#dialogue rhythm

[thewriteadviceforwriters]

Dialogue Tags Aren’t the Problem, Your Dialogue Rhythm Is

friendly reminder that the word “said” did not kill your scene.

you don’t need to replace every line of dialogue with “he rasped” or “she intoned” or “they gasped breathlessly” (please no). your dialogue is not dying because of your tags. it’s dying because the rhythm is off.

👀 let me explain:

✨ what is dialogue rhythm?

it’s the flow of speech between characters. the beats. the pacing. the way words bounce, interrupt, cut off, trail, clash. it’s less about the words themselves and more about the energy they carry.

dialogue rhythm is what makes two people arguing feel like a boxing match, or a confession feel like a car crash. it’s how you keep tension in the room. if your rhythm sucks, no amount of fancy tags is gonna save you.

🔪 signs your dialogue rhythm is off:

every character is speaking in full, polished sentences like it’s a staged play

nobody ever interrupts, stammers, hesitates, or doubles back

the emotional pace stays flat, even in high-stakes scenes

all the action beats are “he nodded” “she smiled” “they looked at her” over and over

you read it out loud and it feels like a middle school skit

👂 here’s how to fix it:

Read your dialogue out loud. Like, actually out loud. if it sounds robotic, it is robotic. listen for places where people would realistically pause, ramble, get cut off, or trail off. insert those beats. add the mess.

Use white space and formatting to control speed. short lines = fast pace. long blocks = slow burn. a line break right before someone says something unhinged? elite move. example: “You really think I’d betray you?” Pause. “You already did.”

Cut 30% of your dialogue. if you can remove the line and nothing breaks, it was filler. chop chop. more silence = more tension. not every reply needs a full answer.

Let action interrupt speech. don’t wait for the character to finish talking before you show what they’re doing. intercut body language or physical actions mid-line. it mimics how people actually talk. like this: “Don’t touch that—” she lunged forward, grabbing his wrist. “—you don’t know what it is.”

Stop overexplaining with tags. you don’t need to say “she shouted angrily” if the line is literally “GET OUT.” trust the line. if the dialogue’s strong, “said” works just fine. if the dialogue’s weak, “murmured” won’t save it.

🛑 but what about dialogue tags?

use them! but treat them like punctuation, not prose. the goal is clarity, not ✨flair✨. you want the reader to know who’s speaking without noticing the machinery.

“Said” is invisible. “Snarled” is a spice. Use spices sparingly.

better yet: mix tags with beats to keep rhythm tight. example:

BAD: “I hate you,” he said angrily. “I hate you,” she snapped back.

BETTER: “I hate you,” he said, jaw clenched. She didn’t even blink. “Good. Then we’re even.”

💡 TL;DR: your scene doesn’t need fancy tags. it needs movement. conflict. silence. interruptions. character-specific tone. you fix that by fixing the rhythm, not the verbs.

go back to your WIP, open your messiest conversation scene, and test it. read it aloud. break it up. cut what drags. add one beat of silence. give someone a half-finished sentence and a reason to storm out.

watch how fast it starts to breathe.

P.S. I made a free mini eBook about the 5 biggest mistakes writers make in the first 10 pages 👀 you can grab it here for FREE:

🕯️ download the pack & write something cursed:

[penstricken]

Top Tips for Writing Beautiful Dialogue

Read my top tips for writing dialogue in my new blog post here 👇 #amwriting #writing #fiction #writer

Dialogue is a critical part of any novel. Apart from the fact it makes up a monumental chunk of your overall word count, it can be a powerful tool for creating suspense, driving the plot and fleshing out your characters. Get it right, and you’re halfway towards writing a killer novel. Get it wrong, and you’re done for. If you really want to see a master of dialogue at work, you should read Hills…

[you-know-cchio]

my favorite type of scene is when all four of them are onstage but two of them are having a conversation for the audience to hear and the other two are silently stagecrafting whatever they want.

bonus: luke playing two characters at once while the other three play ping pong in the background

[callixton]

you can take a guy out of the west wing but you can't etc etc. i've said it before but tv shows that seriously have a permanent impact on your writing style

[daisywords]

my new writing/editing hack (I'm sure everyone else figured this out years ago) is switching out my "for a moment" and other useless beat markers with just some description of the setting/other characters present. Retaining the right rhythm while throwing in some more sensory detail (something I can be a little sparse with). Anyway I'm a genius for this

[arrowfortea-moved]

your integrity makes me seem small, you paint dreamscapes on the wall (da:i solavellan oneshot)

basically: post-haven pining from a touch-starved grouchily-in-denial solas. plus fade dreamscape stuff. plus "uh-oh is the anchor brainwashing her" anxiety, plus "i do not comprehend mortal's emotions" anxiety. rating: a thirsty T (16+) words: 5.1k (complete, oneshot) content warnings: none! spoiler-free for veilguard; it's written with theories circa da: i in mind.

"Can I shape the clouds?" she asks, drumming her fingers against her clavicle. "I can only change whether they’re... there." "That is a question I cannot answer," he replies, pulling the Anchor closer. "The limits of your will are yours to test, not mine to declare." As Elanna returns to her musing, Solas allows the leash of his self-control some slack. The verdant flickers beneath her skin disappear; the skin of her palm pales to a slake-lime white. Rather than a dagger-slit of a wound, the Anchor is the Breach, writ small. Rendered in sap green, pooling paler over time. The scent of its magic roils to a stench. Fen’harel’s magic, Solas’ magic, his magic, unstable and spoilt by its suspension in impurity.

☁️ read on ao3, or ↓

—

Magic does that. It wastes you away. Once it grips you by the ear, the real world gets quieter and quieter, until you can hardly hear it at all.                —Deathless, Catherynne M. Valente

—

Love has always sat in Solas wrong. Perhaps such was Mythal’s design—she could've bid his heart to spike its interior, and fit only her shape.

(Or he could've. He knows that.)

Elanna Lavellan is a quick-footed, narrow-boned waifish imitation of an elven woman, and Solas does not pay her any particular mind. Which must be how she managed to leap through the labyrinthine, trap-laden path to his heart, and slip in without his noticing. 

Now that he has noticed, it is only a matter of time before she must carve into one of them if she is to survive, and he suspects her endless questions are simply her determining where the knife should go; she never asks him the same question twice, she leaves implications for him to latch onto, her eyes map his face to measure his reaction to words, touches, silences. During their conversations, a dark, desirous something eventually begins to move around in his chest, and it’s her.

It must be. Elanna—Inquisitor Lavellan, he reminds himself—is adjusting in her hiding spot, trying to get comfortable, which she can’t, and trying to distract him from it, which she can’t. He knows what she's doing; she cannot have asked how to mix a lime suspension for orpiment because she genuinely wanted to know. Some days he wonders if he should let the cursed barbed thing slam shut around her and just see what happens, as he did in Hav—

I am not thinking of Haven.

Solas presses his shoulder against the threshold of her balcony, listening to her ideas about what she wants to do as a ‘Fade-walker’. I’ve’an’virelan, but she’d choke on her tongue before she got two syllables in, so he says nothing, and simply watches her prattle. Watches her check his reaction when she cites concepts he’s mentioned before. Watches her looking for his want, which she will not find; he’s had several millennia of practice in keeping things locked away.

Comparing her eye colour to pond scum helps. Slightly. The Fade pales her eyes for him, but she is still.. her. Appreciative. Imaginative. Gushing with excitement. 

Yapping, it is yapping. 

The Inquisitor yaps, and Solas does not care to listen.

No doubt she finds his nodding and mild noises to be unacceptable responses. She must've expected to see him on his knees by now. Solas, a village-born apostate elf that oversleeps, and the Dalish Herald of Andraste, paradoxically pious, for she is ever so open-minded, especially to the rambling flat-ear. Why would he not want her? 

She’s even been receptive to his delaying her with vagaries! One month ago, he requested ‘time to think’ right after having shoved his tongue down her throat like the starved madman he is; since then, platonic interactions are all they’ve had. Short enough to avoid the unbearable shifting in his chest. Inquisitor Lavellan will cut her deific affection into bite-sized pieces for the old man to chew! Why would he not want it? 

(Because it will lead to trouble. Because she and her affection for him will turn to dust soon enough; ideally the latter before the former. Because she is so beautiful, and he cannot be trusted with her.)

Because he does not trust her.

Not even in the Fade. Inquisitor Lavellan's spirit bristles with emotion no more than fuzz bristles upon a peach. In Arlathan they'd never see or hear a thing she did. She'd be less than a bug. So when that bug had buzzed into his dream, again, he’d insisted on returning to hers instead, because he had to know what her emotions felt like in her own dreams. Now that he knows the Inquisitor's excitement and awe and admiration all scatter across her dreamscape in much the same, dull way, like leaves on flagstone—he could leave.

But she just asked a question. Solas is near-incapable of ignoring those.

“Yes, in theory, I could turn the Frostback Mountains to grassland.” He clamps down on his bemusement; a hint of it may send her tumbling her off the balcony. “But if I did, they would soon distort. Unless you encounter spirits that can recall the mountains without snow upon them, if any exist. Otherwise, your memory would have the mountains would soon freeze over, or blur into any other field. Most pertinently, they are miles away; how would you reach them?”

“I’d thought.. by stepping off the edge,” she says, turning away from him. Quick as a flash, she sits up on the balustrade. “Would the air hold me, if I asked? Could I fly?”

“The answer lies in which you have more memories of. Flight, or falling.” 

She looks over her shoulder. “The birds in—”

“Inquisitor, you would shatter every bone in your body.”

A huff, then she turns away again.

He is left to glare at her hair. Her hair, swishing to her waist in waves, golden, and sparkling in the sunlight. In the torturous waking world, Solas cannot help idealising her, as one would a rose in a briar patch. Beautiful. Rare. Still, thorned. Such flickers of fancy are easily stamped out in the Fade. Distorting a shared dream without the other person aware is staunchly against his values, but enforcing reality is a different matter. (Paling her eyes is a harmless protection; if he stares, which he will, she will exploit it.)

Solas muffles his idle romanticism, bidding the Fade to do the same. It does, and the sparkle on Inquisitor Lavellan's hair winks out. 

Waist-length golden waves that merely shine in the sunlight. Solas needs to get out of here. Return to his dream of Skyhold’s library. Pick up ‘Meditations and Odes to Bees’ where he left off. Page 248.

“Say I did shatter every bone in my body,” the Inquisitor chirps, “would my bones follow me home? The shatter would happen.. in the physical realm?”

(On the tip of her tongue, he's sure, was 'the real world’, but she is pandering. This is all pandering.)

“No. It would happen here. And would hurt. If you mean to take my abilities, then take also my advice: do not try it.”

The Inquisitor spins to him and slides herself off of the balustrade; gaze wandering over his face. “But what if I did?” she asks.

Pond scum, he reminds the Fade, and her eyes shift from mossy to mucosal. “If you did, I would be most curious to see where your ambitions take you,” he replies, folding his arms. “Is that why you sought me, Inquisitor? Not to request verdant peaks, but rather, the means to rise above them?” 

“No. Just.. if I'm to ask the Fade’s Frostbacks for grass, despite their clear contentment with snow,” she says, with full sincerity, “I’d rather not offend them by asking poorly.” 

Solas pinches his brow. There were at least four assertions within that he ought to correct. I shall, he decides, tucking his hand back into his arms, tomorrow. It is far easier to condescend to her when they are awake; when the air is suffocating him, he can treat her presence like a roll-neck sweater that refuses to sit properly. In her dream, the air is vaporous, fragrant, as if they were..

The Fade trembles around him. 

I have no reason to believe that Inquisitor Lavellan knows what a bath is. Baths are best taken alone, with a divider around the tub. Two dividers, encircling it. In fact, I would be in the other roo—

“Solas? Hello?”

“Yes,” he says, startling. Shakily, he gestures behind him, then to the balcony. “Do you think you could offend that which belongs to you, as well? This is all yours. Turn it to a garden, and relax here.” 

Inquisitor Lavellan positively beams at him. Like allowing a child to handle a knife made for peeling apples, and agreeing they’re Andruil, he thinks, sagging. Maybe that is why he’s drawn to appease her curiosities; she is Dalish, yet treats him as worth listening to. He's gone too long without appreciation, seizes it, and mistakes gratification to be attraction.

“Cole once said grass doesn't mind anything." She lowers herself until she’s cross-legged. The muscles of her thighs must be—I am not thinking of her thighs. When she presses her hands to the stone, her eyebrows frown and pinch close; two wrist-flicks of gold paint. Her hair falls back over her face, lit like pale silk beneath a chandelier. “I was being too grandiose about what only wanted to grow.”

Solas bites the inside of his cheek. Gratification is the source of his attraction, and she is pandering to him, and her beauty is irrelevant.

After a few moments of her will vibrating the air, the balcony shimmers, shudders, and tints. Green. Green, in splotches. Green upon the stone. A lifetime spent in the wilds and as far as he can tell, Inquisitor Lavellan asked the Fade to shatter an acid flask for her.

“If a reference would be of help..” He flicks his hand. One cow’s bite worth of grass bounces up by her ankle. “I have no doubt you have seen more grass than most in Skyhold, but it is simpler with—”

The balcony bursts to pasture. 

“Ah. Commendable.” The same blades he’d provided, over and over and over. 

Elanna—Inquisitor Lavellan—musses through her personal meadow. “If fresco is an ancient elven art, and the ancient elves could all dream like this.. when thinking of how to affect the Fade.. is it similar to painting?”

“Not in the slightest,” he says, then inclines his head to the grass. “But you grasp the principles well enough.”

The Dalish have not created new vallaslin designs in thousands of years, little wonder she has such a small-mindedness towards art and—‘fresco’, it is tuast, he should’ve told Archivist Banon that, rather than allow Antivans to continue their linguistic massacre. As the Inquisitor languidly splays out, a thought eases over Solas’ grumbling: It was kind of her to ask. 

She is kind, and he is a grouch, avoiding his own feelings. If he does not, they may leak out and she will know he finds her beautiful. Which she is, by any measure; she must already know. Sunlight shimmering over her silver-silk jacket and trousers, hair spread out in verdure with snow-capped mountains beyond her. A few snowflakes drift down—

Fenedhis. Solas is not thinking of Haven. The flakes dissipate. 

“Thank you for helping me come here,” she says, gazing up at the sky. 

Solas stares at his dun-brown slippers, and continues kiting his memories of Haven—which are various, and most do not involve the woman in front of him—through his mind, for no particular reason.

“You would be here regardless,” he says mildly. “I only came when called. And ensured you remained on the balcony, rather than however far the fall might take you. If anyone encourages you otherwise, do inform Spymaster Leliana.”  

The Inquisitor lets out a long, descending whistle. “Thump, crack,” she coos. “I hope I’d wake.”

Little wonder that Cole gets along with her. Maybe she reminds Solas of Cole, and, as she's been flirtatious, he mistakes his platonic affection to be attraction, and that is the source of—no, the source of his attraction is that she is attractive. The denial is too obvious now, Solas can smell it as if it were dried sweat on his upper lip. He wipes it with his shoulder in case he actually has any. 

She shifts to look at him, crushing her soft hair beneath a streak of vallaslin. “How do I know you came? As in, Solas. How do I know you’re not a spirit?”

Skyhold’s wards bar spirits from crossing through the Fade. I would prefer you not ask how I came to this knowledge, nor dwell on the sudden and, I assure you, entirely unrelated lapse in my willingness to entertain inquiries.

“You don’t,” Solas replies. “If I were a spirit, would that trouble you?”

“Not if you told me. I’d only feel sorry you thought you had to trick me into spending time with you. Solas is who I’m forming a memory of right now. I’d rather that he actually.. be here for it.”

He pushes off from the doorway, and sits. “A thoughtful answer, but a misguided one. What do you think a spirit, visiting your dream, would be formed from?”

“The Fade reflects my mind,” she quotes, eyes darting between the few clouds above, “and 'a spirit is a purpose.'”

“Precisely. Say a spirit was shaped into the elf you call Solas, and sits before you now. Is his intent be Solas, or trick the Inquisitor? The former is far more likely, and were he doing the latter, he would not confess it. There would not be much of a trick if he did.”

She nods at the darkening sky. “Whoever you are, you can call me Elanna.”

Then comes the shifting in his chest again. “Elanna. For what it’s worth, you’re welcome to speak with me once we’re awake, and I’ll recount this conversation.” Solas pauses, insists to the Fade that nightfall should warm to dusk, then continues. “For now, you have no way to know who I truly am. It would be best to keep that in mind.”

“Solas. For what it’s worth,” she repeats, rolling onto her side, “what about desire demons?”

He props his right elbow on his knee, then his chin upon that hand. Then, allows her a smile.

“They are much the same,” he says, “their purpose is still not to trick you, least of all because you, Elanna, cannot be possessed. Their purpose is to be your desire. I am not a desire demon. I ask that you not treat me as one. One in my form would say that, unless your desire is a caricature of me, but all the same. Please don’t.”

Another nod. She holds his gaze. The dim light hides her freckles, but June’s marring of her remains stark; her vallaslin curves over her cheekbones, across her forehead, on her chin, the front of her throat.. the ritual must've taken hours. Solas holds the ache in his chest close, away from her thoughtful look. He could have the Fade depict her bare-faced.. but he should not meddle further. (Or have meddled at all.)

When she blinks, her eyes return to their natural green. “Thank you for this,” she says. “I’m fortunate to walk the Fade. I’d rather not misstep. Serannas.” How one addresses a beggar when you are politely declining them. At least the Dalish put it to sincere purpose. Even if they only salvaged serannas after discarding manners entirely.

“Ma neral. My pleasure,” he adds, after her confusion breezes over him. “Was there anything else?”

Elanna looks over. “Yes.” 

Anchor sparking and outstretched, she brushes the hand resting at his side. His eyes flutter closed. She laces their fingers together; he lets her, and lifts his hand for her—just to not go petulantly limp, just to be co-operative, just..  

It has been so long, Elanna. 

Millennia. A month. He’d been desperate to feel her against him, and he still is, for he wants more than the bowstring-nock on her thumb. It was upon his chin when he’d kissed her, and it is upon his finger now; her left thumb is all he’s felt from her beyond her dropping the Anchor into his hands for inspection each week—her left hand is all he’s received from her at all. When she'd kissed him, the peck was so light that, if she ever denies it happened, he'll be easily persuaded.

Her spirit seemed to radiate no feelings into his dream, hence his searching for them in the back of her throat. Yet nothing had crested over him from her. No lust or revelation, no joy. Even now, there is only a light fragrance in the air of.. unexpectant appreciation. Elanna is either far more restrained than he’s given her credit for, or she does not want him. Mortals are not all this delicate, he knows; is he delicate now?

Throughout uthenera he’d shared the Fade with other dreamers, and their dreamscapes all radiated intensity. Chaos. Wonder. Hers renders everything inconsequential. His own irritability dissipates the longer he lingers; even now, his frustrations over their first kiss are reduced to air. 

As she strokes his hand, the Fade supplies him with further sensations, embellishments, constant prickles skimming over him. He tries to stamp it out, he wants to feel her, but it may as well be a hoard of ants, teeming underfoot. 

“Your hand is so soft,” she says, each syllable soft as a petal, floating through the air. “Is this welcome?”  

Solas gently squeezes their laced fingers and lifts his fingertips to meet hers. “Yes, lethallan. I would stay like this. If you’d like.”

“Elanna, lethallin, remember?”

His chest aches. "Elanna."

Elanna navigated through to his heart with her typical grace, and seems unhurt thus far.. Unless she left, and that too occurred without his noticing.

Perhaps she did. Perhaps she isn’t in his heart. Elanna may not love him; he certainly cannot feel it. Contentment is the whiff on the wind. Perhaps it is love for her inside his heart. Solas may love her; he certainly cannot tell. Love is supposed to drench his insides and leave him gasping.

The grass brushes against his knees; fantasising and action must be separated carefully in the Fade, and he had been careless, again. His eyes open to see the ever-attentive Elanna, blissfully unaware. And his hand, held between both of hers, while she lays on her back. He’s kneeling beside her. There is no gust of satisfaction or pleasure, simply the dry pad of her finger, tracing the lines on his palm.

Perhaps he can let his feelings show in dreams. He could keep them to insignificance, as breath is upon glass or a lover or into freezing hands. Elanna once said she was interested in getting to know him. She will never, obviously; but in the Fade, perhaps he can present her a diffusion.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps, perhaps; certainty seems excluded from the stolid flavour profile of Elanna’s dreamscape.

The Anchor sparks against his hand. Solas rests back on his ankles, pulling it with him. 

“May I examine it?” 

Because there is one thing he must be certain of.

“Of course.” Elanna sits up. “Is the Anchor still.. itself, when I'm dreaming?”

“As much as anything else. So.. yes. In a sense,” he replies vaguely, and flattens her palm. Fervid viridian, diagonally gashed against her skin, and sparking. Far brighter than it is in the waking world. His face must be aglow with green light, cast from below like Varric regaling horrors by the campfire. Solas shifts her hand higher. He is not immune to vanity.

The Anchor extends to the natural lines of her palm, they too shine Breach-green, and there are matching lights beneath the skin of her entire palm, radiating and shifting, as wisps do in water. 

“You may lie back, Inquisitor. Elanna. There is no cause for concern, but I would look at it a while longer. The way you interpret the Anchor is fascinating.”

Elanna hums, twitches her hand against his wrist, then flops back. “Take your time. I’d feel if anything was wrong.”

“You likely would,” he agrees. “But it is good to do some tests.”

Among the countless ones Solas ran after the Conclave, as she lay unconscious and his nerves screamed at him to flee Ferelden entirely, was whether his power reached beyond Elanna’s flesh. Whether the Breach had rended her essence as well. All he’d discerned was that his magic seemed centralised to her hand, as was all the magic within her. A reminder of Fen’harel’s worst mistake, as he’d beheld the newest.

Dalish, incapable of magic, born severed from the Fade, Elanna Lavellan has suffered from so many of his follies. But due to the Anchor, she can dream with lucidity. Enter his dreams. Toy with clouds. Enjoy the silver lining; exposure to the Orb of Destruction changed her spirit. 

Meaning its creator may be able to continue doing so.

As its creator has attempted to.

Whenever their group makes camp, Elanna sits patiently as Solas amends any damage done to her by the Anchor’s magic, and, on occasion, he tries to press new magic in. With Elanna actually conscious and upright, he can track results more obvious than ‘breathe four times in the next ten seconds’, as he tried to in Haven.

‘Say it’s raining’, ‘I should state my dislike of strawberries’, ‘you want to pick that elfroot there’; dozens of attempts, with no indication of her being affected. Neither intensity nor phrasing nor emotional disposition changed a thing. The Anchor simply behaved as usual: sparking, sundering, rebellious to any but the 'god' of that very trait. At Solas’ command, the Anchor would quieten and heal her, but at such commands, its bearer did nothing. Thus her spirit seems impermeable to his influence—when she’s awake. 

Here in the Fade, the very magic the Anchor is tied to.. It is good to do some tests. 

Tenderly, tentatively, he eases the Anchor open, and orders it. Scratch the Inquisitor’s cheek. My cheek is itchy. Scratch your cheek. I must scratch my cheek, I must scratch the Inquisitor’s cheek.

Her hand thumps to the ground, and he glances over.

“Can I shape the clouds?” she asks, drumming her fingers against her clavicle. “I can only change whether they’re.. there.”

“That is a question only you can answer,” he replies, pulling the Anchor closer. “The limits of your will are yours to test, not mine to declare.” 

As Elanna returns to her twirling, Solas allows the leash of his self-control some slack. The Anchor may respond to him if he perceives it for what it is.

The veridian flickers beneath her skin disappear; the skin of her palm pales to a slake-lime white, and rather than a dagger-slit of a wound, the Anchor is the Breach, writ small. Rendered in sap green, pooling paler over time. The scent of its magic roils to a stench. Fen’harel’s magic, Solas’ magic, his magic, unstable and spoilt by its suspension in impurity.

Solas flicks his eyes over to her. “Did you find your answer, Inquisitor?”

“Yes,” she murmurs, occupied by the canvas of dusk. “Oh. Yes, I did. I can shape the clouds, and I’ve made a recurve bow. And it’s Elanna.”

I’m dropping my arm, he presses the rot-wet flesh of her palm. Wow, my arm is very tired. 

“I apologise, Elanna. What are you making now?” Though she will drop her arm before they finish speaking. Solas would be happy if I dropped my arm. Solas will hurt me unless I drop my arm. 

She flicks with her finger to the side, and will drop her arm momentarily. “An arrow.”

Laia laves’lav, Elanna. Drop your arm. Drop your arm or I will kill your friends.

“You'll soon need a quiver,” he says. Elanna whistles, before setting to work on, evidently, that very thing.

Solas ignores the relief nudging at the bottom of his stomach. Commands are not compulsions; emotion carries them to fruition. He needs to feel something she would not, and press it through. Something she can easily shake off. What would not overwhelm her? Sensitive as this girl is, compared to Solas she is effectively an extroverted Tranquil. 

.. What a cruel thought to have about someone that trusts him.

Ah, he thinks, shame would do well.

Whereas Elanna being embarrassed about anything is unfathomable, shame is as old a friend to Solas as many a spirit; shame can be easily found if he knows where to look. 

He looks at her. “I will not trouble you much longer.” 

“Being self-deprecating isn’t being polite,” she says, smearing evening darkness over the sky. “Don’t worry.”

Being able to not worry in the future depends upon Solas worrying now, and so, he disobeys her. With one of his hands, he braces the Anchor, and with the other, he dips two fingers into the damp slit of it. He stares. And feels nothing. Even rocking them in and out and tracing the top of the Anchor lightly, he can only think of his fingers, in the Anchor, which is on Elanna’s palm. It is incomparable to anything else. 

Lechery seems unavailable as a route towards feeling shame. 

He presses.

I am lecherous, merely in denial. She is trying to court him—or whatever Dalish do, and the existence of her willfully ignorant people is his fault in the first place—and he has a recurring fantasy of cupping her face, stroking the velvet-soft skin by her jaw, and kissing her for hours. That is his primary fantasy about a red-blooded young woman who wants him, thus, something worse must lurk beneath. As for his prospective performance in the bedroom, there would be little shame to be had there, beyond that he would lay with her under false pretenses, is over four thousand years old, and could force her hand to do anything including rending itself from her body.

He consistently tests to see if he can control her mind! 

Solas cannot even bear to look at her and check if this is working, what a coward he is. 

Even if it was working, and she was as sick to her core with shame as he is, she’d likely still offer a pinched smile; she is indomitably sweet and he meets that with suspicion, for he is a waste of time, and she is still clueless as to how lowly he thought of her when they met. How monstrous he’s being to her, no better than the Evanuris, stringing along—

“You’re so handsome when you’re pondering.” 

Her affection is birdsong. 

Shuddering, Solas lifts his fingers from the Anchor. “I.. thank you, Inquisitor.” 

Posture unchanged, expression relaxed, her other hair is twirling a ringlet. Shamelessly. He rubs his thumb along her palm and she smiles; wide, carefree. Relief leaps over his stomach and flips it over. If touching her risked controlling her mind, he would’ve secluded himself upon a scaffold in the rotunda until Corypheus was defeated, but there is no such risk. Elanna is safe with him. 

The Anchor returns to the green lightning storm that Elanna imagines it to be, and Solas could kiss it; instead, he squeezes it, and is relieved further when he thinks that he can kiss her in future.

“I’m free from staring at your hand,” he murmurs, and finds himself sinking closer. He does not find himself regretting it. 

That same bashful look she had in Haven, right before he kissed her, is what he's looking at now. He could kiss her now. Snow pools beneath them, and the sun turns wintry bright. Elanna almost shivers, he sees the skin prickling on her neck before she catches herself. Is it restraint? Is that why I cannot feel you?

“So,” she says, raising herself a little to look around, “you’ve moved us to Haven, and your staring to my mouth.” 

With a laugh, Solas sets her hand back at her side. “I’m looking. To stare requires.. ah, there. It has been long enough. Accuse me now.”

“So!” Elanna gasps. “Haven and all that, and you’re staring at my mouth!”

“I am.” He flicks his eyes up to hers. “I was.”

Elanna links their hands together again, and he presses them to the ground; lightly, only enough for him to leverage himself over her and return to staring at her lips. The top is a sharp bow, the lower rounded and chapped. 

“Tell me to stop,” he says, and pauses. Just to test, just once more. “And I will.”

“Oh, so we’ll be here for hours." She bobs her head up to kiss him, and he dodges back with an amused scoff, as if longing has not worn his restraint to the quick, as if her paltry mortal sheen of nonchalance could stay on him, when his blood is quaking with desire, he is shaking with it, and he can kiss her right now, she wants him to, she’s slipped her hands free an—

He jerks away before their lips meet.

“Wait,” he gasps, shivering. “Don’t. Forgive me, I—”

“Oh!” And she’s already several feet away from him, sat against one of the wood barns. “I’m sorry! Ir abelas! Ir abelas, Solas, I wasn’t—”

“You do not need to apologise. I am just..” Why did he bring them here? Why did he not warm the air?! He does so now, for the Inquisitor is wearing silk, she must be freezing. “I am just gathering my thoughts. You were perfect.”

There, he thinks, have that, a compliment tossed over to keep the quickling busy while the immortal wracks through his empty head, because thousands of years in the Fade evidently taught him nothing.

While her mouth stops apologising, the wide eyes above continue to. 

“I overwhelmed myself. Ir abelas, Elanna,” he says, and stands, brushing the snow from his trousers. Which he is still wearing. Which are laced. And linen, as always, and loose; it seems nobody’s fantasies ran entirely off the leash. “You would wake more easily if at Skyhold. I can return us there in a moment.” 

She nods, with a blush from what may be affection, or simply understanding; a kind word overheard in the other room. Steadily, his emotions cool; irritability and confusion and desire are flecks, dust, easily dispersed as he wrings his hands a few times. There remains a longing for her, but that seems unavoidable.

Reasonably sure he won’t warp the dream further, Solas flashes a smile over to her. 

“I’m going to hold your hand," she says, getting to her feet. "What if you accidentally toss me over the mountains on our way?” When she laces their fingers together once more, the Anchor sparks between them. 

“Historically speaking, you do not need to hold my hand to prevent my doing that." 

“I didn’t say that I did.” She beams.

"Ah," he laughs, and squeezes her hand. Ease floods his body and a sudden urge to continue laughing, both of which are beyond uncharacteristic—

Ah. Solas glances at their joined hands.

Any emotion pressed into the Anchor seems to be obliterated before it can land in Elanna. After explosions, debris.

─

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed it, please consider going to ao3 and leaving me a kudos (you don't need to be logged in!) or dropping a Like here. Comments/replies are also immensely appreciated and let me know what I'm doing right (or wrong, I'm not your boss.) ♡

[mochiiniko]

gotta love finding new ways to hate on cole /j (ramble thing about act 4 under the cut since ive been thinking about it lately)

im just extremely confused as to why cole just?? left??? or was about to leave middlesea, at least. i find it weird since he was so hellbent on visiting nicole in 2-X

but then he just. leaves

and nicole is the reason why he comes back so why didnt he just

not leave the hospital 💀

then theres also the whole thing with a big chunk of the post 1-XN dialogue being cut after act 5, and while nicoles line being cut out made me sad at first it makes sense because i wouldnt want to talk to cole too sorry </3

i dont think he even told her he was planning to leave which is. cole. girl what were you thinking 😭

edit: looked through the wiki again for more dialogue and yea i forgot about this

and the 2-X clear text makes me even more confused i HATE this man (/lh hes still one of my favorite characters unfortunately)

[amethystsoda]

💖 💫 Muse Dash 💫 💖

[little-paper-man]

“So small..?”

Little bit of Journey art! I will always love the sheer variety of designs made for the Traveller 💕

[theotherpacman]

ah yes it's my favorite song "HEY LAPIS ARE YOU OKAAAAYYYYY" "yeah" "ARE YOU SURE?" "yeah" ".. IM LEAVIN BUT ILL BE BACK" "okay" "DO YOU NEED ANYTHING?" "no" "....... WHAT SEASON IS THAT" "three"

[natjennie]

play it by ear dropout.tv is sosos so important to me when I'm high. that shit is genuine magic. how are they doing that.

[herosplatling-replica]

if you ask me Ian has a complicated thing going on with his gender but is so busy working on the rhythm defibrillator that he can't really unpack all of that yet. happy miku day

[mukytosauri0]

ngl my huge expectation for rhythm heaven groove it's seeing again megamix story mode characters, especially the tower ones (shep, hairold, dieter, etc) or the gatekeeper trio... or well at least a cameo of one of them :")

no i don't wanna see tibby again, he's okay in hell where he belongs

[gotyouanyway]

i started listening to “…ish” today and am only halfway through bc i have no idea what’s going on at all but i REALLY like it so far

[hawkeyeslaughter]

real good chance of me actually finishing this fanfic if u guys even care

[no-longer-human33]

Rhythm Thiefers... I have both a Japanese and English copy of Rhythm Thief... would anyone be interested if I transcribed all the dialogue from both versions...