#but will kill him if lavellan doesn’t get him to stop

[pdraxxi]

Moodboard for my second rook Oyon(oi-uhn) gray warden dwarve.she/her

[inanshalla]

yikes

[thebookworm0001]

Spoilers for the end of veilguard and specifically how solas’s story is handled under the cut

And seriously I do mean the very end of the game and I’m gonna talk about stuff that happened before then too

You have been warned

I felt satisfied with the ending.

I was able to collect all the solas memories/regret murals and very much felt like the way the ending unlocked by that was handled well.

Solas has always been a man bound by his regrets. And this game spent a lot of time establishing is primary regret is Mythal. Yes, he cares deeply about helping people and wants that world restored, but it’s less to do with the elven people and more to do with him feeling like he’s made mistake after mistake.

He’s been living in a sunk-cost fallacy for millennia and cannot see a way out. He really, really doesn’t want to do this - he knows how many people he’ll hurt to do it, but can’t see another way because if he stops now he feels like it’ll be just another betrayal of mythal when he’s already betrayed and failed her so many times. She’s the reason any of this happened.

That’s why it has to be mythal telling him to stop. He wanted to stop for a romanced lavellan - his letter says that explicitly. But he regrets mythal’s death (and his resulting actions) so much he just. Can’t let it go. What does his life mean if he can’t fulfill the wishes of the goddess that called him to service, to a body? The friend he murdered, in the end, to make up for the first time she as killed.

He was a spirit of wisdom mythal corrupted - it’s another version of Cole and the Templar who killed the human Cole. That confrontation has to happen for him to move in any direction.

And the way he absolutely crumples when he sees her? Damn if that didn’t sell me on how deeply he cares for her, beyond the murals that show how ashamed he is of what he did with and for her.

He’s always needed someone to tell him there was another way, but nobody besides mythal could absolve him of the actions he took, because they aren’t her. It’s not a matter of the nature of their relationship, rather that he cannot untie himself from the way his spirit was warped by her and the actions he took in response to her.

Idk I know people will have very different feelings and opinions on how that went down, but it made sense to me.

And my solas-romanced lavellan acted exactly how I expected her to. Granted, Ellana is the kind of lavellan who would immediately forgive him and would, no questions asked, go with him on his journey to atone. I had a whole fic planned out where she did that exact thing - even if the details weren’t what happened here.

If you have a lavellan who isn’t as sad as mine and who wouldn’t join him, yeah this ending may not work for you. But I went from being pissed at him for trapping my rook and lying about killing varric to immediately being back on my ‘fuck you’re just a deeply sad and broken man please let yourself be happy’ lament when he talked about how he failed both the world and mythal in different moments.

It worked for me. I’m satisfied by how it was handled and think the ending makes sense for the read on Solas I’ve had for the last several years. He’s just a deeply sad man who thinks he has to make up for his failures - and the one person he’s failed more than anyone tells him it’s not on him. She’s the one person he could never get forgiveness from - and he got it. And that’s why it had to be her.

[fenharelsfang]

The Wolf's Heart (1/5)

The world was awash in a sea of blood, a crimson tide of red lyrium, the Blight, and the shadow of the forced solar eclipse. The smell of smoke and rotting flesh choked the air. People screamed in the city below the Archon’s palace. Darkspawn and other unholy creatures of the Blight stalked the streets, slaughtering anything in their path. Malevolent spirits flocked to the weakening Veil like moths to a flame, possessing any mage desperate enough to invite them in. The fear of death was a very strong motivator. In the sky, a monstrous Archdemon and a six-eyed wolf the size of a dragon fought a battle that shook the very heavens. Meanwhile, a swarm of Antaam soldiers and Venatori agents stormed the city and marched against the makeshift army of Grey Wardens, Veil Jumpers, Lords of Fortune, Antivan Crows, Mourn Watchers, Shadow Dragons, and Inquisition agents, all led by Rook, the man who inadvertently started these unfortunate chain of events.

All was not lost, though. They had successfully defeated and killed Ghilan’nain and now only Elgar’nan stood in the way. Well, Elgar’nan and Solas.

“Honestly, it doesn’t surprise me,” said Rook. He and the rest of the faction leaders were gathered around a grand oak table discussing their next steps. Neve Gallus, recently freed from Elgar’nan’s clutches, revealed to them that once the tyrannical god was defeated, the last of the Veil’s bindings would unravel and it would come crashing down. “Tearing down the Veil has been his goal since the very beginning. He already betrayed me once. It’s his whole schtick.”

“I’m still blown away by the fact that archdemons are just dragons bound to a bunch of magical elves and there were two of them flying around out here,” Warden-Commander Cousland remarked with a whistle. The effects of being a Grey Warden for the past twenty years had taken its toll on her. Her once rich auburn hair had dulled to light grey and dark purple bags sagged under her eyes. She was close to her Calling. The song of the Blight was getting difficult to block out. All those years of searching for a way to free Grey Wardens from their burden amounted to nothing. This last ditch effort to seal the Blight behind the Veil was her only salvation. She prayed it would be enough to quell the corruption in her blood. Once done, perhaps she could finally go home to her beloved King for good and enjoy their twilight years in peace. “And I thought my Blight was bad.”

“... I think I preferred Corypheus,” Hawke confessed, face ashen. She was still haunted by the horror the red lyrium she unearthed had unleashed. Now Varric was dead and Solas used blood magic to trick Rook into thinking he wasn’t. That was sick and twisted. The tale of the Evanuris needed to end and she’d be there to write that final chapter. It would end with their death.

“If anyone can stop Elgar’nan and Solas, it is the individuals gathered here,” Morrigan proclaimed with an air of confidence. She had met each of these heroes, these paragons of light and hope, and helped steer the tides of fate so that they would succeed.

“We know how to beat Elgar’nan,” Rook said. “Solas will take care of his archdemon and, when he does, we’ll throw everything we have at him. It’s what happens after that concerns me.” He looked to Neve, her blood-red eyes sending a shiver down his spine. Ugly black veins pulsed at her temples and black blood dribbled down her chin. She was inexplicably connected to the Blight now, able to feel it and, to some extent, control it. “We need a plan to stop the Veil from falling.”

“The Veil is tied to the ancient elven gods,” Morrigan said. “‘Twill not be a simple matter to find a suitable tether once they are gone.”

“Then let’s tie it to Solas,” Rook suggested. “He’s an elven god and the only one that will be left.”

Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan, standing further down the table next to Morrigan and Dorian, clenched her jaw at the suggestion. Rook didn’t speak highly of the Dread Wolf. It was understandable, really. He had been used and betrayed. Varric was gone, truly gone, and now Harding was lost as well. She could see vengeance coiling around his heart like a viper. That same righteous anger radiated off of Hawke as well. It was horrible, but she … she wanted to defend him! This wasn’t the Solas she knew, the one she fell in love with. They hadn’t seen the softer shades of him: his kindness towards those who were hurting or the way he lit up like a delighted child when speaking about the Fade. He wasn’t so different from them. He had his virtues and vices, his quirks. They didn’t know the elf who detested the taste of tea, the elf who painted beautiful murals on the walls, who could play chess in his head, who had a secret love of romance novels and music. Only she had that privilege. Everyone else who knew the truth of him was gone.

Solas, what have you done?

“You are correct,” Morrigan continued, pulling Ellana out of her troubled thoughts, “but you will need to draw his blood with the lyrium dagger to bind him and I doubt he will approve of the idea.”

Rook smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I can be very persuasive.” A sigh. “But it will be risky.”

Emmrich cleared his throat. “What about this dagger we made while you were trapped in the Fade?” he suggested, sliding the fake dagger across the table. It was nearly identical to the ritual dagger strapped to Rook’s side. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. There were no reverberations of magic threaded through it like the real one. “Odds are,” Emmrich continued, “Solas will need to do something else to complete his ritual. This dagger looks identical, but–”

“It can’t cut through enchantments like the real thing,” Rook finished.

“The backlash of such magic will render him helpless,” Morrigan remarked, glancing briefly at Ellana.

Taash stepped forward. “Uh, are you sure you want to try a bait-and-switch on the Dread Wolf? You know, the god of lies and trickery?”

The leaders gathered around the table all seemed sold on that idea. Trick the trickster. Poetic justice. Ellana had been quiet for too long. She may have been speaking to the void, but her words needed to be heard. “Is there a chance, any chance at all, that he’ll listen to reason?”

“Speaking from the heart, Inquisitor?” Morrigan asked. Her smile was sad, sympathetic to the Inquisitor’s plight.

“How could I not?” Ellana protested. “None of you know him as I do. Well, perhaps you do, Morrigan, sort of. The rest of you don’t. You’ve only ever seen the Dread Wolf. I’ve seen the man beneath all of that. If given the chance–”

“We’ve given him plenty of chances,” Rook said. “And he wasted them at every turn.”

“Not every turn,” Lavellan argued. “He saved you and the Dalish elves from Elgar’nan. Even though he was free from that Fade prison, he still worked with the Shadow Dragons and helped protect them from the Blight. He wants to help. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do. His heart has never been in this plan to tear down the Veil. He just … he feels like he has to do this to make up for everything that happened in the past. Everything that he did for her, for Mythal. If I can talk to him–”

“Varric tried to talk to him,” Rook said. “He died for it.”

Ellana’s heart was a stone in her chest. Her throat tightened and she closed her eyes. “I know.”

“You already tried to talk him out of it before and he took your arm for it.”

Her fists clenched and her bottom lip trembled. “I know.”

“This isn’t a fairytale, Inquisitor. You can’t solve this with the ‘power of love’.” Rook struck the table with his fist, startling Ellana so that she opened her eyes to meet his fiery gaze. “He’s too stuck in his ways. He can’t change. Actually, it’s not even that – he won’t change. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

“Rook,” Bellara said, resting a gentle hand on his arm. “That’s enough.” She had been watching the Inquisitor slowly crumble under Rook’s words and it hurt. Ellana’s struggle to save the man she loved mirrored her own trials with Cyrian. In the end, he redeemed himself, though he paid the ultimate price for it. Bellara didn’t know the Inquisitor well, but she didn’t wish that same fate on her.

Ellana glared at Rook with angry, tear-filled eyes, but she said nothing. They were good points, she wasn’t going to deny it. It infuriated her all the same. She wanted to see Solas. Ten long years she had gone without him and she needed to see him to know for sure that he was too far gone to be brought back. From what she heard, he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. She had hope that she could reach him, she just needed one more chance.

“You have options,” Morrigan interjected. “And you can make your choice when the time comes. For now, we have Elgar’nan to deal with.”

“Right,” Rook said. He let out a slow breath to simmer the boiling anger inside of him and rubbed the back of his tense, aching neck. The Inquisitor was a legend. She saved the world from a darkspawn magister and his archdemon. Thedas owed her a great debt. He never imagined someone so powerful, who made choices that determined the fate of the world could be so naive. He noticed how young she looked and began to think that maybe it wasn’t the fact that she was an elf. “Elgar’nan is in the Archon’s palace above us. We’ll all climb the tendril as soon as the archdemon is taken care of. Stock up on supplies and say your goodbyes. It’s time to end this nightmare.”

Rook was the first to leave, stalking off to check in with the faction leaders to get an update on their forces. Warden-Commander Cousland followed Davrin, no doubt burning with questions about a living, breathing griffon at his heels. Hawke disappeared into the next room to meet up with Isabela. It had been years since they’d seen each other. Most of the other members of the Veilguard left to their own factions to say goodbye to the friends and family they had made over the years. Many of these people would not be returning after this battle. Already their numbers had thinned in the first assault on the city.

Ellana meandered over to the fireplace. Morrigan watched her for a moment, poised as if ready to say something, but then thought better of it. She gripped the amulet around her neck, a sending stone, and left to a far corner to update her son on the situation. Kieran was safe, as safe as he could be with the world ending as it was. He wanted to join her, but this was a mission she needed to undertake on her own. Besides, if Elgar’nan had the power to sense the soul bound within Kieran …

Dorian joined Ellana by the fireplace. He noticed her biting her thumbnail, tapping her foot restlessly against the stone floor. Tears still shone in her eyes.

“You still love him, do you?” he asked. “After all these years?”

Ellana closed her eyes and lowered her hand. “I will always love him. He’s who I belong with.”

Dorian sighed. He reached out an arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her into his embrace. “What am I going to do with you?”

They stood there for a while, staring into the fire, each consumed by their own thoughts. Ellana leaned her head against Dorian’s shoulder. She had missed him. Even with the sending stones, being so far away from him was difficult. He was her rock. When everything was falling apart, he had been there for her. The Inquisition disbanding, Solas leaving her that fateful night in Crestwood and then again after defeating Corypheus, her clan exiling her when she told them the truth about the Dread Wolf … Dorian was there to keep her going. He was her very best friend.

“Dorian, when this is over–”

“I know.”

She lifted her head off of his shoulder and stared at him with wide, surprised eyes. “You do..?”

“My dear, I could see it all over your face at the meeting.” He smiled at her, tears shimmering in his own eyes, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “And though I don’t believe he will ever be deserving of you or understand why you could love that stubborn, prideful egghead, he makes you happy. And you deserve all the happiness the world can offer.”

“Dorian…” Ellana sniffed and wiped at the tears that had slipped down her face. She felt a soft handkerchief being placed in her hand and wiped at her eyes.

“Don’t start crying, you soft-hearted fool. You’ll make me cry, too, and I refuse to be reduced to a blubbering mess.”

Ellana laughed and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, my friend,” he replied. They held each other for a long moment and when they finally separated, Dorian left to meet with Maevaris.

Ellana stood alone in that room, facing the fireplace for a moment longer and trying to formulate a plan. She would find some way to get to Solas first so they could talk, before Rook took matters into his own hands. As she turned away, she nearly collided with Neve. The mage was staring at her, still as a statue. Her black eyes pulsed with an unnerving intensity and a sinister smile spread far too wide across her face.

“Oh, Neve,” Ellana said. She tried to remember Neve’s real face beneath the corruption. Hopefully this was temporary. Something seemed … different about the mage, though. “I’m sorry. Did you … need something?”

Neve chuckled darkly as she slowly began to circle around Ellana as a predator would its prey. “So, the Dread Wolf has fallen in love,” came a voice that was definitely not Neve’s. It was male, high-pitched and gurgling as if blood filled the lungs. Her irises were a thin white ring against a black backdrop, mirroring the eclipse outside. “And with a mortal, no less. This is interesting news indeed.”

Ellana took a step back and felt the flames of the fire licking her back. Neve matched it. She was cornered and though she had never heard the voice before, the realization came over her all the same. “Elgar’nan,” she whispered.

Her cry for help was cut short by a fleshy tendril erupting from a blighted portal in the ground. It wrapped around her throat, strangling her. She threw out her gauntleted hand and the fire within the hearth snaked around it before jettisoning out at the tendril. The gauntlet was a true marvel of engineering, created especially for Ellana by her arcanist, Dagna. It acted as a staff would, focusing her magic. The tendril shrieked as the flames burned into its flesh. Footsteps and startled voices sounded elsewhere in the building, heading to her location. Another tendril burst forth to trap her body in a vice-like grip.

“Inquisitor!” Morrigan cried out as kicked open the door to the room. Lightning crackled from her fingertips and arced out towards the abominations. The acrid smell of burning flesh made Ellana’s eyes water. She felt the relief of loosening limbs and thrashed about wildly to escape. Morrigan’s attack wasn’t enough, however. More tendrils sprouted from the growing portal around them, wrapping around the Inquisitor further. Dark spots danced in her vision as the air left her. She struggled desperately against the tightening garrote. The whispers of demons promising her the strength to free herself from this horror roared in her mind like thunder, but she fought against them. Slowly, she began to sink into the portal, its red glow casting sinister shadows on her face.

More allies showed up. The Warden-Commander hacked at the tendrils with her dragonbone greataxe, but they sprouted new growths with each strike. Dorian joined Morrigan in a magical assault of lightning and fire. Even Rook struck at the tendrils with the lyrium dagger. It proved to be the most effective weapon against the aberrations. The prison that contained the blight from which they originated was created by that weapon. Pieces fell to the ground in squelching thuds before disintegrating into ash. Instinctively, they coiled tighter around the Inquisitor's body. The last thing the heroes saw was the Inquisitor’s fearful eyes as she was dragged through the portal into the earth.

“Ellana!” Dorian cried out. He slammed his fists against the stone floor as if he could crack it open. “We have to help her!”

Rook stormed up to Neve, still possessed by Elgar’nan, and shook her viciously. “Where have you taken her?!”

The black sclera faded back into white, her irises glowing red once more. Neve blinked. She looked down at Rook’s hands gripping her arms, fingernails digging painfully into her skin, and then around at the people gathered around with their weapons drawn. “Ow, Rook, that hurts! What’s going on? What happened?”

Bellara ran up to her, shocked at Rook's increasing anger. “Elgar'nan possessed you for a minute there. He must be connected to you through the Blight. The Inquisitor is gone. He kidnapped her.”

Neve blanched. To have that horrid creature violating her body like that made her sick. Was that how Lucanis felt when Spite was forced into him? She patted Bellara’s hand to let her know she was okay. Sensing her distress, Lucanis came up beside her and held her hand.

“Damnit!” Rook cursed. He turned to the others, all staring at him with expectant eyes. “He must have taken her to the Archon’s palace.”

“Why would he take the Inquisitor?” Davrin asked. “If anything, I thought he’d kidnap you, Rook.”

Dorian paled as realization dawned on him. “He overheard us…”

“What do you mean?” Rook asked.

“Ellana and I … we were discussing her past relationship with Solas. Elgar’nan must have heard through Neve. He’s going to use her against Solas.”

“Well, shit,” Hawke muttered. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It shouldn’t mean anything,” Rook said. “I’m sure he thinks it’ll stop Solas from killing his archdemon, but we all know it won’t.”

“Do we?” Morrigan asked.

“Don’t tell me you believe she’s more important than his end goal.”

“It is not a matter of whether or not I believe in his love for her. Solas was a spirit. He is guided by his emotions and he has not seen the Inquisitor in many years. It will, at the very least, distract him. All Elgar’nan needs is an opening, for Solas to let his guard down and he can end the Dread Wolf. Solas is not bound to an archdemon. He is mortal. It only takes one well-placed strike.”

Rook began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, hands on his hips, brow furrowed. “Then we need to get up to the palace as soon as possible. We need that archdemon dead and it’s too fucking big for us to kill it alone.”

“We’ve got other problems,” said Strife as he jogged up to the distraught group with Isabela and the Viper in tow. “Elgar’nan’s army is amassing just outside. Our forces can hold them off while you climb up.”

So they would have to face Elgar’nan with less forces than they planned. That did not bode well, especially if Solas was somehow taken out.

“It’s fine,” Rook said. “The Veilguard can handle Elgar’nan. Just make sure those forces stay here on the ground.”

“We will,” the Warden-Commander promised.

Rook turned to his team. “Let’s do this.”

[avernusreject]

One of the things I wish Veilguard implemented was giving a way for Rook’s trust or distrust of Solas to have an effect on the story. Sure, Rook can tell companions if they do or don’t trust Solas, but either way the narrative goes the same way.

I’m obviously not a game writer so who knows if this could’ve been implemented but what if this were an option:

- Through their connection, Solas offers a piece of his magic to Rook (maybe you could have it localized to a unique OP attack with the lyrium dagger)

- Rook gets the choice to accept the magic or turn it down

- With the added ability, Room is able to actually kill one of the dragons attacking either Tevinter or Antiva. This gives them an easier time earning faction points with the faction they saved because they proved they can get the job done.

- If rook turned it down, the dragon would only be injured and manages to escape (to then show up as the double dragon fight later in the game, adding to the “oh shit” feeling)

- This success incentives Rook to trust Solas more, exactly what Solas wants (makes the prison betrayal feel more painful - building their sense of regret, they should’ve known better).

- When Rook escapes the prison, the magic is gone. They’re back to being a normal person facing insane odds. But unlike a rook that refused the magic, Rook doesn’t feel like they earned their wins. Solas was their crutch, how can they stop Elgarnan now (insert more roleplay opportunities where the companions or the love interest help rook see that they can in fact do this)

- Confronting Solas in Minrathous: Solas realizes he needs Rook’s help and needs to have Rook back on his side, so he offers to give Rook his magic again.

It now comes down to does Rook believe they are strong enough to stand against Solas with only the aid of their allies or do they risk Solas’ aid again?

- If Rook accepts, the fight against Elgarnan is easier. But when Solas goes to tear down the veil, Rook is unable to move against him (think how Mythal was able to control the individual who drank from the well of sorrows). They are only able to stop him if their allies are strong enough to distract Solas in a fight to free Rook from his control (this could also be when Lavellan and morrigan could show up to talk him down). If their allies aren’t strong enough, Solas tears down the veil (I really feel like there should have been a total failure option. Solas is known for outsmarting his enemies, let there be a chance for him to live up to his legend)

- If Rook turns it down, the fight against Elgarnan is significantly more difficult. Rook might even get injured. But they have their freedom to move against Solas as they wish

[ruiningsalads]

Happy Friday! How about “Ha. Don’t think too highly of yourself. Just because I crave your company every now and then, doesn’t mean you’re my weakness. You’re not.” for Varric x Cassandra from the 'I'm weak for you' prompts?

ugh I'm obsessed with these two. this maybe wasn't exactly the prompt, but it's making me feel all the feels. a lovely little ficlet for @dadrunkwriting

Varric's head lolled forward, his chin resting against his chest despite the muscles in his shoulders screaming in agony. He was simply too tired to keep his head up, even though he would prefer to see what his captors were doing.

Their plan was the most hare-brained scheme he'd ever heard: capture the dwarf to lure his Inquisitor friend into a trap. He was touched that they thought he was important enough that Lavellan would rush in without thought just to save him; but he also wasn't in any hurry to remedy their misconception. After all, they might just kill him outright if they knew. So, he sat on the most uncomfortable chair ever made with his hands tied behind its back and imagined all the horrible things he would do to them once he had Bianca back in his grasp.

He also now knew better than to wander off alone to take a leak. Apparently, that was when people liked to sneak up on you and throw a sack over your head.

The sound of fighting outside his little room had his head snapping up. The meathead left to guard him drew a small, but wickedly sharp, knife as the door splintered open. There, her sword and shield at the ready, was Cassandra, and she was mad.

"Stop, or the dwarf gets it!" The idiot actually held the blade to Varric's neck. He felt the cold metal nick his skin, releasing a warm trickle of blood.

Cassandra's cold gaze flicked from the knife to the thug holding it. "Do you think that threat works on me?" she demanded.

"You seem awfully eager to get him back," the man leered.

"Do not mistake my duty for eagerness," she retorted as she took a step closer.

Varric hissed as the knife cut a little deeper, and she hesitated. The man laughed, low and mean. "Duty, eh? I'd say the only duty you're doing is--" But before he could finish that thought, Cassandra swiftly pulled a small knife from her belt and threw it. Suddenly, the blade at Varric's throat was gone as something heavy fell to the floor behind him.

Cassandra moved to untie him, not paying any mind to the dying man.

"Duty, huh?" he rasped, pressing a newly freed hand to his neck wound.

With surprising gentleness, she pried his hand away and peered at the cut. "It's true. My duty is to the Inquisition and its agents." She tsked and pulled a small vial from her belt, poured some of its contents onto a handkerchief, and pressed it to his neck. Immediately, he felt a sting as the cut began to heal.

"And here I was thinking you actually cared," he grunted through the pain.

Her eyes locked with his. "Whatever my personal feelings are, they cannot interfere with my duty." Maker, he was starting to hate that word. But then she reached with her free hand to stroke his cheek. "That does not mean I will sit by and let someone harm you, not if I can stop it. Understand, Varric, that I cannot allow myself to have such a weakness, no matter how much I care about you."

He grimaced. "Yeah, I got it. Thanks for saving me anyway." When he moved to pull away, she gripped his shoulders to hold him in place. Reluctantly, he met her eyes.

"I love you, Varric. Never question that. I am only trying to say... I just mean..." She sighed in frustration. "You're far better with words than I could ever hope to be."

"Just say that first part again," he murmured.

Her smile was more beautiful than anything he'd ever seen. "I love you, you meddlesome dwarf."

[dreadfutures]

Having FEELINGS about inquisitor Ixchel and Rook Terinelan so can I get either "to the ends of the earth, would you follow me?" or "please don’t say i’m going alone" for dadwc?

This is noncanonical but it is based on vibes and certain things from the DA4 gameplay we saw, so if you’re wary of that, stay out! :)

for @dadrunkwriting

Pairings: Ixchel Lavellan & Terinelan Lavellan AU: #shadows in the sun : First Lifetime!Ixchel survives her poison and continues to fight.

ixchel thinks Clan Lavellan is wiped out

Terinelan, the First, survived and has reached Arlathan Forest, joining the Veil Jumpers

After the events of The Missing, Ixchel comes back with Varric and Harding to find their Rook.

The meeting with Strife and Bellara ends on a dark note. The activity around Arlathan Forest is increasing, and it seems that after ten long years, Solas’s ritual is nearing completion.

Harding had given Ixchel a look of—it had to be pity, Ixchel thinks. She has spent years researching obscure lore and tracking down artifacts and ancient rituals to find any alternative to Solas’s plan, and she has come up with nothing. The Veil is fraying regardless of his actions; it was never meant to be eternal. The evil gods that Solas had trapped long ago will escape someday, and Ixchel has managed to convince her inner circle at least that Solas would not be trying to bring that about early without good reason.

But they don’t know the reasons.

They don’t know how to prepare. How to mitigate.

He has left them with no other option but to stop him.

Ixchel won’t lead the fight against Solas—while she can still hold her own in battle against a Venatori thug or a demon, she wouldn’t do well in battle against a god, and she simply wouldn’t fight Solas. Couldn’t. And everyone knows it.

Ixchel doesn’t know why they invite her to these meetings anymore.

Well, that’s not true. Varric, for all his charm, can’t manage anyone to save his life (or the world, as the case may be). After many turbulent years of experience, Ixchel has learned to command a room: war councils of bickering commanders, conferences of terrified Enchanters, the halls of Empresses and the field of battle—she can maneuver all of them with grace or force as the moment requires. And when faced with the end of the world, she has found that the arguments can spiral quickly if left unguided.

She is as exhausted by it now as she was when she was sixteen and had to get Cassandra, Leliana, and Cullen to stop arguing about Circles.

Today, she has navigated them to their grim conclusion, and the grim reality: they need someone strong enough, smart enough, pissed enough, to stand against Solas. Someone with the grit to withstand anything on the field but also the cunning to know when and how to disappear.

Varric knows he can’t pull the trigger. Harding, as pragmatic as she is, has to know that Solas is still Solas—and she can’t kill a friend. After her surprise meeting, Charter has said she never wants to meet Solas face to face again. Kieran has his own priorities.

Ixchel has run out of options.

Fortunately, Strife has someone in mind.

Varric, Harding, and Ixchel wait in grim silence for him to fetch this new person. Ixchel sits in an empty windowsill, eyes closed and head turned toward the sun. If the others really need her judgment, she’ll provide it, but since she really would rather be anywhere else, she hopes she can ignore the goings-on until someone calls her.

She feels no curiosity at all when Strife brings in his candidate. She knows already it is a Dalish mage who left their clan name behind to join the Veil Jumpers. The Dalish are difficult for Ixchel to work with, these days. She sees the ghosts of her dead clan in all of their faces, and she thinks she hears their suspicious thoughts: is she just a flat-ear they dressed up in vallaslin? Is she a traitor? They say she was a pupil of the Dread Wolf himself.

Ironically, Harding is far better at interacting with their Dalish recruits. Ixchel leaves it to her.

The tones of the conversation are hard, like an interrogation. Figuring out this person’s strengths and weaknesses, motivations. Ixchel hears not the words but the feelings instead and is satisfied that Harding and Varric have found their new recruit. Whether they will prove to be the field leader that they need will remain to be seen.

“Alright. Looks like we have our Rook,” Varric says with satisfaction.

“Is that my name?” the recruit asks dryly. Their voice is deep but not loud and has an almost wispy quality. The words dissipate into the air like smoke.

“Well, seeing as you didn’t offer one, I figured it’d serve as good as any,” says Varric. “Rookie, rook—like that game Dorian plays so much.”

“Chess, Varric,” Harding says, but they all know that Varric was trying to lighten the mood. “I can’t promise you Varric’ll ever use it, but I’d like to know your name, friend.”

“Terinelan,” their Rook says. “Terinelan Lavellan.”

Ixchel doesn’t know how she ends up standing in the center of the room, facing the young man she had thought dead for nearly a decade, but she’s there, and he’s there, and��

“Leave,” she says to Varric and Harding. “Now.”

The man claiming to be Terinelan Lavellan is not the boy she once knew. The last time she had seen Ter, his vallaslin was still raised and fresh over his eye. His voice had been strong, calm, and always full of cheer. Warmth. He was unblemished in every way and shone in her memory as the perfect First—the perfect son, the perfect friend.

In front of her is a mangled facsimile of that boy.

His vallaslin and half his face are marred by burns, and his ear on that side has been docked with a knife. His staff, the one his life-giver had made him when he was chosen as First, was gone. He wore the golden armor of the Veil Jumpers, and a helm was tucked under one arm. He looked ready for war.

The Terinelan she knew was not a warrior. He was a hearthkeeper, a peace-maker, a healer.

The Terinelan she knew was dead.

“Are you okay?” she asks. It’s the wrong question, but nothing is right in her mouth, just like nothing has been right since she heard of the clan’s demise in Wycome.

Terinelan smirks, tugging at scars all across his face. “With faces like ours, do you even need to ask?”

Like ours. She is not the girl who left the Clan for the Conclave so many years ago. Bare-faced. Unblemished. Her hair barely tamed into a braid for the first time. Whole. Now her face is a constellation of brutal scars, mapped by vallaslin like an astrarium; her left sleeve hangs in a knot, empty of an arm; her hair is styled pristinely, ready for battle. Her eyes are milky, washed over like the dead's. She is a ghost, a corpse.

She, too, had not been touched by war when last he saw her.

But she is more than a soldier. She is a commander. A Champion. She knows what she can inspire when she rallies her troops, but he is different. How could he come to her banner after all that has happened to him because of her? How could he not blame her, hate her?

Would it be a liability?

Would it be a blessing?

“After all that’s happened, you would still follow me?” she asks.

“To the ends of the earth,” he replies. “I don’t know everything you’ve been through, lethallan, but it’s written across your face. You’re a survivor, as am I. Who else would I follow to survive the end of the world?”

She trusts it, she trusts him.

But in that moment, she doesn’t trust herself. She doesn’t think she can survive the loss of her family—not again.

Ixchel lets out a breath and nods, and with that, the tension between them dissipates entirely. He crosses the remaining distance, tossing his helm aside carelessly, and they fall into a tight embrace.

“Is there time for you to tell me your story?” he asks into her hair.

“Only if there is time for you to tell me yours,” she says. “Fuck Solas—fuck everyone. Tell me everything.”

[hoboblaidd]

I’ve been listening to old banters to get the rhythm of how Solas talks, and I’m gonna word vomit a little on his relationships with the Inner Circle. Long rambling post so under a cut.

Solas and Cole’s interactions are wonderful. They’re speaking the same language, they don’t need clarifying questions to get what the other is talking about, and with Cole we actually see the wisdom (“Wisdom”??) part of Solas on full blast. And since they’re speaking this weird language, Solas is more Solas than he is with anyone else. I also love how he talks Cole down from a panic attack, it’s a little thing but so wonderful. A big question is does Cole know exactly who Solas was? Possibly debatable, but I like to think he does and just doesn’t see it as something that’s his to reveal like how he kept Blackwall’s secret. That’s why the Solas post-Inquisition mindwipe is both necessary from Solas’ perspective and so incredibly violating (and sort of retconned with Trespasser?? maybe proximity to a full power Solas took the edge off it, or it was only ever a stop gap, or the writers tried to water it down which would suck). Speaking of, no one reacts to the more minor mindwipe Solas does in the post-breakup banter with a romanced Lavellan. This random apostate mage just changes the channel on Cole’s empathic read and no one is like ‘hang the fuck on a minute, he just out-spirited a spirit.’ 

Aside from Cole, Solas and Varric are the friendliest of his interactions, but I like that it’s not all sunshine and roses. Solas has his (frequently racist) viewpoints that he dumps on Varric, but Varric pushes right back without ever becoming antagonistic. It’s a clash of two competing world views and the wisdom that comes with it, built on lived experiences. They’ve both been around the block and come out of it with different ideas, but they can talk about it as mature adults. Some (or all) of this is attributable to Varric’s charisma rather than Solas’. He’s friends with everyone (except maybe Sebastian lol). If anyone was gonna crack Solas’ cold veneer of disinterest, it’d be Varric.

My favorite interactions he has are with Bull and Vivienne. They’re wildly different in tone, but the foundation is similar - both Vivienne and Bull know he’s withholding something, and they dig on it until he deflects (sometimes well, sometimes less so). Solas recognizes Bull’s intelligence and skills at observation, which is nice for a guy who'll be casually racist to a Tal Vashoth inquisitor as a "compliment." They're kind of bros, as much as Solas can be a bro with someone. Plus, the chess game is my favorite thing in Inquisition. But Solas' banter with Vivienne is just the best. He’s soo bitchy and sarcastic, and neither of them back down from their opposing views. Even with a few moments of agreement, they are diametrically opposed and a ton of fun. They're also not at all wrong about each other - could it be that, gasp! both their world views are wrong?? But she clearly reminds him of the Evanuris, which is a nice insight. And as an aside, Solas with his hackles raised, or low approval, gives so much more away about his personality than you can just find in high approval or less antagonistic dialogue. I like the edge to it. I'm realizing my Solas is basically a low approval Solas who is occasionally nice, and I'm cool with it.

His interactions with Dorian are a slightly more one-sided antagonism on Solas’ part. Dorian means well and tries to reach across the aisle, and Solas generally shuts him down. Dorian’s viewpoint makes sense, but so does Solas’. Dorian is beloved and rightfully so, I love him more than I love Solas. But as much as he’s trying to do better, he’s still got a ways to go, and Solas never fully lets him off the hook. I do think Dorian gets there by the end of the game, at least in recognizing that he can't just help with one thing, he needs to go as big as he can until it kills him. And frankly Solas' expectations of him (free all the slaves elven and non in Tevinter) aren't entirely grounded in the reality of a mortal lifespan. But he still should act.

Something that isn’t talked about much is his relationship to Cassandra, which I really like. It’s built on mutual respect, and they both hold their ground on things without getting antagonistic. Cassandra’s occasional “the Maker would give you comfort” rankles me for personal reasons, but he takes it in stride and never dismisses her over it. It’s who she is and it comes from a place of earnestness instead of proselytizing. They’re not friendly, per se, but they don't have to be. It's the best kind of strictly business, coworker relationship you could ask for.

Solas’ relationship with Blackwall is also great, because it starts from a place like ‘two veterans walk into a bar’ sort of camaraderie and ends with ‘this person is a mirror of what i hate that i am’. Solas at least admits that his initial anger re: Blackwall’s lie was wrong, but I think he was more angry that Blackwall ended up being just like him rather than a better version of him. But also how tf did the god of lies etc. not clock Blackwall’s cagey ass before the reveal. Solas is so bad at his job (and yes I know the none of them were gods and all the labels are propaganda and mythologizing but that's less fun than shitting on the god of lies for being shit at lying).

His interactions with Sera are frustrating, but not for what they are, more for the lack of follow up. There’s something odd going on with Sera that seems more than his usual ‘are these elves real elves’ bullshit. But we don’t get anything more than the cryptic stuff he (and Cole) say to her, and some bits sprinkled into her story. Sera’s a frustrating character for me in general because it feels like the writers sort of forgot the seeds they were planting, or figured they’d save it for something that never happened. It might just be me, but I felt like I was waiting for another shoe to drop that never did. I’d like Veilguard to explore it, and maybe it will, but I’m not holding my breath. But, Solas also outlines the entire philosophy and practice of his rebellion when he’s talking to her which is awesome, especially leading into Veilguard where we might get more context.

Those are my deep thoughts. I want to do a deep dive word vomit on his relationship with each evanuris, but a lot of that will be speculation that's likely to be changed by Veilguard so we'll see. We know pretty much jack shit about his feelings on Sylaise and June (aside from my eternal soft spot for June after theshirallen's portrayal).

[seigeocs]

Finn Aldwir

Name: Finn Aldwir, formerly Lavellan

Age: 25

Faction: Veil Jumpers

Class: Rogue

Specialization: Veil Ranger

Weapon: Bow More Screenshots: Regular, Bellara and Finn, and more

Quirks: Finn is desperate to get out from the shadow of his mother.  He changed his name, dyed his hair, and refused to take any vallaslin.  He likes to play a guitar in his downtime and knows all of the songs Maryden taught him at Skyhold.  He picked up a few more traveling with the Veil Jumpers.  He is not happy when Varric contacts him in Arlathan Forest to find Solas.  He is double unhappy when he realizes he is now stuck with Solas.

Relationships with others:

Inquisitor Lavellan: That is his mother.  They have a complicated relationship because even after everything Solas did, his mother refused to kill Solas.  She wanted to make him see reason and Finn couldn’t understand why she didn’t want to stop Solas.  As soon as he turned eighteen he left.  He’s got lots of complicated feelings surrounding his mother.

Solas: Finn never lets a day go by that he doesn’t let Solas feel his ire.  At first Solas didn’t recognize him, it had been so long and Finn was no longer that teenage boy desperate for approval.  Once Solas realized who he was their relationship was icy at best.  Finn wanted to stop Solas, but he was also so angry at Solas for hurting his mother.  No matter how mad he was at Roisin, he knew she did not deserve what Solas had done to her.  Maybe they’ll finally get along, maybe not.  They come to a mutual understanding eventually that they need to work together to save the world. Finn never quite forgives the betrayals from Solas in the end.

Varric Tethras: Finn respects the dwarf but repeatedly tells him that he needs to retire.  Roisin can handle looking for Solas but he gets ignored.  Finn thinks of him as the uncle that will spring you from mom’s punishment.  So he has a good relationship with Varric. It devastates him when he learns the truth of what happens to Varric.

Bellara: He's in love with this woman. Absolutely, head over heels, fool in love with her. He's skittish because he's got some issues with abandonment, but he'll pull through for her. Finn regrets keeping his family a secret from her when she finally figures out who his mother is. They overcome it and grow together.

Emmrich: Finn honestly does not get necromancy, but he respects the hell out of Emmrich. To get to his level requires dedication and patience, of which Finn lacks a heap of. He's still a little formal around Emmrich, but does like the man.

Lucanis: Finn and Lucanis get along splendidly, as do Finn and Spite. They found common ground and a love of coffee (something Finn picked up while at Skyhold). He makes sure Lucanis gets whatever coffee and groceries he needs.

Neve: Finn and Neve get along splendidly. He earns her trust back after the major decision early in the game. It takes him a bit, but he manages to show her that he really is there for his friends. That she can count on him.

Taash: Finn and Taash are two peas in a pod when it comes to causing trouble. They are always there for Finn and Finn returns the favor. Especially when Taash is figuring out what they want from themselves. They have a cheerleader in Finn.

Davrin: They disagree on how to face the world a bit, but they have a good relationship. Though Davrin chastises Finn for spoiling Assan a little too much. They carve wood together but whereas Davrin carves monsters, Finn likes to carve animals.

Harding: Harding was so surprised when Finn revealed who he was, and she did remember him once he said his former last name. They get along just as well as they did back in Inquisition. They both share a love of greenery and Finn makes sure that Harding has all she needs with it. He looks to her like an older sister, just like back then.

[seeker-ophelia]

Maybe I’m dumb but how are the other gods dead? Did they just like die of old age in the prison since they were made mortal (but Solas doesn’t have a split soul right? He isn’t aging)? Are there just a bunch of art projects from Ghilan'nain using their bodies floating around in there?

I don't think your dumb at all! Lots of people have asked this question.

I have no source, but my dumb brain remembers someone asking Trick about this on twitter, and he said, it's assumed that they're just dead.

Keep in mind, this is also the person who said, "if you don't see a character die on screen, they could come back." SO take everything with a grain of salt.

My Theory? WELLL COME ON DOWN CHILD AND LETS DISCUSS.

I actually made a whole post about this! (Pre-Veilguard)

SO, I think that the Blight was the mechanism of Prison-Break for The Evanuris in the Prison, and Solas essentially confirms this in a Fade-Talk - he is not bound to a dragon, and so he underestimated the power of that bond.

So, the Evanuris killed (Slept? Separated from?) their physical bodies to allow their Blue Souls to re-infect an Archdemon, that was grown, supplied by an Architect, or other strange creatures we don’t know about in the deep roads. that was their dragon-thrall waiting in the deep roads, blighted and sleeping, waiting for them. Now, its not as nice, or as powerful a body as their Elvhen Forms, but better than being in prison.

And that is how The Blight acted as a prison break for the Evanuris.

Now. The real question you've asked is,

Where's the other Gods then?

If their dragons/archdemons are dead, what happened to their souls?

If I am right, and its the Evanuris Essence that moved into an Archdemon (like Mythal into Morrigan), that means and Archdemon holds two souls, its own, and an Evanuris.

If I'm wrong, then maybe you're more correct, they controlled their archdemons from inside the prison, and once their archdemon was killed their mortal body began to deteriorate, and they just died.

Trespasser: Lavellan: You banished the false gods-you didn't kill them? Solas: You met Mythal, did you not? The first of my people do not die so easily. The Evanuris are banished forever, paying the ultimate price for their misdeeds.

Well, my theory was that Mythal was the big bad, but it really looks like BioWare is moving away from that direction. Mythal seemed pretty 'good' in VG. I hope that changes, but we shall see.

Also Solas in Trespasser: Corypheus should have died unlocking my orb. When he survived, my plans were thrown into chaos. When you survived, I saw the Inquisition as the best hope this world had in stopping him... ...The plan was for Corypheus to unlock it, and for the resulting explosion to kill him. Then I would claim the orb. I did not forsee a Tevinter Magister having learned the secret of effective immortality.

Effective Immorality: What Mythal does, passing her spirit from one body to the next. But a key rule for this magic is that a soul cannot be forced upon an unwilling. The Blight allows the Gods (or Corypants) to control bodies, making them willing, but, what if there was a willing body, that wasn't blighted?

Morrigan's Dark Ritual.

It was Flemeth who taught Morrigan the Dark Ritual. And so, I am going to assume that Flemeth has done it before. Either by her own hand womb, or by another one of her daughters.

So, at the risk of spoiler-ing my next Dragon-Lore post, I am going to tell you to hold on, and maybe some questions will be answered after I get through my next VG run where I actually look for and get all or most of the codices.

[maythedreadwolftakeyou]

Reunion

Solavellan one shot, ~6500 words

On AO3 here

Summary: They both finally get what they want: Lavellan manages to stop Solas, without killing him. He gets to know she will live forever without fading away, as the elves were meant to. They are together, and it is the worst possible thing that could happen to either of them, and now they will have to live with it forever.

Set in some non canonical/hypothetical Veilguard situation where there's a final confrontation with Solas and the Inquisitor... does not contain any actual Veilguard spoilers/content

     

i.

It’s brighter than she thought it would be, here, at the edge of the end of the world.

Maybe she shouldn’t have room to notice something like that, Lavellan thinks, eyes watering as she fights not to squint or blink at the figure before her. They are both wreathed in faintly blue-tinged light which seems to emanate from all places at once without source, like that of the crossroads. There is no warmth to it, unlike sunlight, and no comfort; and the ancient voices inside her head are silent in the face of this new, unfamiliar magic. It shouldn’t be possible here, not when she stood only moments ago at the chaotic edge of the battlefield. Not without jumping through another Eluvian, or tearing the Veil anew, and yet—she is never surprised when the impossible happens around her anymore.

It is what he does, after all.

These thoughts flit at the edges of her mind like dragonflies on the edge of a pool of still water, because there are no words that encompass what she feels now, as he finally meets her gaze. Not a furtive partial glimpse from across a dream, or the half-remembered scent that lingers in a room she’s arrived to moments too late—finally they stand only meters apart, his eyes locked on hers, and she can see the ache she feels in her own chest mirrored there, deep enough to drown in.

“I did not intend for us to meet this way,” Solas says.

“I didn’t intend to let you go without saying goodbye,” Lavellan replies.

He is silent, after that, and as she takes a deep and shaking breath, she remembers again where they are. What she came here to do. Beyond the edge of the harsh radiance around them, she can see shadowy figures where the others stand frozen, somehow far more distant than they should have been. She might have thought he’d petrified them all, except for the banners still immobile mid-wave, the bolt of energy from a staff still halfway to its target, the griffon still mid-air from his last leap. He has finally figured out how to do it.

Solas has stopped time.

“Is this it, then?” she asks, and she doesn’t have the energy to be angry, or afraid, or anything but tired. “Did you finally figure out how to turn it all back? To erase everything, and try again from the start?”

“No.” He does break her gaze then, looking down at his own hands. “Not this. This is the magic Dorian used—though, once, I did think… but it cannot go back, only forward.” His fingers close into a fist, and he looks up at her again. “The spell here is only for us, a few extra moments of time. If I could do more than that for you, I would.”

“You didn’t have to break time just to talk to me, Solas. You knew where to find me, on either side of the Veil.”

“If the world was as it should be, then we would have time eternal. But I cannot give you all that you deserve.” His voice is quiet, and rough, and sad; the same way he sounded so long ago, the last time.

Lavellan thought she’d grieved that particular pain away in the intervening years, but hearing him again splits something inside her open anew. She had come resigned and ready to do whatever else they asked of her—for all that she’d forsaken the responsibility of the rest of the world, she’d never given up this last duty. But now they stand here, this time with none of his secrets between them, and no ancient magic eating her from the inside, and both finally having come to terms with whom the other has become. And she doesn’t want to do it anymore. If she ever did at all. For years her companions have reminded her that he is a rebel, a trickster, a god—but when she looks at him he is the same as he has always been. Solas. The air here feels unnaturally still, without any breath of wind to flutter against the edge of her cloak, or the strands of hair that have already come lose from her braid. It is almost like being within the Fade again, just a slightly different kind of removal from reality.

“That really was the crux of it, I suppose,” she says. “Time. Never enough for me, and far too much for you.” She shifts her weight, finally lowering her staff. She hadn’t even realized she was clutching it so tightly, but her knuckles have gone bone-white, and she can feel where the grooves in the wood dig into her palm. “We were always looking at each other from opposite sides of the mirror. Your past was more than forgotten, fully lost from our histories, and our present was never enough for you.”

“It would have been enough—” His voice cracks as he steps forward, then halts, one hand half outstretched as though to grasp her own. As though even after a decade the reflex is still there, just as fresh. “If it was only me, it would be enough. But I could not let the People be abandoned. What I might have wanted could never matter in comparison.”

A bark of laughter escapes her lungs, a noise something halfway to a sob. It sounds louder and sharper than it should in this still, airless world. “I guess if I could have convinced you that the rest of us mattered enough to try anyway, we wouldn’t be here now.”

“You don’t know how close you came.”

He must think it is a comfort to hear that, rather than a knife, just like the other times. But it is at least a familiar knife. Lavellan steps forward herself, finally, closing the gap between them. She lets her staff clatter to the ground rather than keep it propped awkwardly between their bodies, so she can press her palm against the side of his face. She’s grown used to only having the one over the years, of having to choose what things to hold onto and what to let go. She almost expects him to flinch away from her touch, but instead he closes his eyes and sinks into it, a shuddering exhale passing his lips, warm against her skin. It hurts her almost as much as it did the first time, realizing how lonely and distant he held himself from the rest of the world. “I imagined meeting again hundreds of times. Thousands, maybe. But I never did figure out what I would say.” She brushes her thumb across the edge of his cheekbone. Are there more lines around his eyes than there used to be, have their familiar creases deepened? Or does she only project onto him what she has grown used to in the mirror herself? “You were always going to outlive me anyway, I suppose.” It is her turn to catch her breath as his eyes open again, their faded color more intense now that she’s only inches away. The way she remembered them.

“I had hoped that you would go home. Spend your remaining years in peace with family, away from this. I wanted you to be happy.”

It’s crueler this way for them both, and she understands why he’d hoped she’d be kind enough to stay away. That’s why he left in the first place, after all, but she is merciless enough to want him to look at her while he tries to rip the world in two. “You changed everything,” she tells him simply. “I changed. After the Inquisition, I could never have gone back to who I was before, and I never wanted to try. The only way to move on was forward.” The place she remembered had stopped existing the moment she left. Going back would only have made her that much more keenly aware of how little she fit inside it anymore.

He shivers, and as she feels the tremble pass beneath his skin, the field flickers around them for barely an instant. Have the arrows frozen in midair inched slightly forward from where they’d hung? Had the leaves on the distant trees fluttered into faintly new shadows? She isn’t sure, but she knows what she felt. Whatever spell is locking time around them isn’t stable, and it’s drawing on his power for every breath they take in this strange, still place.

“How much does it cost you?” she asks him. The ocean of sorrow within her has been growing, almost without her notice, while they spoke. She feels the depths of it now, the crushing pressure of its abyss threatening to spill out. Lavellan realizes in some surprise that she’s already crying, tears streaming down her face in hot, wet trails, and she doesn’t remember when they began.

“Almost everything,” he whispers.

The time he has stolen for them is not enough. It could never be enough, and they both know it. Even if he could keep them frozen here for years, for decades—they will never explore the world together, never build a life, never simply be together again. It can only give them long enough for the wound to rend anew, but she’s glad he did it anyway. She clings to the thought as she pulls him down to press their lips together, allowing herself just one last moment to pretend the world is different. That they are different.

Solas’ hunger as they meet is as overwhelming as it always was, his hands finding their way to her hips, his grip almost tight enough to bruise. She catches his lower lip between her teeth just long enough to hear the catch in his breath, and the fingers of the hand she doesn’t have should be wrapping around his shoulder to pull him even closer, but they can’t. Her right hand slides to cradle the back of his neck but her body feels wrong now, wrong in a way that hasn’t bothered her in years, as the muscle memory of kissing Solas fighting against her new perception of herself. Lavellan kisses him the way she’s spent years dreaming they never would again, the length of her body pressed against his; almost, almost able to feel his warmth through the layers of armor and cloth. She can taste the salt of her own tears on his skin now, and the quiet moan that escapes her lips sounds closer to agony than lust. Solas clings to her like an anchor in the tide and she finally lets everything go, all purpose and plans abandoned, releasing herself to drown in their reunion one last time. No more separation, no more boundaries, only the deep churn of longing and regret, and the cold comfort that in this at least, they have always been the same.

It might only have been moments, or minutes, or more in this place beyond time, when he stiffens again, the briefest crack in his magic sending shivers through their crumbling sanctuary. She can’t begin to fathom the amount of mana he is channeling to keep it going, and as she pulls back she can see the tension around his eyes, the physical pain of upholding the casting alongside the magical exertion.

“If it truly takes that much from you, you should never have held us here so long,” she tells him, taking a step backward. He lets her go, his fingers trailing along the sides of her waist as she pulls away. “It’d be in my best interest to keep you here as long as possible, wouldn’t it? So that you don’t have enough strength for whatever comes next.”

“I would hold it anyway, if you wanted.”

It’s unfair how sad he sounds, how sorrowful he has always sounded in moments like these. Where he walls away his heart and becomes the version of himself she knows was always a lie. “Only because you know I couldn’t bear to see you drained that way.” She takes a second step back, biting her lip against the urge to give in anyway, to let whatever ending awaits them both come for them here, held in seclusion from everything and everyone else. “Did you always know it was going to end like this?”

His hands fall back to his sides, and he looks away again, out past the strange, warped walls of whatever is shielding them. Rook’s companions look closer again, moreso than they did before. Their respite is almost over.

“I wish it had not. I had hoped it could be fast and final enough that no one else would have time to realize what was happening, let alone dread its approach.”

“The end of the world is always slower than you realize, I guess.” Lavellan bends, and picks up her staff, the solid weight of the wood comforting and cool in her grip. If she squeezes her hand tightly enough, she can pretend it is does not tremble. Just like old times, she starts to think, but no—it feels wrong to say that facing him, instead of side by side. They can’t keep stalling like this forever; the world can’t stay trapped in this space between heartbeats. She inhales deeply, and sighs, feeling the weight of what must follow settle back into its familiar place inside her chest. One way or another, they’re going to have to find out what comes next.

“Ar lath ma,” she tells him. “Even after all this time. Even now.”

“Ar lath ma, Vhenan. Ir abelas.” he whispers back, and the arrow flies, the banners snap, and the chaos of the world comes crashing down around them.

    

ii.

She barely remembers the fighting. She learned to block away all recollection and emotion through it years ago, back when she still thought she could save the world, and that such an act could fix everything else. The taste of violence sits bitterly on her tongue, overpowering the grief and desperation that accompany it, and it takes her a heartbeat too long to realize the moment that, against all odds, she succeeds.

She doesn’t even register it as it happens. There is the back-and-forth onslaught of spells, of chasing after Solas like a hound at the hunt as the fighting took them further and further from the others. He isn’t even really trying to fight back, he’s simply doing what he came here for, and the magic he wastes on her is mostly to keep her distracted. She knows he could petrify her in an instant like all the others. The fact that he apparently won’t is why she agreed to come when they asked. She did it to spare them, not because she thought she could win. But suddenly, she is staring at the shard of ice that protrudes from his chest like a blade. It shouldn’t be enough to kill him—or rather, it shouldn’t be enough to kill the wayward god that everyone has spent the last decade telling her he is. But as she stares in shock he staggers, and then falls, crumpling as a spell half-summoned fades from the end of his staff. Almost before it can clatter to the ground, she has pulled at the edges of the Fade, letting the waves of magic propel her across the distance to his side.

No no no no no some part of her mind is frantically chanting, denying the reality before her eyes as she throws aside her own staff, freeing her remaining arm to awkwardly roll him onto his back; to press her palm against the side of his face. He does not move. His eyes are closed, and whatever last expression he wore as her spell struck home has already faded. Half of her is numb, as though watching from a distance, while the rest of her is filling with a sick and terrible sense of dread. This is backwards. This is wrong. She is just the shattered husk of what was once the most powerful figure in Thedas. She couldn’t kill a god; she could barely kill a revenant anymore, and there had already been so much blood on her hands. She hadn’t actually come here to kill him herself—if anything she came to die in the process so that he would stop.

“Solas, no, you need to hold on,” she tells him frantically, and slams her hand onto his chest. Mana crackles around her fingers as the healing spell tries to sink into his flesh, but his eyes are still closed, and in all the seconds she has been staring at him, he has not taken a single breath. There will be no final parting, no last words between them, she realizes. The shard of ice that pierced his heart has already melted, and the blood that pours from the wound is far, far too vibrant to be real, the tears dropping from her face onto his chest doing nothing to dilute it. “Come back,” she snarls, magic flowing through her like a river, but finding nothing on which to catch. She didn’t expect this, but it dawns on her that perhaps he did—perhaps that is why he let them linger together so long, if he felt it coming anyway. Maybe he’d already been dying too, and she hadn’t known it, the opposite of when she knelt before him while nearly shattered by the anchor. But he didn’t tell her, and he didn’t let her save him, and now it is too late. Except, he had told her, she realizes—that he walked the Din'anshiral. His eyes are still closed. There is no healing magic that can bring the spirit back into dead flesh once it has departed, not without corrupting it into something unrecognizable.

At least, there has not been for a very, very, long time, the detached and distant part of her thinks. Half her mind is nothing but a keening wail of grief, but above it floats the knowledge that at least once before, this had happened to one of his kind.

“Asha’bellanar, ma ghilana,” Lavellan whispers, and this time when she opens the floodgates of her power, she points it inward. The Evanuris had been more than just mages, more than spirits, or the sum of any two things. When Mythal was torn asunder, the heart of her survived, the voices of the Well of Sorrows whisper in her ear. The barest wisp of her self had drifted down the ages until it found shelter in the flesh of a mortal woman, and together, they had endured through generations. It would be possible. It would be the one way to save whatever trace of him remains, and the surest way to completely annihilate them both.

Lavellan inhales deeply, and the air tastes of dust and iron and the fading hint of snow. Her hand still resting on Solas’ chest, holding onto him like a harbor, she flings away every instinctual barrier her mind has learned to erect, opening herself wide to the vastness of the Fade. She can feel herself spilling outward in a rush, and it is a manic sort of freedom, after so many years spent holding her magic in such tight confinement. She has always known of the dangers of demon possession, of the risk of becoming an abomination, and she works her way backwards against all her training to undo each of the doors into herself, unbarring them one by one. When all is left bared, she closes her own eyes, and throws her mind across the Veil.

It is staggeringly easy, without the wards she normally must contort through. But there is nothing now, and in that emptiness, she calls for him. It is something like a summoning, and something like a prayer, and there is no spell for her to follow but instinct and desperation. If he is enough like Mythal that he will not fade away, that he could come back, then let him do it here, now—not centuries later, when it is too late for her to save him or to stop him ever again. If in this merging he could learn to love this world, their world the way she does—the way he never truly let himself feel—even what survives of him will no longer be able to destroy it. That cold, calm part of her has time to wonder how much of herself will be lost in this process, but raises no objection as her far-flung mind casts around them for whatever remains of his soul.

Maybe it is the Vir'abelasan, the threads of its reach that stretched into him as he drained each drop of power from Mythal. Or maybe it is the Anchor he tried to take back, the parts of her spirit that still bear the scars of carrying his magic for so long. Or maybe it is simply that in death, he is finally free to do what he never allowed himself in life, and reach for her. But for the briefest instant, she feels him, the way she has always felt him watch her from her dreams. It is but a moment, but it is enough.

“Solas,” she binds him, and turns the whole of her being into his mirror.

She opens herself to the jarring disconnect from the people she’d been raised to love, with all their mistakes and flaws. The distance she feels between that former self and the person she has become, that she never dares to let herself truly feel—the yawning abyss between then and now, no matter how rigidly she stares forward instead of back. She puts into it the loss of Haven, of visiting the ruins with him in a dream, of standing in a place that is only a memory when so very recently it had been real. How in the face of that, they had first reached out for each other.

Next is the anger as she faced down Corypheus, the would-be god who used his powers for subjugation and dominion. The faith that inaction was always the greater sin, that since she had the power to fight him, it was her duty, no matter the terror and chaos surrounding her. The grueling months of struggle, yes, but also the vast and righteous triumph at his final defeat. Her naive surety that now things would finally be fixed, the taste of relief that grew ever more bitter as the consequences continued to drag her into the future. The conviction that if she just clung to power for a little longer, she could finally right everything. That it all would be okay, and afterwards, she could finally move on.

Then, the mounting fear each day following the Conclave, as people saw her more and more as a symbol instead of a person. As they gave her name and title that were not hers to claim, and nothing she had asked for; and the shame that she bore that mantle anyway simply because it was useful in what she needed to do next. The growing certainty that when she is gone, history will take whatever is left of her and write over it again, just as they did to Ameridan. To him.

She lets herself remember her sense of wonder for the places he took her in the Fade, the nostalgia of ancient stories they found there. His care for the spirits he knew, her own care for her companion of Compassion. The flickering sliver of hope that she might truly be a hero, that the people would thank her for her sacrifice, somehow still persisting despite all the experiences that tell her otherwise. She takes each feeling in the river coursing through her and twists it into something he will recognize, a landscape he might find as familiar as the one inside his chest.

And beneath them all lies the terrible, all-consuming grief. So much lost. So many dead. Countless mistakes made, and the desperation to just take it back, and pretend it never happened. Her walls are gone and so is the lie she tells herself that it all will be okay someday, because it isn’t—the world changed and she lost everything. Her clan, her life, her future. She built a new family only for them to scatter once more. She poured herself into becoming what they asked her to, only for the Inquisition to crumble and twist within her grasp. There is nothing, nothing left to hold her here, and when he took the twisted poison from her flesh, it had finally sunk in that there was no more escape, either. It is an endless cry of mourning inside her heart, which she cannot bear for anyone else to hear. Her soul sings a song of sorrow, sorrow, sorrow, and she feels the way it echoes through to him; the synchronized reverberation of their heartstrings.

Of course, there is also the love. Part of it was a hunger, almost primal, a desire to be seen and felt and known. Their love is a deep and ever present ache, an unfulfilled longing, but in many ways that is the least part of it. They have both become towering figures, each a legend in their own right, their titles encompassing all of their actions and more. The rest of it had been a hidden, secret thing; out of sight and behind closed doors, the briefest contact between two souls, over almost before it began. What happiness there had been was fleeting, and complicated, but it had been true. It pierced them both deep enough to scar, and deep enough for her to find him, to catch him and cling to him and guide him home. She is only dimly aware of her tether to the waking world, where his chest has been still under her hand for far too long now. The last spasms of his heartbeat have ceased, and finally, the hot rush of blood coating her hands has stilled. He is dead.

No more separate than your heart from your chest, Lavellan thinks, and the last distinctions between their selves ceases to exist.

     

iii.

If he had not spent the time teaching her to walk in dreams, she would have been swept away utterly in that instant. But she uses every trick now; all those old lessons in ways to cling to control long enough to direct the dream’s flow before the sleeping mind beneath could sweep her away. How to separate herself from an onslaught of memories that weren’t hers, but whoever else had left their mark on that part of the Fade—except now, it is not just memory and echoes of reality. It is him, and he is great and terrible in his vastness. She had thought of her own emotions as a sea, of drowning depths—but his history crashes into her with the overwhelming force that carves canyons out of stone, that presses down with the weight of all the world, crushing sand and bone and flesh into layer and layer of rock. The skill of the shaping of dreams lets her float atop the torrent of memory, but it sheers at her—her own memories tumbling into the vortex of his life, shredding apart. Her body opens its mouth and she cannot hear the scream that tears out of her, but she can feel the rawness of her throat afterwards. But she does not fight it, as she cannot risk holding herself apart. For every place they are the same she opens for him. The terrible perspective of time, the eons he spent helpless as beyond the world dissolved, the torment of his devotion to Arlathan and all those he lost there. Year after year, loss after loss, failure after failure and still he cannot allow himself to give up. It is too much for a mortal mind to hold. He had told her he was not a god, and with his soul as bared as hers she knows he believes this still, but in this world he has been suffocating in a way she never realized—all her People have, they who should be filling with magic with every breath, every gesture. His grief consumes her, yet another doomed to death, no more than a moth fluttering in the face of his bonfire. This will be the price, and she is almost relieved to pay it.

I forgive you, what is left of Lavellan tells him, in this place beyond boundaries. Ir abelas.

There can be no secrets in this melding, no things held back. So last of all she gives to him the things that once were hers alone, that despite the bright and brief blaze of her years have shaped her utterly. She loves and loves and loves the world, their world, in a way that underlies everything else she is. How could she not? It is no mistake to her, but a home—the rough bark of each tree climbed, and the sweet smell of grass crushed beneath their feet after tumbling down to earth. The warm arms of Clan Lavellan, and all the friendships that they found after, too. It is the herds of halla running through the Exalted Plains, the gleam of the sleeping dragon’s scales in the cold moonlight of the Hissing Wastes, the cool breath of wind through the maze-like canyons in the Oasis. They reach for every beautiful thing they have ever seen and held onto. Every landscape that has shaped their heart, that has made any one single home too small to ever hold them again. That was one thing no one ever warned them about—the shape of the world shapes you. It is all real. It may be fleeting, but it is here, something that can be held, not just remembered. Memory is stored not only in the mind, but the body, and this body has spent years learning to love itself, despite everything, despite all the world did to it. Despite the years he has spent fighting not to let any part of this new, terrible reality inside.

He does not realize, he cannot, until it has already happened. It is more than agony—the incredible pressure of squeezing so much of himself into such a minute vessel. By the time he comprehends that this is not finally an ending, he has been enveloped in the thin shroud of her, unable to go back. What paths she opened are closing again, by instinct or because her magic has diminished to a slow trickle, pulling them out of the Fade and careening into the bright, awful present. He tries to claw his way back along the thread that binds them, and when that fails, to instead contain himself in a tight, hard knot inside her; to become a stone that will sink and vanish into her depths.

But he overflows, engraving new patterns into her mind, eroding the places she used to be. The weight of his centuries buries the tattered remnants of her soul, thrusting them to the edges. Too many pieces are already lost, like sand falling through his fingers as he struggles to hold his own life separate. He tries in desperation anyway, abandoning parts of himself in an effort to leave enough room for her to survive the subsuming. He casts away years of his own past to carve a space big enough to hold what scraps of her he can find intact, and this act itself is yet another sign that the change has already come. The delineations are gone. He remembers the love of Deshanna, his sorrow that he will never take her place as Keeper of their Clan as he was always meant to, and it is impossible because that could not have been him. He casts himself back to that first and greatest pain, the touchstone for all that came after, and the Mythal of his memory is overlaid with the Mythal she had known, her face flickering in his mind between past and present. He thinks of the glade in Crestwood, their first parting, and the terrible recursion of loss and confusion and understanding and grim, regretful determination almost overwhelms everything else.

Do not do this, please stop, come back— he implores, but the plea only entrenches him deeper. There is enough of him to beg, so there is enough of him to understand. The Vir’abelasan whispers and he can hear it now, too—Lavellan should have been the greater part, but she held nothing back, and let in so, so much of him. The thing that used to be Mythal had been but an echo in comparison, while he is a shout, a scream. He was not made to be contained this way, but she has filled herself with him regardless. Every secret of the ancient world, every memory encountered in the Fade, every failure he carefully preserved like a crystal in his mind. And yet, somehow the molten-heat core that was her has surfaced through his cracks, suffusing who he was. He sees world and knows it and he loves it, loves it the way she did, even though it is so much smaller and worse than what he yearned to restore. But it is the last thing left, even if it is broken, just as he is. The heat of her belief warps his conviction, like iron thrust into a forge.

The horror begins to truly sink in. In his first confusion, he thought she had trapped them both, dooming them to resentful entanglement and endless struggle for control. Neither would want it, not like this. But the truth is almost worse—less and less of him is Solas, and he cannot even find what remains that is solely Lavellan. He can remember everything he came here to do, but the certainty is gone, replaced with some combination of his staggering loss and her calm acceptance. They are bound, and he is no longer even truly him. She has ceased to be her own person, and he has ceased to be Fen’harel, and they have both been changed and devastated in a way that can never be reversed. They can never be torn apart, and neither truly remains enough to stay together. What have we done, he thinks, as the weight of this subduction presses her fossil into the stone of his heart.

It is so much slower for him, fighting the inevitable, compared to the brief moments in their mingling where Lavellan remained herself. But already it is a struggle to remember where he used to end and she used to begin; to use these last moments to grieve everything they were and could have been. The part of them that was Solas is the greater portion by far, but every piece of what had been Lavellan is seared into him deeper than memory and as inevitable as fate.

VHENAN, he cries to her from their snarled tangle, but she has dissipated beyond the formation of language. When he struggles to listen for any echo of her last words, all he can find is the lingering breath of forgiveness, and apology, and fondness, like the ghost-touch of her hand upon his cheek. Understanding has been rising inside him like a tide, like a continent, and he can no longer escape the realization. Lavellan is already, utterly, gone.

In that moment, something inside him breaks, that he has been holding onto harder than he did his own life. He spent millennia on millennia running, fighting, hiding, utterly filled with fear of failing. All of his struggle to remain detached enough to do what must be done to remake the world, and she has undone it in an instant. She made his duty impossible, the collision of their separate purposes culminating in some new, strange emptiness rather than violence. The last thing he holds onto is a sense of mourning, that even though he has finally been defeated, she will not truly live to endure the world she saved.

And then Solas finally, finally lets go.

     

iv.

The body that used to be Lavellan opens its eyes, and the person who looks out is neither of them, and more. The corpse on the ground is warm and still under their hand, the planes of what was once Solas’ face not yet stiffened into something unrecognizable. Inside their chest, their heart pounds a frantic staccato rhythm, blood roaring in their ears as they realize the changes did not stop at the internal. Whatever trace of godhood he brought with him has burned the mortality out of her body, restructured some essential core to be closer to what she might once have been, had she not been bound by the quickening of this age. They were forged in grief and determination and a last, desperate hope, and the thing they have become will need time to fully understand all this orogeny has wrought.

Eventually, a shout breaks through the slowly receding roar of their own blood, and they remember that this place is more than a void they were borne into. Through the haze of tears they see someone in purple is calling to them, asking a question. A group stands and watches the former Inquisitor, before starting to run forward, the sound of cries and cheers only slightly muffled by their distance. It becomes clear that whatever needs to come next cannot happen here, not when there is no time to explain, and surrounded by so many who will never begin to understand. The body has grown cold and pale beneath their hand, the wet-sand color of dried blood staining both sets of armor.

They stand awkwardly, unused to the shape of this body. Gathering the two dropped staves is its own clumsy affair, with only the one arm to clutch at them both, but it feels important, somehow, to keep this last reminder of those they used to be. By the time the others grow close, the Veilguard can sense something is not what they expect, and the shouts dwindle to murmurs. They stare in unease, not sensing the familiarity this vessel should show for them. The soldiers would know what to do with joy, or with sobs, but they balk at this stoic, silent weeping.

“Is it over?” one finally summons the courage to ask, voice almost timid, as though he is ashamed he even desires to ask.

The former Inquisitor does not say anything for a long moment, and turns back to stare down at Fen’harel again, the body of he who would have unmade the world. Slowly, they raise a hand to the side of their face, gently pressing the palm to their own cheek, heedless of the drying blood it leaves there. “It will never be the same again,” they finally reply, voice low and quiet, and full of remorse.

And then they step forward, pulling at the edges of the Veil so the stride carries them further and faster, out of sight from the rest left behind. The others can finish their fighting alone. The two they truly seek are no longer, and never will be again.

They have made their choice, and now they will be forced to live with it, forever.

   

------

You can read the rest of my fanfic on AO3 here ♥︎

oh i just had a Sad Idea and it instantly filled me with manic glee

[barbex]

@midnightprelude this is all your fault, a dorianders fic. This is for @30daysofdorian

Dorian x Anders, in Skyhold.

Tempted Tevinter

“Have you heard?”

Dorian changes the angle of his head slightly to listen to a former chantry sister and a former circle mage talking behind a column in the garden. They have many “formers” here now, and quite a few unusual friendships have sprouted in this strange hotbed of Skyhold. Dorian has found himself in a disturbingly nice friendship with a dalish mage, a qunari mercenary, and a former knight of the templar order, of all things. A chantry sister and a circle mage sticking their heads together in gentle familiarity is not even that unusual.

“What have I heard?”

“They got him, the rebel.”

“Which one? They’re all apostates now if you listen to the Chantry.” There is a beat of intense silence, for which Dorian can vividly imagine the scrutinizing look the mage gives his friend. “I don’t mean that I listen to the Chantry, you know that.”

The mage clears his throat and holds a dramatic pause before he reveals his knowledge. “It’s Anders, the rebel-mage who blew up the Chantry of Kirkwall.”

“Maker! I thought he was dead. How did they find him?”

“He found us, he came to the Inquisition on his own. Walked up to the gate, said who he is and asked to be let in. They didn’t believe him at first, but they called the Commander over and he recognized him.”

“By Andraste’s heart, he didn’t kill him outright?”

“Welling said the Commander went totally still. His voice was barely more than a whisper when he ordered him to be arrested.”

“When the Commander gets quiet like that —”

“— you know that he’s really angry.”

Dorian closes his book and quietly leaves his secluded corner of the garden. News like these are too interesting to keep working on old tevinter tomes. His steps take him back into the main hall, guided by the cacophony of angry voices yelling over each other. He keeps himself to the shadows, casting a light illusion spell over himself to stay hidden and studies the scene before him.

Inquisitor Lavellan sits on the floor in front of her throne, Varric stands on the step leading up to the throne and Cullen paces around them, stomping up and down the stairs. Josephine leans against the backrest of the throne, frowning at the Commander but keeping quiet. The Commander and Varric are not quite yelling, both of them aware how much Lavellan and Josephine hate yelling, but their tempers are too high to speak reasonably.

Cullen points his finger at Varric, even though he obviously speaks for Lavellan’s benefit. “He doesn’t even deny that he’s guilty, he should be put on trial.”

“And then what?” Varric yells back. “Do you know what kind of figure he is for the mages here? He’s a spirit of guidance by now, they worship him.”

“He still should be punished!” Cullen turns to Lavellan, lowering his voice a little when he catches her frown. “People died, not only in the explosion but also in the aftermath's chaos.” He turns back to Varric. “You should know that.”

Varric pinches the bridge of his nose and then looks up as if he wants to ask for help from the Maker himself. “You know, if you’d asked me maybe six or seven weeks ago, I would have agreed with you. But now, after seeing those templars...”

Tingling under his skin tells Dorian that his illusion spell is running out, and he uses the last bit of stealth to slip past the guard through the door that leads to the dungeon. The air is wet and strangely warm down here from the many hot springs that warm the castle through ingenious plumbing. He steps carefully on the wet stairs; he wouldn’t be the first one to slip here and tumble down.

The guard at the prison cells raises his eyebrow but only nods. Dorian is well known by now as belonging to the so-called inner circle and the days of him being questioned at every step as the evil magister from Tevinter are finally gone. Mostly.

He walks toward the cell with a glowing lock in front. Of course they would use a magic lock for a mage. Looking into the cell through the bars, he sees a slim figure in filthy clothes, leaning back on a stool so that his long, greasy hair sticks to the stones of the cell. Dorian wonders if the man is asleep when he suddenly speaks.

“Well, your’re not a templar.” Dark eyes turn to Dorian, studying him. “Tevinter mage, if I can guess.”

“Guessed correctly, I’m impressed. People usually go for evil magister first.”

Anders grins and Dorian is struck with the impression that all that dirt and greasy hair hides a beautiful man.

Anders touches the metal ring around his throat, a magic suppressing collar. “Can I have another guess? I owe this thing to your expertise.”

Dorian laughs out. “Correct again. I wasn’t convinced that the southern way of lacing food and water with magebane was the best way of going about suppressing magic. Magebane is nasty stuff and poisonous in the long run.”

“And we wouldn’t want to do unhealthy things to mages,” Anders growls bitterly. “I’m sure your fellow mages love you for this.”

Dorian shrugs. “I’m from Tevinter, I’m the first one to tell you of the marvelous and terrible things an angry mage can do. Ask me about time magic sometimes.”

Anders gets up from the stool and walks towards the bars. He is taller than Dorian and despite looking like he hasn’t had a decent meal in weeks, there’s an air of strength and confidence about him that has Dorian take a step back. “Why did you come here? You knew they would arrest you. The Commander seems to know you personally.”

“Curly? Oh, yes.”

Dorian snorts in surprise. “Curly? You call Cullen Curly?”

“Well, Hawke did, and Varric.”

“I must ask Varric why he never told me that.”

“Varric is here too? He just can’t stay out of shit, can he?” Anders wipes the hair from his face, leaving dark streaks on his face. “Cullen, Varric, anybody else here from Kirkwall? Merrill maybe? Dalish elf who knows too much about ancient magic she shouldn’t touch?”

Dorian pulls a handkerchief from his belt and wets it in water that springs from the wall. He hands the cloth to Anders, indicating that he should clean his face. “Never heard of a Merrill, we have Solas for that kind of job.”

Anders cleans his face, revealing a kind face with warm eyes and a cheeky grin in red stubble. “There, pretty enough for you now?”

Dorian lays his head to the side and puts his hand under his chin. “I’m afraid the unwashed hair and coat takes away from the overall effect.”

A smile spreads on Anders’ face and he uses the wet cloth to wipe over his hair, brushing it to the back of his head. The grease keeps it slicked back, and he looks surprisingly serious now, were it not for his smile. The smile makes him look young, daring even, with a livelihood about him that someone in his situation should not even have.

“You are quite beautiful,” Dorian blurts out before he can stop himself.

“Thanks.” Anders turns a bit, draping himself over the bars of his cell as if he’s on display, stretching his arm up and behind him and arching his back.

The whole pose reminds Dorian of body-slaves displaying themselves at one of the many parties he attended. Parties he loved to attend with all their pleasures. Nausea rises in him at the memories. “I would prefer if you didn’t do that,” he presses out between clenched teeth.

Anders looks at him and drops the pose, simply leaning against a bar of the gate. “Can you blame me?”

Dorian steps closer, watching Anders’ brown eyes widen. “Blame you for what?”

“I’ll tell you if you come closer.” Anders looks through the bars, his hands on either side of his face.

Dorian hesitates only a little. He’s one of the best trained mages here and the collar suppresses Anders’ magic, he isn’t a threat. Dorian takes another step closer until he stands right in front of the bars, his nose almost touching Anders’. He studies Anders’ face, the harsh lines carved into it from an equally harsh life, the warm eyes glittering with mischief.

“Closer,” Anders whispers, and when Dorian leans forward, he catches his mouth with his lips, brushing a kiss over it. He suckles on Dorian’s lower lip and then leans back. “Well.” He takes a long breath. “Can you blame me for trying to influence my jailor in my favor?”

Dorian jerks back. “I’m not your jailor.”

Anders laughs out and grabs the collar with both hands. “Certainly looks like it.”

Dorian opens his mouth for a retort when Anders’ hands begin to glow in blue, light traveling up his arms like lightning, and with high pitched noise, the collar snaps in two. Anders throws the pieces through the bars at Dorian’s feet and sits back down on the stool.

“I came here by my own will, I won’t be using magic to fight.” He leans his head back against the wet stone wall and closes his eyes. “I’ve accepted my fate and I’ll accept the judgement.”

“Fasta vass. How did you do that? It should have been impossible.” Dorian steps closer again, regardless of the danger of the unshackled mage in the cell. “Is it that spirit you merged with?”

“Justice is gone.” For the blink of an eye he looks like he is about to cry but he schools his face again. “But he left me with some kind of residue. And I was never...” He trails off, looking into the distance far beyond of his cell’s walls.

Dorian steps right up to the bars. “That’s remarkable. I need to study this, your magic.”

Turning his head, Anders grins at him. “Maybe you should talk to your inquisitor that you need me as a test subject to experiment on.”

“No!” Dorian shouts, his own reaction surprising him, the visceral recoil at this suggestion. “That’s not what I want.” In his imagination, Anders stands by his side as they study the text of an ancient book, flinging spells at each other, laughing, kissing, holding each other. The intense longing in his chest for this idea to become reality has him holding his breath in shock.

Something must have shown on his face because Anders looks at him confused. He shakes his head and leans back again. “Well, pretty jailor, please let me know soon how they’re going to kill me.”

Dorian turns around and storms out of the dungeon. Nobody will kill this man, he'll make sure of that.

[nerd-elf]

Apologies might never be enough

One shot. It's 5 a.m. and I finally managed to put into words how I wanted the Solavellan ending in Trespasser. I gave up on all the explanations, all the lore about the ancient elves. It's all about closure. Lavellan deserves some closure.

I posted this on AO3 as well, click here to see it.

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As I cross the eluvian, I hear them talking. In a blink, there’s another statue before me. I gasp in surprise, and that’s when he stops walking, turning to me. He looks determined, yet melancholic. There’s love in his eyes, but I’m sure he won’t falter for a second, he’s ready to sacrifice everything and go on with his plans. We don’t even have to talk. I get it. It’s just too much.

All my emotions are taking over now, there’s no turning back. I quickly come at him, and I see him getting more tense. His frown deepens as he blocks all my attacks, he doesn’t even take a step while doing it. I’m very aware he might turn me into a statue too, but I don’t care anymore. Tears run through my face while I attack with everything I have, focusing all my energy on ignoring the lancinating pain that starts in my left arm and spreads throughout my body.

All I feel is pain, and honestly, I’m tired of it. I can’t forgive him for loving me, yet leaving me alone. He never let me decide, never told me anything, so I could never choose. All I could do was fall deeply, madly in love with him, and watch him go. And after everything we’ve been through, now we’re on opposite sides.

It didn’t have to be this way; we could’ve found middle ground. Still, he wants to do everything alone. He turned his back on me without letting me have a say in the matter. And all my love turned into fury. Now I scream and grunt, coming undone while I try uselessly hit him. I can barely touch the glorious elven god I used to date.

The anchor bursts wildly around my arm, and I growl while trying to at least exploit it’s power to hit it’s creator. He grabs my arm firmly, using his magic to appease the mark. I exhale in surprise, seeing his eyes changing. I’m pretty sure that’s the end. “Please, stop. You’re going to kill yourself.”

Those are the first words he says to me, ever since he vanished. His tone is lower, and much sadder. He is still the polite and kind man I knew, but while to me it passed two years, it’s as if he’s been a decade away. He has completely changed, and now all his being shows the burden the Dread Wolf carries. When I catch my breath, only one thing pops into my mind. “The same.” My voice is as cold as I can make it.

That seems to hit him as if I had slapped him. Good. He’s responsible for all this. He turns his face away in guilt, and releases me. I fall to my knees, exhausted by the pain. He quickly catches me, sitting down and putting me on his lap. I don’t object, still I put myself as far from him as I can. I breathe shakily being so close again. I see his eyes conflicted, as if he’s struggling to not carry me home. Still, I don’t believe him. I can’t tell if I’ll ever believe him again.

Softly, he speaks, keeping his eyes away. “I never meant any of this to happen to you. And I’m aware apologies might never be enough. Still, know that I never lied when I told you how I felt. Your spirit is so wise, so kind, so beautiful, that no matter how hard I tried, I wasn’t able to stop myself from falling in love with you.”

He looks at me and pauses for a second. A glimpse of a grin spreads through his face, as if he is recalling the moments we’ve had. My heart skips a beat when our eyes meet, filling my mind with the thought of memories that seem to be from a thousand years ago. His semblant quickly hardens, and he continues.

“But pursuing that love just made me hurt you, you deserved better. I should have never acted on my feelings. I tried to walk away from it before I could slip and tell you everything, as I almost did so many times. Had I done that, I would have dragged you with me into my burden.”

He speaks gradually, as though he’s slowly acknowledging his actions, finally admitting his mistakes out loud. In that moment, I forgive him. He blames himself, more than I ever could, again taking responsibility for things he shouldn’t have to. We fell in love. It’s no one’s fault. Before I can think of saying anything, he goes on.

“You earned your anger, and your disappointment. But I’d rather leave you a thousand times, face your rage and sadness over and over again, than have you carrying the smallest portion of my mission. I could never do that to you.” He stares at me, filled with determination. I feel it passing through me as a dagger. He is decided to protect me, no matter what I think of that.

He finishes his speech placing sentiment in every word, and I cannot help but shed tears with the last words. “I hope you can move on, have a happy life with someone else before what is to come. You truly deserve to find joy, after all you’ve done for Thedas.” He never leaves my gaze while he speaks, carrying so much sentiment that I am completely sure he is not lying. When he sees the tears pouring down my face, I notice his jaw tensing, and his eyes going sadder. However, he doesn’t dare to move. There’s nothing to do anymore.

I keep silent for a while, processing his words. Then, I scoff with the irony, my lips trembling as I speak the bitter words. “Move on? Right. I see your point. Indeed, it’s very noble of you to say that. Still, there’s something you have to understand, you’re too far drowning in your selfish guilt to notice. The thing is, you idiot, I love you. You left me alone for two years, and I keep loving you. I learn that you are vilified by my entire people, and still, I love you. I find out you want to destroy this whole world, and, without question, I. Love. You.” I look deep into his eyes with every sentence, hoping that this time he will understand what I’m willing to do for the bastard.

For a moment, I think I see a glimpse of hope passing through his eyes, but in a blink he washes it away. He is too far gone. Still, I don’t accept it. I finish my sentence, more determined than ever. “While I still breathe, I am not giving up on you. No matter how many times you have the stupid idea of deciding something for me.”

He keeps silent, lowering his head with sorrow. I follow his gaze to my fingers, now intertwined with his. Only now I realize how I missed being this close to him. I look up again to see him watching me carefully, as if he were memorizing what I look like, afraid I could disappear at any moment. I analyze how every corner of his being is filled with sadness and guilt, as well as certainty.

His mouth parts to speak, but the anchor interrupts him. I scream in pain while my arm shines in green, and Solas swiftly grab it, while squeezing my other hand. “I’m sorry” he says, and I see his eyes changing again. I pull him to a kiss, gripping my fingers on his body, feeling the pain in my left hand fading as well as the sensation of the limb.

He puts his arms around me, and it is as if he never left. I have that familiar sensation that he is appreciating every second of it. He gently bends me on my back, firmly pulling me against him, exhaling when he feels I grasp my legs against his. His tongue slowly sways with mine, but urgently seeks my lips for more. He softly drags his fingers through my cheek, until they reach and unsettle my hair.

Too soon he pulls away, and I gasp in surprise and yearning. With the gentlest movement, he places a kiss on my  hand, the only hand I have now. He gives me one last gaze, filled with sentiment. “I will never forget you.” He whispers to me, standing up and never leaving my eyes, carrying all the words that are forever unsaid between us.

I watch him go across the eluvian, and as if I fall apart, I feel my body surrendering, my sight slowly going black, as well with all the sounds fading, my mind stops. “Is this the end?” is everything I can formulate.

I wake up back in the Winter Palace, and my eyes slowly focus on a worried Dorian sitting beside me, changing the cloth on my head. I realize I probably had a fever with everything that’s happened. I try to reach him, and I see there’s no hand near him anymore. It’s gone. Along with the mark. Along with my heart. Along with my love. I’m sobbing in Dorian’s arms before I even notice, and he is patting my head gently with the softest voice I ever heard him use. “I am sorry my dear.”

[shanaraharlyah]

Never Gonna Be Alone part 2

“Oh, You've gotta live every single day, Like it's the only one, what if tomorrow never comes? Don't let it slip away, Could be our only one, you know it's only just begun Every single day, May be our only one, what if tomorrow never comes? Tomorrow never comes

Time, is going by, so much faster than I, And I'm starting to regret not telling all of this to you.

You're never gonna be alone! From this moment on, if you ever feel like letting go, I won't let you fall, When all hope is gone I know that you can carry on We're gonna take the world on I'll hold you 'till the hurt is gone ”

~Chad Kroeger & Mutt Lange

---

Part 2 of my Dragon Age Inquisition Trespasser fic snippet below cut for possible spoilers.    Takes place during the time skip between cutscenes at the end of the DLC.  

Dorian Pavus x Kartaelin Lavellan

@14daysdalovers Prompt: Breathless Kisses

Image setup and Rendered in DAZ Studio 4.15.  Postwork in Photoshop Elements 8.0.

Bigger Here

Part 1

From behind the pair, two sets of footfalls rushed toward them, one heavy, the other fleet, and The Iron Bull and Sera soon came around into view.

"Hey, Boss.  Looks like you made it in time."

"Hi, Bull, he was here for me, he never needed our help.  He tipped us off in order to save the South from the Qunari attacks and to get me here, to save me."

"Shite!" exclaimed Sera as she came around in front of the pair sitting on the ground.  "What happened to your arm?  Dorian, how can you hold it against you like that!?"  Her face scrunched up aghast at the sight of it.

Dorian raised an eyebrow at the crude elf, "That's where you draw the line, is it?  You'll hand someone a glass of piss to drink for shits and giggles, but you can't abide the touch of a friend's ghastly wound!?"

"I'll have to remember that one," Sera giggled with a grin on her face, "but no, that's not what I meant, and you know it.  Ugh!  Frustrating people are... frustrating!"

"It's alright, Sera," interjected Kartaelin, always the calming voice amongst his friends.  "You don't have to touch it.  Solas removed it to stop the anchor from killing me."

"Double shite," replied Sera.  "So... you're okay now, yeah?  It still doesn't look like it's good, is all.  So, what's next?"

"We need to get him back to Orlais, and to a proper healer," answered Dorian.

"Can you walk, Boss?" Bull asked.

"I think so.  The anchor is no longer wracking my body, there's just a throbbing and occasional pain when I move my arm.  It's odd, there's a distinct sensation that it's all still there, but then I remember..."  Kartaelin moved to get up, but the Tevinter would have none of it. 

"You're in shock, I can't have you falling down the stairs and cracking your skull on the pavement on our way out of here.  Can you imagine, walking into the Winter Palace, 'Where is the Inquisitor?', 'Oh, we allowed him to lead us back after having his arm amputated, and gee, well, he fell down the stairs and into the abyss.  Can you believe it!'  Leliana and Josephine will have all of our heads after the effort they've put into saving this organization.  So, no, I'll carry you.  Bull, can you gather his things?"  Dorian sighed, “Sometimes I feel like I should be in the one in charge."

The Iron Bull nodded and gathered the Inquisitor's belongings.  

"I like it when you take charge," said Kartaelin huskily, the familiar lopsided grin that had been absent these last few days finally returning to his face.  

Knowing where this was headed, Bull ushered Sera toward the stairs amidst loud protests.  As much as he'd also like to stick around and enjoy the show, he knew they needed to get back to the Exalted Council and the healers at the palace, and the only way to hurry the two love birds along was to leave them behind.

"Festis bei umo canavarum!" exclaimed the mage, wiping the remaining tears from his eyes.  "Is this really the time or place for this?  ...You're just lucky that I love you so much."

"I am," Kartaelin replied coyly, wrapping his hand in his lover’s leather collar and pulling him closer to him.  He craned his neck until his lips met Dorian's and he peppered him with soft kisses.  It was the least he could do after worrying him so terribly.  They'd both feared his impending doom on account of the mark, and Dorian took it especially hard.  He'd put up a wall around his heart a long time ago to prevent himself from being hurt by anyone, but the Inquisitor had broken right through, and the thought of him being taken from him so soon tore him up inside.

Slowing his ministrations to one final passionate kiss and savoring the moment, Kartaelin pressed his forehead to Dorian's.  "I'm sorry I worried you so much, ma vhenan.  I never wished to cause you hurt."

"I know, amatus.  I just... I couldn't bear to lose you like this," Dorian replied, choking up again.  "The thought of the one bright spot in my life being ripped away by ancient elven magic, just..."

The Inquisitor reached up to cup Dorian’s face with his hand, tenderly caressing his cheek with his thumb.  "It's alright, Dorian, I'm safe now.  Solas has bought us time, but we have more work to do.  We should get back to the council.  I'll fill you in on the way."  He leaned in for one more kiss before the Tevinter could reply, taking his breath away.

Pulling back slowly, his lip caught playfully by the Inquisitor, Dorian gently gathered the elf into his arms.  "You are right of course, but what's all this 'bought us time' business?"  With a grunt he stood, the Inquisitor held tightly against his chest, "You are heavier than you look.  Eating too many of those fancy tea cakes Solas likes so much?"

Kartaelin let out a hearty laugh, "I suppose there's no chance of you changing your mind about letting me walk out of here under my own power then?"

"Not a chance," Dorian smiled, heading back toward the stairs and the exit.

"Well, we could ask Bull to carry me if I'm too heavy for you," Kartaelin smirked.

"Truly?  This is how you treat me after the moment we've just shared!?  I should drop you right where we stand," Dorian replied in mock irritation.

"And what would the others say?" Kartaelin teased.

"They'd agree with me, you little shit!" countered the mage.  "Then they'd come back to get you anyway....  Remind me again, why is it that I love you?"

"This IS why you love me," Kartaelin sassed.

Dorian sighed, "Well, you're not wrong.  Tell me, were you always this antagonizing?"

"It's just for you.  You bring out the best in me, Dorian," the elf responded.  "Or the worst, depends on how you look at it.  Either way, you wouldn't want it any other way."

"Maker, what did I do to deserve this!?" Dorian mused in exasperation.

Kartaelin just smiled.  Pressing his injured arm against his own chest, the Inquisitor placed his hand over Dorian's heart and rested his head against his shoulder.

"Oh, the things I'm going to do to you tonight," the Tevinter mage muttered under his breath.

"I look forward to it," Kartaelin quipped, nuzzling the jaw of the man he adored.

"Of course, you do," Dorian breathed.  He still worried about the ‘bought time’ remark, but he trusted the elf wouldn’t keep him in the dark for long.  He had to accept that right here, right now he was holding his amatus in his arms and they were both alive and safe for the moment.

[dreadfulsanity]

The Inquisitor UNVEILED

Fenora Taralani Lavellan (Part 1)

The questions Fenora is answering today are from King of Antiva.

1. Who are they closest to? Name five people. Keeper Deshanna, Elion (childhood friend), The Iron Bull, Dorian, Cole. Honorary mention: Solas, at least she thought so for a while.

2. What is their favourite place in Thedas? The Emerald Graves. Sad and beautiful. She loves sad and beautiful things.

3. Least favourite place? The Hissing Wastes, the Western Approach and the Forbidden Oasis. What's with all the sand. Oh, and Halamshiral. Fake people with fake smiles behind fake masks.

4. What do they think of the Chantry? Burn it to the ground? It hurt her people more than once and writes them out of history (Ameridan, Canticle of Shartan). They can fuck off.

5. Where were they born? Free Marches, close to Markham, where her clan camped at the time.

6. What are their parents like? Did they know them? Her father was killed when she was very young, so she has only the stories her clan tells of him. Her mother is still alive and they write regularly.

7. Favourite cuisine? She isn't a picky eater. Just throw things that go well together into a pot and make a stew. Bonus if the hunters were successful and it has some fresh meat in it. And auntie Nanina's fresh baked bread to dip. Yummy.

8. What do they think of blood magic? It's a tool. She doesn't practice it herself though.

9. If they're a protagonist, what did their main party think of them? They think she's a competent mage (with an indomitable focus), always trying to do the right thing and stopping to help the little people. The Iron Bull is her protective brother, while Cole is her and Solas' adopted spirit child.

10. What is their love language? What makes them feel loved? Parallel play and info dumping. You know she loves you when she can't stop talking about a certain topic she's into at the moment.

11. What was the most stressful moment in their life? Falling out of the sky. Drinking from the Vir'abelasan and learning that Mythal is still around. Facing Coryphussy. Though she would do it all again if it would stop the pain in her heart.

12. Happiest moment in their life? There was a halla dying giving birth. She helped raising the fawn. This little furry oddball licking her face for the first time, or falling asleep on her lap. She always tries to remember him when life gets too much.

13. Do they enjoy collecting herbs and crafting weapons etc? Collecting herbs? Yes. Going into the forest to look for herbs and mushrooms is calming and allows her mind to go on wild adventures. Crafting armour and weapons? Not so much. Thankfully she has people for that.

14. Do they have any non-combative talents? She wouldn't call it a talent, but she likes to doodle into her sketch book. Sadly all she doodles at the moment are eggs.

15. What was their biggest personal struggle (not main quest related)? Coming into her magic and accepting that she had to put aside her small training bow to master it.

16. Do they have any exes? Well, NOW they do. There was this girl from another clan they crossed paths with. But that was more... experimenting and fooling around than anything serious. And there's Elion. The reason why she hesitates to go back to her clan, now that the Inquisition is disbanded. She is not looking forward to that conversation.

17. What would they think of Varric's stories? She loves them. She could listen to Varric spinning the most ridiculous tales for hours.

18. Do they know any other languages than trade tongue? Well... yes. Elven. And now ancient elven, I guess.

19. What do they think of the taste of health/stamina/lyrium potions? Health potions are just tea with magical properties. They are okay. Better than dying. Lyrium potions are disgusting. They taste bitter and metallic. Doesn't like those.

20. What are they terrible at? If cooking involves more than putting an animal on a pike and roast it over open fire, it will go wrong. Chances are the animal is burnt and without seasoning, but at least you have something in your stomach, right? And directions. Ask The Iron Bull. Seriously. He has a lot to say about that.

21. Is it easy to make them laugh? It was. Once upon a time aka BS (before Solas). Nowadays it's harder. Varric still tries and succeeds from time to time.

22. Have they ever tried roasted nug? How could you not try bacon? Yummy. Just don't tell Leliana she said that.

23. What was their reaction to the Breach opening? She did not remember. But once she saw it, she thought "Creators, that's a big hole!" and "Well, fuck..."

24. Would they like the other main OCs in your worldstate? She would be cautious about the queen-consort, Warden or not. But Hawke and her get along.

25. Would they give their life for something/someone? I think facing Coryphenis was proof enough that she would.

26. If they ride a mount, what type of mount is it? Does it have a name? Mahalla, the Pride of Arlathan (the dark hart).

27. If they had the choice, who would they appoint as Divine? NOT Vivienne. She put Leliana on the Sunburst Throne, because she offered the most change for the Chantry. We'll see how misguided that's going to turn out, won't we?

28. What was their reaction to the Kirkwall Chantry exploding? She felt sorry for the loss of lives. The building she didn't give a fig about.

29. Do they like camping? She is Dalish? Do they like camping... Seriously? Why do you think she's (not so) secretly sleeping behind the kitchen roof under the night sky? Yes, she cleaned the place up.

30. If they hosted a house party, what would it be like? A house party? Oh, you mean like sitting around a fire, making music, sharing stories and drinking? So... Dorian, The Iron Bull, Varric, Sera, the Chargers.

31. What culture are they most fascinated by? Besides the obvious (ancient elves) it's (strangely enough) Tevinter. Especially since meeting Dorian.

32. What song makes you instantly think of them? Dreaming with a Broken Heart by John Mayer

33. Bonus! Make a mood board. What four images are they asthetic?

[heartslogos]

newfragile yellows [1222]

Bull is not the type of man who belongs in a jaeger. The type of man you do want piloting a machine carrying the equivalent of a nuclear bomb in its chest and enough explosives to wipe out an entire zip code is not the same sort of man who gets tapped for reconditioning and extreme PTSD treatments. The man you want in the giant machine defending people against monsters out of your worst imagination is not the same sort of man who, until recent years, was the monster.

(Or so most of Thedas would say, to this day Bull still isn’t sure who’s right and who’s wrong in the whole Qun versus pretty-much-everyone-else showdown. There are some things the Qun has right. There are some things the Qun might have wrong. And there are things that the Qun has that Bull doesn’t know one way or another on.

Bull knows he’s a monster. Not for being Qunari, born and bred. Not for that. For something else. For the things he as a person did and allowed to happen. The things he enabled. If he were a dwarf or an elf or a human it wouldn’t matter. If he were Andrastian or part of the Shaperate or of the elven elders that wouldn’t matter either. His source of origin and the base materials that made him don’t make him a monster. It’s what he’s done that has. Bull knows this. He knows this and he’s understood it and he’s made his own attempt at peace with it.)

The point is that he is not the man anyone would ever picture in a jaeger. He is not the sort of man most governments would want near one of the things. He’s the sort of man therapists and psychiatrists and scientists would be lining up to say, “anyone but him”. The idea of sticking someone with his mental trauma, dubious allegiances, and admittedly lacking codes of conduct into a jaeger borders on irresponsible.

And even if they got him into a jaeger — who would pilot with him? ho in the whole wide world of theirs could match him without having their brain turn to sludge, to a mess of meat and neurons? Who could take his hand after seeing the memories and thoughts and feelings he’s neatly dissected and labeled and put away like clinical experiments belonging to someone else?

Ellana Lavellan, apparently.

Ellana Lavellan, from the very beginning. It’s absurd. It’s outrageous. They’d never met before. Never even spoken before that first trial sparring match. Bull had gone into it to get Leliana to shut up and stop hounding him. He went into it with the grim determination of someone who knew the outcome and knew it would be unpleasant for most but predictable for everyone involved.

Or thought he knew.

He came out of it annoyed.

Ellana Lavellan originally wasn’t supposed to pilot a jaeger, either. She was a researcher who was working on trying to reverse the poisonous effect of the kaiju’s biomatter. It was her twin brother’s jaeger, the Inquisition built the machine based on his fighting style and his opinions and everything.

But on his first dispatch his back up team got wiped out and his partner was KIA. It was a, frankly, horrendous and humbling display of the folly of man. The back up team was ambushed by lower level kaiju that weren’t picked up from the original signal. The rendezvous point kept having to be moved because of incorrect calculations and the kaiju itself having some sort of electromagnetic field messing up the radar equipment. Then once they finally arrived what was originally thought to be one kaiju split into two. After her brother’s partner was killed, the man was able to pilot solo long enough to the barely finish the fight. And then he was out. Comatose with unknown prospects for recovery or ever piloting again.

And so the Inquisition was saddled with a brand new custom built war machine and no pilot.

They’d gone through numerous tests, him and Ellana. Tests on paper, in person, over the phone, in separate rooms, together, verbally, blind — every compatibility test that could be done. Every time they passed one Bull would insist on another. Another. Another.

He is not the man who should be in a jaeger. And the idea of inflicting his mind on another person was a secondary blow to his guts that he wasn’t sure he could handle.

But he ran out of excuses, the Inquisition ran out of patience, and the kaiju never had any consideration to start with.

They put them into the jaeger. He’d tried to warn her before hand. But he had no words to describe the absolute shit-show that was his brain, his thoughts, his memories, his instincts. There were no words for him.

He’d tried to warn her.

And to her credit, she did look unnerved. She did look like she took his warning to heart.

They initiated the neural handshake. Ellana’s memories were, for the most part, tame to the point of tears. Bull could probably have predicted half of what he saw beforehand. There were a few surprises but nothing to give him pause. And in the back of his mind, like a stinging in the throat, he could feel her going through his own memories too. The worst memory he came across was the moment she saw her brother being peeled out of his suit after being excavated from the smoking ruin of the jaeger’s cockpit. Bull could not even begin to guess what could be his own worst memory.

When they surfaced from those lifetimes experienced in a few moments, Ellana quickly ripped her helmet off, turned to the side, and threw up.

He had to give her credit where it’s due. She wasn’t crying. And once she finished throwing up she spat to clear her mouth as much as she could, put her helmet back on, and didn’t say anything about what she saw. He could feel her in his mind, like a body close enough to touch but not quite. She was unhappy. She was disturbed. She was unsure. But as he could feel that he could also feel her taking each emotion and picking it up. Packing it away. Sealing it up tight to clear her mind.

“You’ve got better nerves than most people I’ve ever met,” Bull said to her. “Better than my own, probably.”

“If there is one thing I have going for me,” Ellana replied, “It’s the fact that I’m about as stubborn as a brick wall.”

They won that day. It was clunky, it was messy, it was probably not as clean and clear cut as it could have been. As they could do, later, after practice. But they won.

They won and they kept winning, until of course they didn’t.

Ellana may have been as stubborn as a brick wall, but being strong of will doesn’t do shit to protect your meat and your bones.