion drops the backpack, already forgotten between the mirrors, gently brings Lavellan to her feet, onto its back. Dorian and Bull bickering on the other side of the eluvian is barely more than background noise (We need him to fix her arm. Besides, if I go in there, I'll kill him, and she'll never forgive me if I do that. - Yeah, but he deserves it. - And she deserves his living, if she wants it. Maker knows why she'd want it. She's gone through enough because of him.), but he's glad they're here.

Solas won't let her die now, not after all this, after what they've been through, but at least she would not be alone.

And then, Compassion stays, wrists curled awkwardly under her thighs, hat pushed forward so the rim won't dig into her face.

Lathari's head lolls like a flowerbud broken off as he cups her face one last time.

"I love you, Solas." She whispers.

"More than anything." He presses into the air between their lips. "More than life." One last goodbye, and seal it with a kiss. "Live well, while time remains."

Her Marked fingers, already dissolving into black smoke and green ash, curl around the jawbone - when had he given her the necklace?

"Var lath vir suledin." More conviction in her words than she put in her office all four years.

"I wish it could, vhenan." His voice breaks. "I will never forget you."

🌙

I worked the work of 3 people in 1 shift while operating on absolutely none sleep and my head just played the lost elf theme on repeat for eight and a half hours and this is what i brought home from work :)

so i wrote this like 3 months ago but im trying to at least keep the chronology of dating - breakup - trespasser with this lmao

Also I tried raw-dogging Project Elvhen on Ao3 for the nickname. Supposed to mean something along the lines of "last love" or "lost love", but i don't know how grammar works lmao.

fel'ala [last] + latha [love]

a lil behind schedule bc veilguard dropped lmao

up next: lighthouse reunion freestyle

@vespaer77 almost there!

[its also a lil funny bc my lavellan's name is lathari but thats neither here nor there]

[ivee-draws]

asymmetrical elf fashion save me…save me asymmetrical elf fashion

[secret-smut-sideblog]

The Dove

Lavellan x Blackwall

18+ fantasy racism, death, explicit violence, implied abuse, fear, tenderness, injury, hurt/comfort, fingering (f!), oral (f!), p-in-v, unprotected sex

Using the full force of her foresight and the strife within decisions made, Celene's Grand Ball proves to be bloodstained and venomous. Leaving Vella exhausted to old and new injuries, tenderly caught by his soft love...

Masterlist, Prev Chapter

-

"And now, presenting..."

Blackwall leaned low into her ear.

"If you are... underdressed under that cloak, please warn me now."

Vella slid him a teasing salacious smile.

"Grand Duke Gaspard De Chalons, and accompanying him..."

"Maker, Vella..." He sighed, giving her a knowing glare.

"Lady Inquisitor Lavellan!"

"That's my cue, take my cloak, will you?" She purred, pulling her arms behind her back. Dropping her shoulders to let the heavy fabric fall.

As she stepped forward, Blackwall's breath choked, followed by a rattled sigh. The sweetest sound to her entrance. Striding forward with dark cherry red silk trailing her silent step. Gasps of shock risen on balconies.

The dress had, naturally, been Leilana's idea.

The agreed upon silhouette of Orlesian dress was a structured bell with layered fabric and steel boned corset.

The garment that Josephine had brought to her, special made by a seamstress who must've had a terrible amount of amusement fulfilling, was all draped fabric.

Falling from her hips slick as oil, the plunging back tight to her waist and draped on the sides by bishop sleeves. Only girded by featherbone stays with rich indigo beading, matching the traditional Dalish boots that Blackwall had sewn her. The silhouette was all her, only partially hidden by the heavy drape of a shoulder cape, the red and blue of her entourages color coordinated uniform. The cape hung over her left shoulder, leaving her marked hand to only tantalizing glances.

"Nothing makes one more desirable company quite like tasteful scandal." Vivienne appraised the dress, running a finger over the high neck.

"Yes, a beautiful woman who steals the show and clearly holds thinly veiled contempt for the whole affair? They'll be staring like awestruck children." Dorian's eyes glittered with delight.

It certainly appeared to be working.

Vella strode with cold grace. This ball, this whole disgustingly ornate mansion, was beneath her, and she made little effort to hide it. Moving with the momentum of her hips. Letting uninterest carry on her face under her black blindfold.

By the time she reached the stairs, a quiet murmur surrounded like insect song.

Unbothered, she stared up at Empress Celene. Giving a graceful bow instead of the glare her heart called for.

Gaspard's shit eating grin was barely hidden under his ornate mask. Clearly pleased with the devious spectacle of it all.

After all the indulgent pleasantries were exchanged, Celene stared down her nose at her.

"You've certainly come dressed outside of our custom. Is this Dalish fashion?"

Vella laughed lightly behind her left hand, the gash of green light pulsed deep between bone. All eyes on her.

"Certainly not! I'd be wearing much less your Highness."

"Is that so? I'd be a shame if you couldn't see the decor beyond that blindfold."

"Oh, I can see everything I intend to."

The silver glow of her eyes shielded behind the molded black mask. Tied behind the fall of her golden hair with long silk.

The court was quiet in rapture within their exchange.

The whole of them laid out to her. All she needed to know unfurled behind the curtain of her mind. Bordering on overwhelm that she would need to muffle soon. The rolled elfroot cigarettes in their gilded tin assured in the taut garter on her thigh.

The secrets of all of these hateful people displayed to her at rapid speed. Especially Celene. Simmering rage seared under her easy smile.

I know what you did.

"With your lineage, you must certainly hold opinions on Halamshiral."

How many had to burn to soothe your ego?

"Oh, it's all quite beautiful. I'm sure much thought went into the conversion of the scenery. Sculptures and hedgemazes don't sprout up as easily as the humble orchid tends to."

It was a volley of elegant strikes. Words tossed with the air of nonchalance but beheld with bated breath by their audience.

Vella may be Dalish, but she was no stranger to appeasing the sensibilities of people she hated with the whole of her chest. Years held in the gilded prison of the Chantry taught her very quick that a sweet tongue kept you some semblance of safety.

"I wouldn't imagine keeping your company from our guests any longer, Lady Inquisitor. We look forward to watching you dance."

Vella gave another gracious bow and a sweet smile to her enemy. Striding up the stairs with eyes set only on Leilana as she approached.

"Well played." She whispered as a small smile pulled her cheek. "A word, when you have a moment."

Vella nodded, her own smile already fallen. "I'm going to need a cigarette after that."

"You and me both." Leilana sighed. Stepping back into shadow.

"Please find a balcony first." Josephine urged in a quiet rush. "There's only so much rule breaking that will be taken as alluring here."

Vella cupped her cheek with a gentle hand. "You worry too much. I'm only a savage wandering the most proper of society."

The use of the hateful word was deliberate. Many eyes held on her. Their power to cut her down taken from their mouths.

"Such an awful word!" A younger woman standing at Josephine's side gasped. "I couldn't imagine anyone calling you that!"

"Then you're better mannered than most, but I would expect no less from a lady Montilyet." Her eyes burned with near constant light behind the dark shield. The torrent of Dirthamen unveiled things untold to her as cacophony she focused to discern.

"This must be her!" Yvette giggled brightly behind her hand, blush pink in her cheeks.

"Your reputation certainly proceeds you." Josephine sighed, giving her sister a soft glare. "She's been insatiable for details on... well, you."

"Josephine writes, but she never tells me anything." The sweet yearn in her voice pulled a soft smile from Vella.

She had always wanted a sister. Though she knew that experience varied wildly between siblings, the accusatory stare of endearment from Josephine made her heart twinge with things she could never know.

"What would you like to know?" She offered with a gentle laugh.

"Please don't encourage h-"

"Is it true that Dalish women dance naked under the full moon?"

"Yvette!" Josephine hissed.

"Well, I certainly do." Vella laughed.

This seemed to delight the sweet girl and got her a stern clearing of the throat from behind her. Practically feeling the heat rising up Blackwall's neck.

"My lady, would you like accompanying for some air?" He led in the monotone gruff of his voice.

The flat delivery of his words irked most but she found it endlessly endearing. Especially when her teasing or tenderness softened the cadence.

"Oh, do I need escorting?" She teased, eyeing him beyond the black mesh shrouding her eyes, only seeing the shadow of things. The dark of it staving off the near constant threat of migraine from her untethered foresight.

"We both know that you do." He tried for aggravated, but affection was thick underneath.

"Oh, and who is this?" Yvette batted her lashes at him.

"Go while you still can." Josephine urged.

"I'll find you later, Josie." Vella laughed, led forward by the small of her back through the halls to a balcony.

"You seem to have caught many young ladies' eyes." Vella teased, lifting the fall of her dress to thigh to take a cigarette from the tin.

"Vella, please..." He hissed, sliding behind her to shield the full length of her leg from view.

"Oh, let me have my fun." She shushed, bringing the cigarette between her fingers. "It's going to be all downhill from here. Damn, I've forgotten matches. Where is Dorian when you need him?"

Blackwall pulled a matchbook from his breast pocket.

"Oh, you're so thoughtful." She smiled, leaning into the flame he struck. Speaking through a contented sigh of smoke. "My savior."

"How do you feel?" He leaned down to her.

"Held together with twine and a wish." She sighed, feeling the incomprehensible barrage of information battering her mind dulling. Taking another grateful pull of burning relief.

"But I'm well stocked for tonight, don't worry." She patted her thigh. "Though, if actually do start undressing, I give you permission to tackle me."

"Like at Haven..." He sighed.

The fever of madness had always been terrible. Gods, that whole night weighed so heavy in memory. But it could only be more painful for him.

"We've never really talked about that night, have we?" She whispered, taking in his sweet eyes so creased with worry.

"No, and we're certainly not going to here." The monotone growl filled his voice again, glancing at several suspiciously still backs that had gathered.

"If one more person calls me rabbit... I suppose I should mingle." She sighed, taking a deep pull of smoke. Offering him the cigarette which he waved away, a silly ritual at this point. Another way they played. How dearly she loved playing with him.

She pinched out the cigarette and leaned in to whisper conspiratory to him.

"Don't tell anyone, but you're my favorite."

She could feel his smile as she pulled away.

"I'm going to need a dance from you, my lady!" He called as she strode back inside.

"I'll try to squeeze you in!" She chirped, biting her lip in a smile.

With her heart dizzy with love, she steeled herself to begin her rounds.

-

The loop of Vella's stride made him exhausted by proxy. With each circle, she passed his post and leaned in to leave a whisper in Elvhen. Often making him stifle a laugh.

"I hope they all choke."

"This place sucks shit."

"That's it, I'm burning it down."

"With us inside it."

He nearly laughed out loud at that last one. Having to stifle it into a cough, nodding in feigned interest at the man prattling on in front of him.

Her echoed resentment of their situation was the highlight of his night so far, but he couldn't help the prickling concern.

She had slept hard the previous night. He wanted nothing less than her to rest, but the longer she slept, the stronger her condition held. He could only imagine the sheer noise that was filling her mind.

She could only hold like this for so long before it started to burn. Until it held her down in that terrible seize. Dropping her to the floor to pull rigid as her body shut down, knocking her unconscious to protect her mind from boiling.

It made him furious how the others seemed content to let her do this. The only steadfast objectors to using her as prophet being Cole and himself.

He wasn't naive. He understood the stakes at hand. They were at war, and even a small misstep could be catastrophic. But the way the others saw her suffering as regrettable but acceptable collateral...

He knew her foresight was an invaluable asset, but Maker, how could he not worry? How could he not wish it would stop whispering madness into her, no matter the advantage?

She approached him again just as a man strode forward. Pointing at him as if he knew him. Panic rose higher and higher in his chest as this noble danced around his identity with drunken ignorance. All while she stood studying the exchange with unreadable eyes.

The other concern, the one he was ashamed to acknowledge: Would it whisper to her the truth of him?

Of course she knew he was keeping something from her. She was too clever, too attuned with other people, to not see it. To not feel it writhing under his skin.

Maker, he nearly buckled under the weight when she confessed her own crime. Kneeled cradling the flowers of her dead family, killed by men like him, then taken in turn by her. Shame so hot in his belly he almost vomited when he had a moment alone.

He had to believe he had atoned in some small way. Maker, please let him have. Please let her not be broken by him.

The man finally wandered away, and he steeled himself to dance around her question. He couldn't stomach lying to her anymore. She shouldn't love a man who lies to her.

"Someone from your past?" The gentle prod of her voice made his throat clench. So sweetly asking him to open to her. To unfold into the warm of her.

I wish I wasn't the one you love.

"Drunks think all men with beards look the same." He grunted. A statement he felt true, at least.

"Hey, I didn't know you had a medal of valor!" Her eyes brightened, so delighted to know more about him. "What is that for again?"

She leaned in that adorable way, like she was telling secrets. "I'm Dalish, fill me in."

Darling, please don't trust me. Not like this.

"Valor, mostly."

She laughed, the sound so bright.

Why did you choose me. Anyone but me.

"Fair enough."

Her demeanor fell back to solemn. Hitching her head to follow.

He nearly sighed in relief.

-

The silent sprint of her feet was the rush of wind through trees. Torn dress whipping behind her. The clash of her party at her back.

Run, girl. You're out of time.

Venatori tried to rush her, but she had already run through them. Dodging through their fingers seconds before they reached. Arrows and blades seeking to strike before she entered the fray.

The toll of bells striking. She could see the precious seconds ahead of their arrival. The pounding of her blood-soaked step a trail led in a circle of time.

Circled. All spiraled.

No, focus. You're here.

She squeezed her eyes. Leaping onto the banister invisible, she sprinted into the ballroom. Running along marble, pulling her bow from her shoulder. The sea of people gathered wouldn't see her until she struck. Ripping the arrow tied from her thigh.

Florianne stepped forward, a wicked smile on her face. Blade poised on Celene's back.

Vella notched her arrow as she slid to a knee. Drawing back in the same breath. Locked in the tunnel of her prey.

But her hand paused. Time she didn't have. Arrow poised waiting.

She saw it.

The future that Briala would bring puppeteering the hand of Gaspard. The Elven Queen in Shadow. It would bring revolution and civil war, further shattering Orlais.

But her people would be free. Free.

But only if Celene fell.

Her fingers held steady on the string.

Breath a hot wave over her lips.

You're out of time. Decide.

She clenched her jaw to ache. Leveling her sight on Florianne.

She pursed her lips and whistled death. An ancient promise of a spirit.

All heads turned up. The Elven servants gasped and covered their ears.

Florianne's gaze wavered as she froze, just as Celene began to feel the threat. Her eyes wide as the blade met her back.

Florianne's head turned.

She released her fingers.

The arrow snapped into the thin bone at her temple. Florianne's eyes rolled up into her skull as her body dropped. Several shrieks rose.

Vella's body appeared under her again. Kneeled in a torn dress and blood smeared.

Here it comes. Relax.

She let her arms fall, sighing out the tension in her body as the guards arrow ripped through her shoulder. Her drawing arm fell useless at her side.

"Good shot!" She laughed, finding the shaken guards eyes.

The pain unfurled then. Her shoulder screamed, the nerve that ran through a lightning bolt. With breath ragged, clutching the wound, she stood. Left arm tremoring uncontrolled at her side. Arrow still lodged firm under the blade of bone.

Good, it would keep her blood.

The guards swarmed around Celene, discovering the knife that had scattered out of Florianne's hand.

Vella rushed forward one last time. Dagger poised along the back of her forearm.

She drove the blade under Florianne's jaw. Straight into the base of her brain. Her body went limp and gave a few short convulsions. More shrieks rang through the air.

Good girl. It's just the muscles. They're gone.

But they shake like me.

It's mercy. You've severed their tie. They'll get to the Beyond kinder now.

Vella released the hilt. Falling to a kneel, letting her arm fall loose at her side with its twin. Gasping hard into the air with head thrown. Blood pooled up the tear of her dress.

The guards backed away from her. Celene's shaken hand gripped her good shoulder.

Vella slipped the locket into her palm as she pulled the blindfold. Celene's empty hand flew to her mouth.

As the last of the silver fell from her sight, she folded Celene's fingers over the locket.

"Find her."

-

"Twas a clean strike."

Vella smiled, her eyes meeting amber.

"The blade or arrow, Morrigan?"

"I hadn't gave my name, Inquisitor." She leaned against the balcony. "But you realize that."

Vella offered her a cigarette, which she took. Placing the tin inside her sling again. Letting Morrigan spark her fingers in flame to light both of them.

"You're left-handed. A sign of a witch." Morrigan appraised her, cupping her elbow under her breast.

"Dual-handed. Not sure what superstition that's associated with, though."

"Spirit? Siren? Shapeshifter?" Morrigan offered with a sly smile.

"How many of your clan knew about burning elfroot?" Morrigan appraised the rolled paper between her fingers.

"Not many. Our hahren had me chew bark as well."

"Smart. And this gift you have, I presume it has a price? The Pantheon does not give with two hands."

Vella laughed. She already adored this woman. They both spoke as they had known each other for a long time. Perhaps they had.

"Do you even have to ask? Though, I'd rather take a two edged gift from the gods than whatever the chantry worships."

Morrigan slowly spread a smile.

"Oh, I think you and I are to get along beautifully."

"Then you're joining us?"

"For the time being."

"Naturally. I'd never try to pin you down."

"You are sworn to another, yes?"

"I am."

"A pity." Morrigan sighed. Letting her eyes wander Vella's svelte frame. "I will find your apothecary in Skyhold. That shoulder 'tis too valuable to sqaunder. I will be eager to sate my curiosity of your... condition, upon your return. And, do try to have fun tonight. You've earned it."

"You know, I realize I never caught your name." Morrigan paused at the door.

Vella spoke in Elvhen.

"Nothing is more vulnerable than the named."

Morrigan laughed.

"Of course."

She appraised Blackwall as they crossed path. He stared hard at her in distrust, slowing his gait.

"That poor guard is still shaking. He's insistent on apologizing."

"He shouldn't." She smiled as he leaned down onto his forearms on the banister. Finally close again. "It was a clean shot. We could use another marksman."

He chuckled low.

"Celene's terrified of you now. Don't see her giving much fight to recruiting a guard."

Vella leaned her hip against the banister. Closing her eyes for a moment. A full night's sleep, wretched thing that it was, could only go so far.

"Care to share your thoughts?" Blackwall led.

Vella shook her head. Cupping gently under her elbow.

"It went well. I should be celebrating."

"With these snobs?"

Vella snorted a laugh.

"We owe everything to you, my lady. You deserve to take a moment of respite."

"I'm just..." Vella sighed. Her decision heavy on her mind. How she hated this outcome. That anger she couldn't stifle anymore flared in her chest. How she wished to burn this place to cinder. "No... it's nothing. Nevermind."

Blackwall paused. His eyes steady on her.

"What?" She whispered, bristled up her back. Trying to not feel the resentment that sat in her belly.

"You did the right thing." His hand cupped over hers. "Gaspard is a fucking bastard. And Briala will be a good influence."

Tears pooled on her waterline. She blinked them away.

Traitor.

"Would you still like that dance?" He pulled close, cupping the small of her back. Steel blue eyes staring down so soft with concern.

"I'll make a poor partner." She mumbled. Her arm hung limp in its sling agreed.

"Impossible. You're the belle of the ball. Blood soaked and beautiful."

She knew he was trying to cheer her. She wanted to be cheered. But all she could do was lay her head on his shoulder.

He wrapped around her, kissing her temple. Swaying them in a slow circle. A dance all their own.

-

"Ah!"

Vella dropped her folded elbow. The sharp pain a clear signal to stop.

She dropped her good arm. Hanging her head.

Not even able to undress herself.

An old shame filled her chest.

The helpless get eaten. Stand up, girl. You are more use to me as meat than weight. And don't you dare cry.

Could she pull her bow again? Oh Gods...

A badger will chew through a leg in a trap. If it doesn't bleed out, it will be hobbled in the cold. Better to go head first.

The cold of shock unfolded along her spine. She tried to flex her fingers.

"We might need to cut you out of that dress." Blackwall's warm voice came to her back. Kissing a tender greeting on the curve of her neck.

"Vella...?"

"I can't feel my arm."

"The healer said that would fade. You'll get mobility back soon." He wrapped his hand around her front. Pressing assurance against the crest of her ribs.

"I can't..."

He circled around her. Concern tight in his eyes.

"Vella. Please, speak to me."

Something bad was coming. She didn't know it, then she did. Closing her eyes tight to the silver. Her senses too exhausted to make it take shape. But it was coming. Soon.

"Please, can we get a drink? I want to have a quiet night."

I want to pretend. Pretend this isn't the last of something.

He smiled, kissing her forehead.

"I'm sure Cabot has some good shit stored somewhere. I'll break cabinets if need be."

She gave a small smile and he tilted her chin up with his fingers. His eyes creased in adoration.

"There she is."

Vella tried to lockpick the door of Herald's Rest with one hand, but Blackwall simply shoved it with his shoulder. The latch gave with a whimper of a click.

"You're more battering ram than man." She smiled. Looking him up and down with trailing eyes.

"The chivalrous thing to do is smash down doors." He growled.

And just like that, they were playing again.

She sauntered inside, giving him a beckoning stare over her shoulder.

"Oh, this is what you've always wanted." She hopped up onto the counter, crossing a leg over her knee. "Me all vulnerable, needing a big strong man to help."

"I am going to enjoy this." He agreed. Circling around the bar to rummage a high shelf. Coming around to sit on the stool in front of her.

"You mind spreading your legs, darling?"

She leaned back on her palm, smiling wide as she unfolded her legs. He set the bottle down between the spread of her thighs as if this was standard.

"Oh, if I was a barmaid..." She laughed.

He full belly laughed, nearly spitting out his drink.

"The men would work here for free."

"The chantry would come with torches and rope." She agreed, her own laugh picking up contagious to his.

It wasn't that funny, not really, but they kept going. The back and forth of their joined laughter reignited the other until they were both doubled over. The song of her high keening melded to his deep bark. Collapsed into each other.

"Ow! Ow!" She laughed breathless. "My shoulder! Mercy!" Weakly kicking his side.

Blackwall wiped his eyes, still breathless in his own laughter. "No kicking!"

"I'm down an arm!" She kicked with both feet.

"Alright, that's it!" He climbed up on the bar and nipped at her throat, tickling her with his beard.

"No!" She shrieked, pushing his bicep. "I'm injured! I can't fight back, you asshole!"

He fell into his laugh again. Bracing on his forearm.

"Maker, my side!" He gripped at his ribs.

"Hah! Take that!"

His laugh fell away again, smiling down at her. Cupping her face so tenderly in his rough palm. Then his brow knitted together, letting out a deep sigh.

"Hmm, the brooding look is doing something for me." She teased.

"Is it?" He raised an eyebrow.

"Oh, yeah. I like men sad and wet."

He rolled his eyes but didn't fully return to her playful. His eyes still heavy with something.

"Hey..." She hushed, pushing back up onto her palm. "What's wrong?"

He lifted her in assistance behind her ribs. Leaving his hand there as she sat up close to him.

"Moments like these... when things feel so simple. When it all seems so clear..."

She waited, seeing something building in his pause.

"Like I could do anything with you by my side. Be anywhere. Be someone bigger than myself. It's hard to imagine anywhere without you."

Her heart pounded against its tender cage.

He could feel it too.

"Could you take me to your bed?" She hushed. Her unspoken question clear to both of them.

He cut away the dress with a soft pull of a blade along her spine. Peeling it down her shoulder as gentle as tending a torn petal. Kissing above her bandage in a line.

"My dove with a broken wing." He sighed.

Her eyes flooded with tears. Being treated so soft too much. Too vulnerable. An effort of will to not pull away from it. To allow herself be carried in his palm and not try to bite.

He gently folded her arm back in its sling. Leading her back onto the pelt with the strength of his hands cupped behind her.

"I love you. You're more than I could ever hope for. So much more than I deserve."

He marveled mournfully at her bare fallen under him. Spreading his hand along her ribs reverently.

"There's no future for us with me as a Warden." His palm moved to lay flat above her belly.

She nearly laughed. Then remembered he didn't know.

There's no future with me, either.

"If you're worried about getting me pregnant, I'm going to ask for something from Morrigan in the morning."

"Hmph, that woman... Not sure about her." He grumbled.

Vella smiled and pulled at his tunic, lifting it over his shoulders.

"I like her. She's trouble."

"Of course you do." He sighed, kissing above the curve of her breast. "You're trouble all the way down."

"All the way down?" She wiggled her hips, giving him a grin.

"Cheeky." He scolded. Trailing his fingers down the curve of her hip bone, over the seam of her thigh.

"Oh, if you want cheeky I can turn over." She made to flip onto her belly.

He pushed his fingers into her clit. Rocking slow, mind-numbing waves into her.

"You're staying right here."

"Oh..." She breathed, falling back again. Her eyes glazed as desire pooled warm in her pelvis. Rocking her hips slow into his fingers.

"There we go..." He smiled, kissing around her breast. Trailing over her heart, kissing it with deliberate tender pulses, then returning to her pebbled peak. Pulling the sensitive bundle into the curve of his tongue as his fingers pushed slow into her. Curving up into the place that made her legs shake.

Her mind emptied of all but pleasure. The languidly pulled silk of it wound around his fingers.

"Oh, my love." She sighed in Elvhen, staring down at him with the tender of her heart laid open. Carding her fingers through his dark hair. "My gentle bear."

He looked up at her under his brow. His eyes grew glassy as he trailed kisses down her belly. His gaze steady on her through the water.

"Why are you crying?" She whispered, reaching for his hand.

He wove his fingers into hers as he reached her center. Kissing the golden curls above her sex. His fingers still stroking so perfect into her.

He only shook his head, rubbing her palm with his thumb. Too overcome to speak.

"Then speak to me here." She smiled. Resting their joined hands on her belly.

His eyes closed softly as a crease formed in his brow. Nuzzling into her clit with his nose. Spreading his tongue flat to lap slow waves into her. Savoring each pull like it was the last supp of soup licked from a bowl.

She shuddered with each stroke as his fingers joined with his mouth. The rhythm set to unravel her at her very core. Calling out soft cries as her body slow writhed. The tender touch building to unfold a flood from her pelvis.

"Oh, Gods." She moaned. Starting to feel that delirious pleasure only he could pull out of her.

He moaned into her, the deep of his voice sending tingles of pleasure up her back.

"You're giving me chills." She smiled, closing her eyes to fully fall back. Falling into only her body and the feeling of him washed over her. Not certain he could understand her anymore, but not finding it impossible.

She let it be only her body and his. The devotion of his fingers and mouth. Everything else fallen away. A being of only pleasure.

Her orgasm pulled from so deep in her she wasn't sure where it could end. Letting out a whine she had never made before as her legs curled up. Even the clenches were slow, dragging out until she was panting up into the night air. Barely lucid through the endlessly unfolding torrent.

"You still with me?" He murmured as he rose up her. Undoing his trousers and stroking his cock with the hand that had been soaked with her pleasure, kissing the side of her neck.

"Mm-hmm." She hummed, words still beyond her. Gasping slow labored breath. Holding his wide back as anchor.

He pressed a hand to the back of her knee, angling her open with a gentle push.

"I adore you, thank you, thank you endlessly for this gift." He sighed, lining up below her. Cupping the curve of her face in his hand as he pressed his forehead to hers.

He pushed in slowly. His eyes strained up into lids, groaning low into her mouth.

She let out her own soft cry. The stretch of him sent her pelvis tremoring. Stroking up into that same undoing his fingers found, but beyond that. Pressing into the pleasure deep inside her walls. Filling her to the brim.

"Oh, fuck." She cooed, staring up into his eyes. Her lips fallen open almost in pleading. "Please, slow again."

He nodded, pulling his hips back to rock into her. Kissing her softly in little pulses.

It was unbelievable. Her body sang with pleasure. Babbling out soft cries in Elvhen with each thrust. Pleading in the tongue she was born with. Her own half formed words a new song that she didn't know the words to, but came from deep within the seat of her soul.

She came around him in another keening cry. Grasping his strong shoulder, astonished how fast it had happened. Another building on the collapsed ruins of her as it still crumbled. Tears of ecstasy dripped down her temples. Staring up at him as he unmolded her entirely.

He kissed her cheeks and her forehead, returning his to press against it. Huffing out breath as he picked up speed. His arms braced around her. His face tightened as he started to break.

"Yes, yes." She urged in a fast whisper, cupping his face in her hand. "Cum inside me, please."

She locked her legs behind his back.

"Don't you dare pull out. Fill me until I'm leaking you for days. Please, bear."

He buckled fully into her as his body tensed up into a bow. Gasping out at her words. His eyes lost in his skull.

He pressed his face into her neck, muffling his deep cry of release there. His hips stuttered as he flooded her, grasping with bruising fingers into the other side of her neck. Rushing inside her again and again as his end struck through him. Weeping into the nape of her neck.

-

Vella woke warm and heavy with rest. Swaddled in what must have been every blanket. Smiling as sleep fell from her as gentle as rain dripped from leaves. Blinking into the soft light.

Then it all fell away in an instant.

Bolting upright, she felt it. Pulling a hand tight to her chest as her eyes lit silver.

The bad thing was here, as certain as the pound of her heart.

This wasn't foresight, this was a premonition.

She glanced down and was confirmed by the carved wooden dove that sat on the pillow. The indent of his head still pressed.

She snatched his tunic and fast draped it around her, struggling with her sling as she rushed downstairs.

A scout met her at the barn door, quickly averting his eyes to her undress.

She pulled him inside, uninterested in propriety.

"Where is he?"

~

Next Chapter

[soulventure91]

#Veilguard30 Day 4 (3) - Vhenadahl

I missed yesterday by grinding DAI (tho I finished out all the open world maps plus WEWH - with 100 court approval I might add!), so the plan is to catch up by dropping tomorrow's prompt 'bards' and using yesterday's prompt today and today's prompt tomorrow. This will put me back on the list properly!

Now, instead of playing one of my Rooks today, my Inquisitor! After all, how else does Inky get to northern Thedas without some travel (whether by foot or eluvian)!

So, please say hello to Danica Ivriniel Lavellan, Lady Inquisitor and Vessel of Mythal, alongside her husband and his therapy mabari.

-*-

"How long since...?"

Cullen's voice trailed off behind her, even as Dani slowly pressed her hand to the flaking paint on the bark of the vhenadhal at the heart of Tantervale's alienage. The sounds of the city - ringing bells from the Chantry, the shouts of merchants and squeals of children - washed over Dani, dragging her into old memories. The last time she'd stood even close to the vhenadhal, Dani had smelled smoke and blood and heard the sound of steel blades for the first time. She'd lost her father and her world had imploded.

She exhaled slowly before opening her eyes, to stare up into the branches. Despite all that, the damn tree still stood.

"...twenty years. Or so," Dani confessed. "I was born here. No one at Haven or Skyhold ever asked, so."

Dani lowered her hand and turned to carefully ease off the root she was standing on, with Cullen moving close to help support her left side. Lyris, the mabari that had chosen Cullen at Halamshiral, sat panting nearby, and once Dani was back on solid ground Lyris bounced onto her paws to circle fondly around them both.

"I would never have guessed," Cullen admitted as his arm gently circled her waist. "But that also means you survived...far more than anyone could have imagined. Leaving here, finding your clan...I know I certainly couldn't have done it."

"Only because you never had to, vhenan," Dani teased gently. "You had your own strength to find."

"And I found you," Cullen murmured before softly kissing her head. Lyris whuffed in agreement - or Dani assumed so - before the mabari bounded toward a building that caught her interest. "Is it much the same?"

"Mostly; limited space means if the shems burn it all down, you have to start over," Dani confessed as they ambled after Lyris. "Tantervale's alienage is...unfortunately well known for being...contentious."

She could tell from the stares as they passed the elves: hateful, wary stares fixed on Cullen, tightening frames wary to see him cradling her, careful steps out of their way from the more cautious. Dani knew what they were thinking, feeling, and hated how easily she could mask calm confidence and assurance to deflect those that would have undoubtedly attacked Cullen. Celene's court had taught her too well.

"I remember hearing reports of unrest in several alienages, but nothing specifically outside Ferelden," Cullen ventured. "There was an unfortunate strike in Denerim's alienage, after the bann's son kidnapped members of a wedding taking place..."

"That's nothing compared to what happens here - though I hope that noble got what he deserved," Dani huffed. "City guard and even Templars stationed at the Chantry march through, especially during festivals. They practically beg to get attacked. Roughing people up, interrupting the elders..."

Dani fell silent as Cullen seemed to tense against her with mentioning Templars. She paused their walk to look up at him, then reach to draw his gaze down to her.

"...none of them were like you," she reassured. "They were cruel, and abused their power."

"More and more I think I...escaped a terrible fate, had I stayed," Cullen sighed. "If not red lyrium, then something else."

"Then we're both like the vhenadahl," Dani pointed out. "Despite all the shit that happens to us...we keep growing. Enduring. A lot can happen around the tree, but the tree stays."

"Let's hope the trip north doesn't cause it to fall," Cullen sighed as he rested his forehead to hers. "Varric had better be right. You haven't disbanded the Inquisition on this hunt for no reason."

"At least you're willing to come most of the way," Dani murmured. "Standing together is better than standing alone."

[greypetrel]

Six Songs Soundtracks

Tagged again by @idolsgf , luckily I have more characters to make another round! uwu Thank you so much!

If you're tagged, make a new post with links to music and/or lyrics describing the following: 1. An event that defines your character's past 2. How your character sees themselves 3. How others view them 4. Their closest relationship (platonic or romantic) 5. A major fight scene 6. End credits song

Too Tired for Everyone's Shit - Alyra Mahariel

If I Had a Heart - Fever Ray ( youtube )

Become the Beast - Karliene ( youtube )

Red Right Hand - Nick Cave and the Band Seed ( youtube )

Hidden Place - Bjork ( youtube )

Mordero'Sheen - Lorne Balfe ( youtube )

Spot - Jed Kurzel ( youtube )

What the Dormouse said - Radha Lavellan

Bells for Her - Tori Amos ( youtube )

Wild Tigers I Have Known - Emily Jane White ( youtube )

White Rabbit - Jefferson Airplane ( youtube )

Washing Machine Heart - Mitski ( youtube )

Brutus - The Buttress ( youtube )

Primavera - Ludovico Einaudi ( youtube )

Tags! @dungeons-and-dragon-age @heniareth @melisusthewee @shivunin (thanks for the game also if you'd like to do it...) @noobsydraws @raflesia65 @and YOU!

[vir-tanadahl]

The Melody Between Us

Formerly named A Night Out. A re-write of my 2015 fic fan. Fluff. Ellana Lavellan nervously asks Solas out on a date to a musical, sparking a night filled with tender glances, soft whispers, and unexpected warmth. As they navigate awkward moments and teasing interruptions, they begin to discover that sometimes, the quietest moments speak the loudest. Find it on Ao3!

It started innocently, just glances shared when no one was looking, brief touches that lingered a heartbeat too long. But then Ellana grew bolder, catching him off guard.

She brushed her fingers along his arm as she laughed, her eyes catching the light in a way that made his breath hitch. “What about a date?” she asked casually, though her gaze never wavered from his.

Solas blinked, the question catching him mid-thought. He hesitated, his words stumbling out. "Ellana, I—" He cleared his throat, retreating a step as if to put some distance between them.

Her smile faltered. With a soft huff, she crossed her arms, her lips—usually so quick to smile—now curving into a small pout. “Solas," she said, her voice gentle but insistent, "it’ll be fun. The musical’s gotten amazing reviews.”

She tilted her head, eyes searching his face. His silence spoke volumes, the hesitation written in the way his brow furrowed, despite his calm facade.

“You know,” she continued, a teasing edge to her tone, “the Fade might be fascinating, but you need to experience life. With living people.” She smiled again, but this time there was a challenge in her gaze, daring him to step out of his world and into hers.

Solas scoffed, a hint of indignation in his voice. “The spirits are living—”

Ellana cut him off with a dismissive wave of her hand, her frown deepening. “You know that’s not what I meant,” she said, her tone softening. Her fingers moved to the back of her neck, a nervous habit, as her gaze flickered down. “I just… I want to spend more time with you,” she murmured, almost shyly. “To get to know you… and stuff.”

Solas sighed, the sharpness in his expression melting into something gentler. Her wisedome and thoughtfulness, unexpected from a Dalish, tugged at something deep within him. There was a thirst for knowledge in her, one he hadn't encountered since Arlathan. And beyond that, the way she viewed the world—thoughtful, questioning—aligned so closely with his own.

His gaze lingered on her eyes, those warm honeyed orbs that seemed to pull him in. Few possessed such a rare shade of amber, and yet, they revealed so much. He knew that indulging in this would only deepen the inevitable pain, but the words left his lips before he could stop them.

“Very well,” he said softly, almost to himself.

Her face lit up in response, the tension melting from her features, replaced by pure, unfiltered excitement. The joy that radiated from her smile chased away his usual melancholy, if only for a fleeting moment. He would allow himself this—just this.

“Then it’s settled,” he added, watching her eyes brighten as the nervousness faded entirely.

“Really?” The word slipped out before she could stop it, her voice tinged with surprise. Ellana’s eyes widened as the tips of her ears flushed a deep crimson. “I mean—good. That’s... great,” she stammered, her nervousness rushing back, tripping over her words as she searched for the right thing to say.

Solas’s lips curled into a quiet chuckle, his gaze never wavering from hers. He found her flustered state charming. “Ma vhenan,” he murmured, the word soft and familiar. What had once been a simple title now carried a warmth that wrapped around them both. “I will meet you in the Great Hall at the toll of the seventh bell. I assume I must dress accordingly for this event?”

Ellana’s attempt to gather herself faltered as she coughed awkwardly, her gaze darting away from his steady gray-blue eyes. “Yes... yes,” she managed, her voice barely above a whisper. She couldn’t hold his gaze—not for too long. His eyes were too intense, too knowing, as if he could peer into her very soul. That prolonged eye contact felt like a secret only they shared, something that left her breathless and exposed.

She stole another glance at him, her cheeks still burning, while Solas watched with that same quiet amusement, his presence grounding her even as her thoughts scattered.

Ellana stood in the shadowed hallway just off the Great Hall, her heart fluttering wildly against her ribs. She had arrived long before the seventh bell, unable to stand the waiting any longer. Pressing her back against the cold stone wall, she took slow, deliberate breaths, trying to calm the nervous energy that buzzed through her.

Weeks of planning had led to this night, though Solas had only just agreed. Josie had been a quiet co-conspirator, helping Ellana prepare every detail with the precision and secrecy the occasion demanded. The idea had taken root long ago, even before she had gathered the courage to ask him. She had enlisted Josie’s aid to design something truly special—a dress inspired by the remnants of ancient elven formal wear she had glimpsed in the Fade.

Her explorations, though, had only gotten her so far. Ellana's skills in the Fade were nothing compared to Solas’s mastery, and even under his mentorship, she had struggled to find what she sought. Still, she had managed to uncover fragments—enough to give Josie a starting point. Together, they had worked tirelessly, sketching the design in secret. A trusted tailor had been discreetly commissioned to bring their vision to life.

Now, as she smoothed her hands down the soft fabric of the dress, Ellana still wondered if she had done enough. The material felt foreign against her skin, elegant in a way she wasn’t sure she could carry. What had she found in the Fade? A noblewoman’s gown? A warrior’s ceremonial garb? She hadn’t been certain then, and even now, wearing the finished piece, she still wasn’t sure.

Only Josie knew of the dress’s existence—well, Josie and likely Leliana, who had a way of learning things without being told. But no one else. Not even Solas. Not yet.

Ellana closed her eyes and took another deep breath, her fingers trembling slightly as the seventh bell loomed. Soon, she would see his reaction. Would he recognize the effort she’d made? Would he care? The questions swirled through her mind, but for now, she could only wait.

The dress was unlike anything Ellana had ever worn, crafted from lavender Dales loden wool that felt soft yet substantial against her skin. The fabric hugged her figure, its low-cut neckline baring her sternum, while a corset adorned with delicate silver detailing cinched her waist, flowing gracefully down to brush the floor. The sleeves, loose and flowing, parted to reveal glimpses of the soft, tan skin of her inner arms. Silver links, thick and intricately woven, fastened the fabric at her elbows and wrists, catching the light with every subtle movement.

Her feet, like those of most elves, remained bare, though her steps were far from unadorned. Barefoot sandals, designed by a jeweler in Val Royeaux, trailed over her second toe, wrapping her feet in delicate strands of diamonds that sparkled with each step. The gems wound their way up her foot, clasping around her ankle with a dark blue sapphire—oval-shaped and elegant—nestled just above the split where the sandal framed her slender leg.

The weight of the evening pressed against her chest, a mixture of anticipation and doubt. She smoothed her hands over the fabric, her fingers trembling slightly as she worked up the nerve to move. With a quiet breath, Ellana peered around the corner of the dimly lit hallway, her heart quickening. Was Solas already there?

Her eyes scanned the Great Hall, searching for his familiar figure. Each second felt stretched thin, her pulse thrumming in her ears as she waited for that first glimpse of him.

He was already there. The moment Ellana spotted him, her face flushed with warmth. Solas had shed his usual "apostate hobo outfit," as Dorian had once teased, and instead stood in something far more refined. A light green, high-collared robe, fastened with delicate clasps, draped elegantly over his frame. The fabric shimmered slightly, a kind of silk that caught the light, and a beige belt tied neatly at his waist. The robes parted just enough to reveal darker green breeches that clung to his calves, ending just above his bare feet. His hands were clasped behind his back, his eyes scanning the room—searching for her.

Ellana swallowed, her nerves tightening the muscles in her chest as she stepped out from the shadows of the stairwell. The light of the Great Hall bathed her, and for a moment, she hesitated, her fists clenching at her sides. She made a soft sound, barely more than a whisper of her presence, but it was enough.

Solas turned.

The change in his expression was immediate. The faint smile he had worn vanished, replaced by something far deeper—a stunned silence. His gaze swept over her, lingering on every detail of her gown, her bare feet adorned in delicate jewels, her flushed cheeks. His hands dropped to his sides, forgotten, as if the simple act of holding them together had slipped his mind.

For once, Solas—so eloquent, so measured—was speechless.

Ellana’s heart raced. She could feel his eyes on her, and for a fleeting moment, all her nervousness melted away. She had hoped for this reaction, but seeing it play out in front of her stirred something deeper. In his silence, in the way his breath seemed to catch, she knew.

She had left him breathless.

The silence stretched between them, thick and heavy, until Ellana, feeling her heartbeat quicken, finally whispered, “Hi…” Her voice barely carried in the vastness of the Great Hall. She quickly broke eye contact, sure that her face was flushed as red as a freshly picked apple.

Solas continued to stare, as though caught in a dream. “Inquis—Lavel—” His words faltered, and he coughed softly, regaining his composure. “Ellana,” he finally whispered, her name falling from his lips like a secret meant only for her. His deep voice sent a shiver through her, ringing in her ears, grounding her and sending her pulse racing all at once. The prolonged silence made Ellana’s nerves spike, and panic rose in her chest. “If you don’t like—“

“Ma ir'ina'lan'ehn,” Solas interrupted, his voice soft but firm. “You are beautiful…” His words were laced with awe as he closed the distance between them, his hands gently reaching for hers.

Her breath caught, the world around them shrinking until only he remained. “Ma serannas,” she whispered, her fingers entwining with his, the warmth of his touch sending a calm through her that steadied her nerves. His hands, so careful and deliberate, lingered for a moment before he gently released them.

Solas's fingers found their way to her hair, running through the silky waves that fell over her shoulders, his touch light yet intimate. His gaze softened as he looked into her eyes, a tender smile curving his lips. For a moment, time itself seemed to pause, the connection between them palpable and unspoken.

With a graceful step back, Solas extended his arm to her, his confidence returning. “Shall we depart, ma vhenan?” he asked, his voice smooth and assured, though his eyes never left hers, as if entranced.

Ellana smiled, her heart fluttering again, and took his arm, feeling the strength and warmth beneath her fingertips. In that moment, everything else faded away—there was only them.

Unable to trust her voice, Ellana nodded softly, slipping her hand into the crook of Solas’s arm. His presence beside her was both comforting and overwhelming, and as they began walking together, she marveled at how effortless it seemed for him.

By the time they had taken their seats in the amphitheater, the quiet anticipation of the evening hung between them. Ellana's hand had slipped from his, not because she wanted to let go, but because of the persistent worry gnawing at her—her hands were clammy, slick with the nervousness she couldn’t shake. The last thing she wanted was for Solas to feel her unease and pull away. She stole a glance at him, hoping he hadn’t noticed her quiet withdrawal.

Solas, however, appeared entirely at ease. A small, content smile played on his lips as he observed the patrons filing in, the hum of conversation and rustling of seats filling the amphitheater. He seemed so natural in this setting, as though he belonged there, far removed from the weight of their shared burdens. Watching him, Ellana couldn’t help but wonder what it had been like for him in the world before—when attending musical performances and gatherings like this had been as ordinary as breathing.

While Ellana’s heart raced with each passing moment, Solas remained steady, as if the centuries between his past and present had collapsed into one comfortable memory. His calm only heightened her nerves, making her acutely aware of every tiny tremor in her hands, every beat of her heart.

Suddenly, Ellana squealed, her voice cutting through the quiet of the amphitheater as she threw herself into Solas’s side, clutching his arm tightly. A stranger had unceremoniously plopped down beside her, wrapping an arm around her shoulders with far too much familiarity. Her heart raced, and she stiffened, pressing closer to Solas for comfort.

Solas immediately turned, his mouth opening to confront the intruder. His posture stiffened, protective instincts flaring—until he caught sight of the man's face. The realization hit, and he grimaced.

Of course. Dorian Pavus.

The Tevinter mage sat with a grin that practically stretched across all of Thedas, entirely too pleased with himself. "I must say!" Dorian announced with mock drama, leaning back into his seat with all the nonchalance of someone who had been invited. "Our dearest Inquisitor and the elven apostate! What a pair!"

Solas narrowed his eyes at him, his jaw tightening in irritation. Just as he was about to offer a sharp retort, Ellana beat him to it.

“Dorian! What are you doing here?” she sputtered, her voice a mix of exasperation and disbelief as she hurriedly shrugged off the mage’s unwelcome arm.

Dorian’s grin only widened, clearly enjoying every second of the disruption. “I could ask the same of you, my friend,” he said, his tone light and teasing. His gaze darted between her and Solas, his eyebrow arching with curiosity and mischief.

Ellana hesitated, her grip tightening around Solas’s arm. “I-I’m…” she faltered, her face flushing crimson as she searched for an explanation, but the words wouldn’t come. The heat from Solas’s body only seemed to make her nerves worse.

Dorian, clearly relishing the sight of the two caught in public, wasn’t about to let the moment pass without escalating their discomfort.

“Dorian—” Solas began, his voice edged with irritation, but Dorian cut him off with a dramatic flourish. “Our elusive woodsman-apostate hobo, all cleaned up for our darling Inquisitor! I never thought I'd live to see this day!” he drawled, leaning in as if inspecting them more closely.

Ellana’s face flushed a deep crimson, her voice squeaking in protest. “Dorian, please!” she managed, mortified by the attention and unable to meet Solas’s eyes. She squeezed his arm even tighter, hoping Dorian would let them off the hook.

But the Tevinter mage was having too much fun. “Oh, alright,” Dorian sighed theatrically, throwing his hands in the air. “I suppose I’ll leave the lovebirds in peace!” He sprang from his seat with exaggerated flair, drawing far too much attention for Ellana’s liking. “I do have my own date to attend to, after all!” he added with a wink, flashing them a mischievous grin before sauntering away.

Both Ellana and Solas watched as Dorian strutted back up the aisle, taking his seat beside Iron Bull. The Qunari grinned widely and, with his usual exuberance, bellowed, “Hey, boss!” His enormous hand waved toward them, drawing more attention than Ellana would have liked, before he draped his arm casually over Dorian’s shoulder.

Ellana’s face flushed once more as the lights in the amphitheater began to dim, the gentle hum of the audience settling into their seats filling the air. She instinctively moved closer to Solas, leaning in until her lips were just inches from his ear. “Ir abelas,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin, sending a gentle shiver down his spine. “I didn’t know they were going to be here.”

Her voice, soft and laced with embarrassment, tickled his ear, causing a prickling sensation to spread along his skin. He turned his head slightly, his gaze meeting hers, and for a moment, the rest of the world seemed to fade into the background.

“It is quite alright, ma vhenan,” Solas murmured, his deep voice barely above a whisper as his eyes locked onto hers. Her honey-colored eyes shimmered in the dim light, and their proximity made his pulse quicken. She was so close—closer than she had ever been before. If he leaned in just a fraction more, their lips would meet

They remained locked in each other’s gaze, the world around them blurring and fading away. Time seemed to suspend itself, stretching the moment into something timeless and delicate. Neither of them moved, neither spoke—each breath felt shared, each heartbeat synchronized.

But the spell broke as the announcer’s voice rang out, addressing the audience. Ellana blinked, reality slipping back into focus. A shy smile tugged at her lips as she leaned closer, tentatively shifting until her shoulder brushed against his. Solas, responding almost instinctively, let his arm slip around her, his fingers gently settling on her shoulder.

Ellana’s breath hitched as his embrace drew her in. She relaxed, allowing her head to nestle into the curve of his neck, the warmth of his touch soothing her nerves. Solas’s hold was both protective and gentle, as if he were afraid that the moment might shatter if he moved too suddenly.

He let out a soft, contented sigh, and she felt it reverberate through his chest, the vibration soothing her like a lullaby. Slowly, Solas leaned his cheek against her hair, closing his eyes briefly as if savoring the simple closeness between them.

As the curtains rose and the first notes of the musical filled the amphitheater, the rest of the world faded once more. Whatever was happening on stage, neither of them noticed. Not fully. This—this quiet, unspoken intimacy—was the true performance of the evening.