#her sealskin was ripped by hunters and so as her eye so she did the same thing to those same hunters ( with a little bit of help of course )

[hauntingmiser]

It's day 15

I made a selkie oc

[waddlebouncefloof]

Leviathantale Mermay 2022 Day 20: Adrift

Summary: Because they were constantly hunted, Cyclops children were nonexistent. At least, that’s what Geno thought.

Geno finds the child in his wanderings. Long after the mortals began to turn on his kind out of fear, he learned that survival came to those who didn’t stay in place. While the number of mortal hunters is dwindling with time as his kinds’ existences are fading from memory, Geno isn’t one to take any chances.

When his sealskin and feet brought him up to the Arctic, Geno didn’t expect to find…them.

Ever since the culling, the Cyclops were too busy fleeing and trying to survive to even think about having children. Not only did the high-stress environment make conception near-impossible, but birthing a child in a world where they would always be hunted seemed cruel.

That’s why Geno’s mind could hardly process the sight in front of him. His single eye focuses completely on the toddler in front of them. The cyclops child barely stands at the height of his knee. Their head tilts upwards to the point of discomfort as if to highlight how small they are. They regard him with the same intensity except it’s fueled by a sharp sort of fear that shakes Geno from his shock.

Geno tries to approach them. That’s a mistake. In his concern and his tentative hope that there are other survivors nearby, he forgets that the child is afraid of him. They bite him with a fierceness that impresses Geno. Ferocity means a higher chance of survival. Ferocity means that Geno doesn’t have to coddle the child if it turns out that they are an orphan. (With a sinking feeling in his nonexistent gut, Geno realizes that no parent would allow their child to wander so far or let their sealskin get this matted. For sea’s sake, there’s still blood around the child’s mouth from their last feeding.)

Somehow, he manages to scoop up the feral child and get a good whiff of their scent.

Oh Mia, Geno despairs when he recognizes the scent from the child’s second-hand pelt. They found you too and now your child is all alone.

Geno has never been close to Mia, but in their brief and short interactions when their paths crossed, he found her charming and kind. He’s uncertain of who the father is, but it’s clear that he’s not in the picture. It’s unusual for seal skins to be used twice, but Geno has a sinking suspicion that Mia must have given the pelt to her child so they could swim and flee when she…could not.

Geno decides then and there that he’s taking the kid with him, willing or not, because as fierce as the child is, there is only so much they can do on their own. And there is no way he’d leave them here to fend for themself.

The child fights him at every step. They hiss and snarl at him while scratching at his arms as he takes them to his shelter where he wrangles them into an impromptu bath session. They wail as he cleans the blood from their mouth and untangles their hair. He makes sure to give their fluffy, white sealskin the same treatment. By the end of it, he has one clean and grumpy toddler.

They become significantly less grumpy when he takes them close to the fire and offers them his food. With a sigh, his hard work is erased as they grasp at the barely-cooked fish with their bare hands and rip its head off viciously with their baby teeth. With a sigh, Geno realizes that he will have to teach them etiquette too on top of many other things.

“I’m Geno,” he says, breaking the silence between them. The child stops chewing and fixes him with an intent stare. “I was a friend of your mother, Mia.”

“...Mama?”

Geno tries not to flinch at the raw grief in the child’s voice. Ah. Mia’s passing must’ve been recent then. They clutch at their sealskin and stains it with fish bits as they nuzzle it. They look even smaller in their efforts to find comfort in the last reminder of their mother.

“Yeah. Your ‘Mama’. We knew each other. I am sorry for your loss,” Geno says, keeping his voice soft. “You are too young to be alone. I’m going to take care of you now.”

The child flinches at that. “No!” They hiss. “Not Blank’s Mama!”

So the child’s name is Blank. That’s good to know. Geno doesn’t take Blank’s visceral reaction to his intention to be their guardian too personally. To their young mind, they’re probably thinking that he’s trying to usurp Mia’s position.

“Not Blank’s Mama,” Geno agrees patiently. “I am Geno,” he makes sure to repeat, “and I will be your Guardian.”

“...Geno? Blank’s Guardian?”

“Yes, Blank’s Guardian. I will be protecting you until you’re big and strong enough to live in this world on your own,” Geno promises. He leans forward and wipes their messy face, making them scowl adorably. “Is that okay with you?”

Blank thinks long and hard about it before giving Geno a cautious nod. “Mmn.”

Well, that’s that. Geno is responsible for a child now.

…Oh no. Geno is responsible for a child now.

—————————————————————

Cyclops!Blank is a spicy feral baby who can and will take your shins out for a yummy fishie. As a Cyclops, they are gigantic and their baby seal form reflects that. Think Leviathan!Blank except they can shift into a feral one-eyed being at will. Their tragic backstory is that they witnessed the violent death of their mother, who had been hiding them under her pelt when Cyclops Hunters found them. At this age, they knew how to swim and hunt on their own, so they managed to take care of themself long enough for Geno to come across them. It takes a while for Blank to warm up to him, but they eventually reach the heartwarming parent-child relationship that they have in “Little Selkie”.

Blue, sobbing at the cuteness that is Blank: Let me hold the child! Please!

Geno: Lol no. They bite.

Blank, from Geno’s arms: Blep.

Sometime in the future…

Megladon!Cross: (Sees giant baby seal)

Megladon!Cross: (Snatches it from the ice) Mine.

[dinoswrites]

Black Coral Chapter 24: Red Sail on the Horizon

Solavellan, Mermaid AU. Ongoing.

Masterpost | Read from Chapter One | Read on A03

My ko-fi

They buy a razor and soap in a small village, and one evening with the sun setting over the water, their aravel pulled safely ashore, Aevalle shaves Solas’s head, and then he shaves half of hers.

If she finds her touch lingering on his skin a little longer than necessary, Solas does not seem to mind. If she takes a moment to brush her hands over his scalp, if she pauses as she finishes and studies his features a little longer than she needs to, to make sure she hasn’t missed anything—well, he doesn’t say a word about it.

And if he runs his hands through her hair far longer than he needs to, if his nails brush her scalp, if he gathers the length of her hair in his hands and lets it lie over one of her shoulders with slow, deliberate movements… she finds she won’t complain.

They do not speak, the whole time. As the sun dips low, as the sky turns to scarlet and rust, and then to rich wine and darker still, they work in silence.

When the sun has set, and they are lit only by the sliver of a waning moon and the scattering of stars in the sky, accompanied only by the sound of waves lapping on the shore, Solas runs the back of two fingers along the length of her jaw, and down to her chin. With his fingertips, he draws her gaze up to his, and they study each other once again.

How much he has changed since she first met him. How much they have both changed—even just in these few weeks away from Seahold, salt and sun on their skin, waves under their feet or above their heads, every night spent falling asleep in each other’s arms. No walls of stone to separate them from the sea, or from one another. Only sealskin, sailcloth, and the call of the deep they both feel in their bones.

She has learned to read him a little better, these months since the sea tossed her up at his feet. She knows how he enjoys the pleasures his station at Seahold provides—a roof over his head, meals delivered to him, space to work unfettered. She wonders if he looks forward to the little cakes he likes so much, or perhaps if he wishes for a meal that is not fish for a change.

But she has never heard him laugh so often, or so loudly. She never would have expected him to raise the waves around them with magic and launch their aravel into the air, to catch a school of tuna by surprise. How did they go from considerations to dancing around a Dalish fire, him leading her on some dance where she does not know the steps but it hardly seems to matter? They lie awake at night and they watch the sky, and he tells her of spirits who inspired stories and constellations long forgotten, though the stars themselves remain. She tells him of her clan, long gone now, sometimes in halting gestures but sometimes she smiles, or, rarer still, can’t finish a story because she’s laughing too hard.

This night, however, her hands are still, and he does not speak. For tomorrow, they will arrive at Seahold—and it hangs between them, unspoken.

She knows him now, as sure as she knows the beat of his heart under his skin and the feeling of his breath on her skin, as sure as she knows she wants nothing more than to live like this a while longer, among the sun and sea, moving from one place to the next, following where the wind takes them.

He does not want to return to Seahold.

She knows that she must. And it’s strange, but she feels that sense of duty in him, too.

He breaks the silence first. “Swim with me?” he asks, soft as the breeze. “I fear we won’t have many chances after tonight.”

She lets herself be distracted from her thoughts, and he takes her hands as they stand.

He leads her into the water, step by step, his gaze never wavering once from hers.

 --

Just over three weeks after the Keeper and its crew set sail for Adamant Fortress, one of Seahold’s lookouts spots a red sail on the horizon, and two figures on the boat—one with a familiar shock of red hair.

The docks at Seahold are a mess of people on the best of days, but the sight of an aravel sailing into the harbour has brought half the damn fortress down to see who it is. Varric has to follow close on Cassandra’s heels to even have a prayer of getting through the crowd, which parts for the Seeker like a reluctant wave.

The excitement in the air is so thick that Varric can feel it buzzing around him like one of Dorian’s flashy spells. All around him people are shouting, standing on toes to try to get a better look, and sometimes shoving one another.

Cassandra breaks through the crowd, and Varric has to rush so it doesn’t close back in around him after her. Some of Cullen’s soldiers are maintaining a perimeter, keeping the pier in question free of foot traffic so that the boat may safely dock, and its crew back on dry land without incident.

It takes him so long to get down from his room in the keep that the boat is coasting up to the dock, her sails up, and Dorian is already standing on its edge.

“Where the hell have you been?” he’s yelling as Aevalle braces one foot on the dock, and she and her passenger start to tie the aravel off. “Three weeks! Three miserable weeks I’ve been sitting here, convinced you’ve finally managed to get yourself killed this time—”

“I told you she was safe,” Cole says, almost sounding annoyed.

“—and how many times have I told you to think before you act! That is twice now you’ve nearly died fighting the same Blight-ridden dragon! Do you ever learn, or do you just try the same thing over and over and hope it works out for you every time?”

The moment Aevalle’s knot is secure, she jumps off the boat, throwing her arms around Dorian and embracing him fiercely.

Dorian’s resolve lasts for an entire three seconds before he folds like a bad hand and wraps his arms around her.

Aevalle’s passenger finally speaks up. “I have already given her significant grief on the subject, Dorian,” he says—and Varric actually has to look twice as Solas steps out of the boat and onto the docks, tugging at the hem of some Dalish hunting gear like it’s his usual green vest. “But perhaps it would reinforce the notion of caution if she heard it from another source for a change.”

“Alright Drifter,” he calls, shoving past Cassandra and making his way up the dock. “Who the hell is that and what have you done with Chuckles?”

Solas tucks his hands behind his back and rolls his eyes—but it seems he can’t help a fond smile as Varric approaches, his eyes bright with mischief.

“Look at him,” Varric cries, gesturing up and down at Solas. “He looks—downright fashionable. And—and he has a tan! And—did he have hair, and you let him shave it without showing the class, Aevalle?”

Solas lets out the most put-upon sigh as Varric squints up at his head, and the tanline on it that would indicate his hair had, at some point, grown out before being shaved off again.

“Why would you need to see my hair, Master Tethras?”

“Aevalle,” Dorian hisses, “when he asks you later, the answer is brown. Alright?”

Aevalle pulls back, a curious frown on her face. But as she lifts her hands to form a question, she’s tackled from the left by Sera, and then Bull rushes in to scoop them both up in his arms and lift them off the dock entirely in a bear hug, Sera cackling with delight the whole while.

Varric stands next to Solas as he and Aevalle are rushed with welcomes by their friends. And Varric can’t help but glance up at Solas more than he should—trying to shake the feeling that something seems different. Something more than the dark freckles dotting his skin, the high-collared hunters’ leathers he’s wearing, new callouses from rope on his artist’s hands.

Maybe it’s in the line of his shoulders, and how they do not sit as straight as before. Maybe it’s the smile that lingers in his eyes, every time he glances over at Aevalle.

“She made him better,” Cole says, just over Varric’s shoulder. “Took the broken parts and taught them how to be whole again.”

Solas sends Cole a sideways glance—and Cole quiets, as if chastised. But Solas only smiles, and inclines his head in thanks.

In the end it is Cassandra who breaks the circle of welcomes—she is the last to greet Aevalle, her hands on the Dalish woman’s shoulders, and her genuine smile falters after the welcomes are exchanged.

What’s wrong?

Cassandra sighs. “I would have let you rest before I told you—but, you would want to know. We have located the Magister Alexius and have him in custody, awaiting trial.”

Just like that, Varric watches Aevalle’s expression fall.

 --

Aevalle’s not sure she wants to see Alexius at all.

She would have been perfectly happy if he never showed up again. She had honestly almost told Cassandra to simply shoot him—this is the man who owned her. The man who found her in Seahold and tried to take her away from the happiness she found there, who walked into a room with her clan being ripped apart on tables, and did nothing.

But this is the man who raised Felix. Felix who helped her laugh again, and let her sleep under the shade of a tree when her nightmares kept her up all night. Who had freed her—and then saved her, over and over.

Alexius is the man who tried to tear the world apart to save his son—and she cannot blame him for that.

She follows Cassandra to the dungeon with a heavy heart, Solas at her side every step of the way. She wants to reach out for him, but—but there are a hundred eyes watching, soldiers and servants and all the other people who come and go around Seahold. And she might not know everything about the society of humans Solas has lived among, but she knows that it is one thing to dance with him around the fires her people have lit to celebrate, one thing to walk hand in hand with him where tree branches sway over waves rolling up on shore, and another thing entirely to ask for that where a word sent across the world could link him, irrevocably, to her.

“You do not have to see him,” Solas whispers, as they pass through the dark stairwell, keeping his voice low so it does not echo on the walls. “You owe this man nothing.”

She does not answer him. Instead, she reaches for him, and he takes his hand in hers, squeezing it reassuringly.

They drop their hands before they reach the guarded dungeon doors. The guards salute Cassandra, and seem prepared to allow Aevalle through, but they look curiously at Solas before one of them says, “Ma’am, civilians aren’t—”

“He is Captain Lavellan’s interpreter,” Cassandra informs them, and that seems to settle the matter.

They pass Erimond in the dungeons. He sneers at her as she walks past, and starts to shout insults at her when she does not stop, but they are silenced when Solas waves a hand and a wall of ice rises up around his cell.

Cassandra turns and raises a brow at it, but does not stop walking either. “I trust that will melt before his trial.”

“Certainly—just not before his next meal.”

Alexius himself is in the back, tucked away somewhere more private than Erimond. He sits slumped on his cot, his head hanging and his lyrium-shackled hands resting on his knees.

“I’ve already told you everything,” he drawls without looking up as Cassandra stands in front of his cell. “Or are you just here to gloat this time?”

“Captain Lavellan is here to speak with you,” she informs him, before leaving them.

The only sound for several heartbeats are her footsteps as she marches back down the narrow line of cells. Alexius doesn’t move—doesn’t look up at her, or even acknowledge that he’s heard Cassandra at all. Until at length, he jerks in place once, then again, as if he is about to laugh or to cry, but Aevalle doesn’t know which.

“Gloating it is, then.” He leans back against his cell wall, resting his head on the stone and closing his eyes. He has an uneven, scraggly beard—as if he has tried to shave with a dull blade, and simply given up partway through and let it all grow out afterwards. There’s more grey in his hair than she remembers. More lines on his face, too.

“Dorian deigned to inform me that my son has died,” he says. “So you don’t have to pretend that you’re here for that.”

Aevalle can feel Solas’s gaze on her—watching her, waiting for her hands to move so that he can begin to interpret. But she finds she can only stare at Alexius, and try to read his expression in the low lamplight.

Felix had told her a story, once. About how his father took him into town when Felix was very young, and Felix had been so frightened of all the crowds and people that he just clung to his father’s robes the entire time. And a time when his magic came, and then simply failed to grow beyond a meagre spark, that he remembers creeping to his father’s study in the night, and hearing Alexius and another man argue about sending Felix away.

“Whoever the other man was, he wanted me gone,” Felix had said. “A stronger heir with more magic power in my stead. But my father wouldn’t hear of it. They just shouted at each other about it until the other man left, and I never saw him again.”

She hadn’t been able to reconcile the kind man Felix described with one of the men tied to the death of her clan, and to everything that had happened to her since. And whenever she saw Alexius, she could only hate him—could only glare at him, and clench her hands into fists, and hate her own inability to do anything with all that rage.

But then, she thinks, reaching up to hold the black coral halla hanging around her throat, she hadn’t known Felix was sick.

What would she have given, in those dark days before Felix and Dorian became her friends, to have her clan back again? What would she give now?

“Well?” Alexius opens one eye to look at her. “What do you want with me, then?”

She doesn’t want anything from him. She drops the coral halla, letting it rest against her chest, before turning on her heel and immediately walking away.

She’s walked ten paces when Alexius says, “He was in love with you, you know.”

She stops. She turns back to look at him—but he hasn’t moved from his spot. She can barely even see him past the stone walls of the cell next to his.

“Felix, that is. I suppose I should thank you for that,” he continues, his tone flat and matter-of-fact. “He was like his old self, with you around. Giving him something to… to go on for.”

Solas stands at Aevalle’s side, his expression carefully neutral. He watches as Aevalle raises her hands and signs, and when he speaks for her he does it in a precise, even tone.

“Miss Lavellan says, ‘If you think Felix’s will to live was only due to his affection for me, then you did not know your son as well as you think.’”

With that, she turns on her heel and walks away.

Alexius does not call out for her again.

 --

“You’re just in time,” Josephine says as Aevalle and Solas enter her office. “I’ve just finished your paperwork, Captain—perhaps you could have a read and ask as many questions as you like, I kept it in as simple a language as the law allows. Solas, please feel free to look it over as well, I have faith you will find any errors I may have made. Do be careful not to touch any of the letters, I’m afraid the ink hasn’t quite dried. But please! Sit! I believe refreshments are shortly behind you.”

Paperwork for what? Aevalle signs, curiously, just before she drops into one of the soft cushioned chairs that Josephine indicates.

Josephine gives her a polite, if slightly puzzled smile. “For your discharge, of course. The terms of your conscription have been fulfilled, have they not? I understand that, circumstances being what they are, you’re not precisely free to leave Seahold, however you would have no cause to throw yourself in harm’s way with such an alarming frequency.”

Solas lets out a short, abrupt laugh as he sits in the chair beside Aevalle’s, but thankfully keeps his comments to himself.

The aforementioned refreshments arrive—a silver tray carried by a silent-footed servant, containing a pot of tea for Aevalle and Josephine and a smaller, single cup of steaming water with lemon and honey for Solas. There are delicate-looking cakes and very tiny pastries that look far too sweet for Aevalle’s tastes, but which Solas immediately reaches for instead of his cup.

I need to go to the Winter Palace, Aevalle signs, once the food is settled and the servant has closed the door behind them, and Josephine pours two cups of tea.

“The Winter Palace?” Josephine gives her a polite, if slightly puzzled, smile. “Aevalle, I hadn’t thought you interested in the least in politics—you are aware of the situation in Orlais?”

I know. She doesn’t really know all the details, but human power struggles spilling out and affecting Dalish clans are nothing new to her.

From the look on Josephine’s face, she is clearly less than impressed with Aevalle’s answer. She drops a few cubes of sugar into her tea, and then a touch of cream, while she seems to consider how to respond to that. “I doubt you want me to inform you of all the particulars, but the Inquisition will have a presence at the upcoming peace talks. The late Felix Alexius provided us with information that lead us to believe Corypheus plans to assassinate the Empress and send Orlais into chaos.”

Based on her limited experience in Orlais, Aevalle isn’t entirely sure that would be a bad thing.

“We discovered some information in our escape from the Blighted Dragon regarding the Winter Palace as well,” Solas replies. “We encountered a spirit, which hinted that we might find some information regarding Corypheus’s intentions with Miss Lavellan in the caverns beneath the palace.”

To her credit, Josephine hardly bats an eyelash at Solas so casually mentioning a spirit as their informant. She merely sips her tea and ponders what he said. “Fascinating,” she says. “The flooded caverns below the palace are impossible to explore—there have been countless attempts made, many of them intending to discover what ancient treasures the elves who built the first Halamshiral may have hidden there. Now that I know what you are capable of, Aevalle, I understand that of course there has been no success—it’s very possible your ancestors hid a great many ancient treasures in those waters, too deep for even the most stubborn of humans to reach.”

“I believe so,” Solas replies, a hint of a smile forming on his lips.

With a thoughtful expression, Josephine sets her cup and saucer down. “That means there is a dreadful amount of work to be done—and little time to accomplish it. I must obtain invitations for you both—am I forward in presuming you wish to accompany Miss Lavellan, Solas?”

His smile spreads. “You are not forward at all.”

Josephine gives him a fond smile before she stands and crosses to her desk. “I doubt Mister Pavus will be allowing you out of his sight, what with the Adamant fiasco. Don’t give me that look, Aevalle, he was beside himself. I should ask the Iron Bull if he would be willing to come, should something go awry… Madame Vivienne is already attending, but I must speak with her regarding the latest fashions. Oh, and Sera’s connections with the servants would be invaluable…”

“Shall we leave you to it, then?” Solas asks, moving to stand.

Without even looking up, Josie waves at him to sit again. “At least eat the pastries before you go, I’ll never hear the end of it if I have to send those back.”

 --

The rest of Aevalle’s first day back at Seahold is filled with checking in on the Keeper, making her report to Cassandra, having her measurements taken yet again by an extremely frustrated tailor—how are they to make a dress worthy of the Winter Palace without fabric, Ambassador—tea with Vivienne, the start of a new training regimen with Cullen, and a Wicked Grace game arranged at the last minute by Varric.

Solas remains in the Undercroft when she leaves it, facing a list of questions and theories a mile long from Dagna.

It is the first time she has been separated from him for so long since the dragon dragged him into the Deep.

She feels his absence at her side keenly—when her throat aches, she nearly turns to where she expects he would be. But then the tailor tuts, and she remembers that he is elsewhere, and bites the inside of her lip. Training in the courtyard with Cullen, she sidesteps out of the range of his practice sword, only to hesitate instead of taking advantage of the opening she’s created. Expecting a blast of ice to take the commander instead. At Wicked Grace, she keeps expecting him to leave his work and join them, to take the empty seat next to her—waiting for it, even going so far as to deal an extra hand when it’s her turn.

He does not.

She knows it can’t be the same. Solas has his duties, his responsibilities. Her strength has returned from teaching him how to change his shape all over again. He no longer needs to hover. She no longer needs him to.

She does miss it, though. More than a little.

She returns to her room late that night, after delivering a more-than-tipsy Dorian to his, and finds it exactly as she left it three weeks ago. The few things she has collected neatly arranged, her clothes folded in drawers or hung in the wardrobe. Her small bed, and the chill in the air from that infuriating hole in the wall that no one can seem to find.

She closes the door behind her and stares at the bed a while—thinking of how she will miss the curve of the aravel at her back, and the sway of water beneath her. She might open her window to hear the waves crashing on the rocks below, at least, and to smell the salt in the air…

She tugs on her bracelet. It’s not the sea she will miss most, she has to admit.

Before she can second-guess herself, she turns on her heel and opens her door once more.

Only to see Solas standing right in front of it—hand raised as if about to knock.

He smiles when he sees her, and sheepishly lowers his hand. “Good evening.”

She finds his smile infectious. Nearly morning now.

“Quite so. I had thought you would be sleeping—Dagna had me so occupied with improvements to the Keeper’s auxiliary life support, I hardly noticed how much time had passed. Then I heard you return to your room, so I thought I would… well. Knock.”

So you’ve knocked, she teases, tilting her head.

His smile only deepens, his eyes bright with amusement. “So I have.”

Did you have a plan for after you knocked?

“I believe I had something to tell you.”

Can’t wait til tomorrow?

“It cannot.”

She can’t help but grin up at him. Ridiculous man. Then tell me.

“When I returned to my rooms this evening, I discovered that I have no desire to sleep alone.” He inclines his head, but his eyes do not leave hers. “I wondered if, perhaps, I would find that sentiment echoed here.”

She answers him by reaching forward, grabbing the laces of his Dalish vest, and tugging him into her room.

His lips and tongue are clever enough—but though she is quick to unlace his vest, and his hands wander, she finds that once they lie on the bed, facing one another, she feels the busy day catch up with her, all at once.

Solas seems much the same. Or perhaps he notices her heavy sigh, and only leans in for one more long, slow kiss. Then he pulls back to regard her a moment, his thumb tracing the line of her jaw.

She can she in the way his brow furrows that there is something else on his mind. So she props herself up on her elbows, and tilts her head a little.

He sighs. “It’s… it’s nothing. I was just thinking you must be tired. You’ve had a busy day. Rising early to sail, meeting everyone again, settling old business...”

There’s something significant about the way he says old business that makes her raise a single brow. She sits up properly, so that she can answer him. Solas rises with her, not quite meeting her gaze.

You mean with Felix’s father?

He lets out a small, embarrassed breath, and he watches her hands instead of her face as he replies, “I… yes. I do.”

Ah. That.

There’s an ache in her heart still, for losing Felix. She’s tried to think as little on his father’s words as possible, but… perhaps Solas has been giving her space. And thinking a little too much on them, in turn.

So she reaches forward, and guides his eyes to meet hers with her fingertips on his chin. Then she leans in and kisses him. He meets her eagerly, as if relieved—their lips drag, and she tastes his breath on her tongue, as he pulls her closer. She winds one arm and up to the back of his head, to run her nails along his freshly-shaven scalp.

The other hand remains between them, her palm pressed flat to the skin over his heart.

When they part, Solas settles in bed once more while Aevalle leaves the bed, briefly, to open the window. Then she climbs back in the bed behind Solas, and tucks herself neatly against his back, hanging her arm loosely over his waist. She presses a kiss to his shoulder blade, just to hear his breath hitch, and he reaches down to grasp her hand, twining his fingers in hers.

They lie like that awhile, slowly drifting off to the sound of the sea through the open window, and the waves crashing down on the cliffs far below.

 -

Aevalle is standing on the shore, looking out into a bay her clan frequently finds harbour in. There are halla sleeping among the aravels, white forms bobbing in the gentle waves that lap at the shore. She can hear conversation around the campfires behind her; Emren is teasing Veris about something. She’s too far away to hear the details, but she can hear Veris’s indignant protests anyway. A baby is crying—someone sings a lullaby while someone else tells Veris to shut up.

She holds her mother’s spear. She has never stood in this place and held her mother’s spear, so this must be a dream.

Not a bad one, however. She runs her thumb over the carvings and listens to her clan. She digs her toes in the sand, and she stands there and regards the bay before her, and watches the waves draw closer as the tide climbs higher.

There is an aravel out in the water. Not quite the same style as her clan’s… a little different. Higher in the water, for seas prone to winter storms. She can see a figure lounging in it, one hand dragging the water, the moonlight shining off his bald head.

Solas.

She feels the rush of incoming tide run over her ankles.

As the wave retreats, it pulls at her.

As it rushes forward, it pushes her back towards her clan.

Just as she moves to follow its next retreat—why is Solas in here, with her clan—she hears a voice call to her.

“Da’len.”

Deshanna is approaching from behind her, digging her own spear into the sand with each stride. She is smiling, and healthy, her cheeks warmed by sunlight and her eyes bright with happiness.

A far cry from the last time Aevalle saw her Keeper. Wounded, sickly...

“You have returned, da’len,” she says, as Aevalle shakes her head and tries to clear her thoughts. “Come, sit by the fire. It’s too cold to stand out here alone.”

But still, she hesitates. She turns back to the bay, even though the pull of the retreating wave feels weaker, now.

Solas has raised the aravel’s sails, and is sailing away into the night. The little boat slipping silently towards the horizon, and away from shore.

She feels Deshanna’s hand on her wrist, just above her bracelet. Deshanna tugs ever so gently on her arm; trying to guide her up the shore, and back to camp.

“Hurry now. We have much to discuss, da’len.”

The keeper tugs again, and Aevalle takes a single step away from the sea.

[intothewildsea]

equuscarnivorus‌:

The river drunk her up with a vengeance. At once the red crown that bloomed around her head was washed away by the current as if licked up by a hungry tongue. The fragrance of her warmth traveled miles within moments, dispersed and diluted. Invisible, the flavor of her pain soaked into the mud, into the river stones, into the growing reeds. Around Niamh the water gurgled and growled as if suddenly in the midst of a storm. Something large, something dark, was moving in the depths of the river, which was far deeper, far more dangerous, than a human eye could discern. 

Anger burst through his veins like boiling water. His bones were driftwood, his flesh was foam. But his anger gave him shape. The pale body of a stallion came rushing in like the full moon tide, emerging as a solid wall of feral fury between Niamh and the hunter. His tail whipped the river into a frenzy. Surf sprayed around his legs as his cloven hooves dug into the soft riverbank soil. 

Ciaran was resembling a horse in the way a corpse was resembling a human. He returned a being composed of sharp edges and foaming flews. A snarl erupted from his heaving chest, shrieking like rocks ripping up a ship’s belly.  The sound in itself was a tell of the rending flesh must suffer. It clawed its way out of his throat, pried open his jagged jaws. Skeletal and starved, the monstrous shape lunged forward at the one soft body in its sight. 

The wound was not terribly deep, despite how it bled. The blow from the rocks was what had stunned her, causing her head to ache. A pained groan left her as she tried to move, but her body was unwilling to cooperate.

Fear shot through the pain, its spindling fingers clutching her lungs. Was she going to die? Was she going to be taken captive again? She wasn’t sure which option was more terrifying.

Silence was filled with the thundering of hooves. Ciaran appeared in front of her, raging like a flood. Creaking wood, howling waves, the scent of decaying river grass.

He did not look like the Ciaran she loved, but it was him all the same.

The man screamed, her sealskin being discarded carelessly into the mud so he could pull out his sword. Unable to get to her feet, Niamh curled into a fearful ball, dizziness causing her vision to haze.