#i've never written solas before

[adainesjacket]

happy friday! how about "i did good right?" from the febuwhump prompts for seong/solas? 👀

m!trevelyan/solas rivalmance, explicit, cws for drug (lyrium) consumption, for abuse (solas is abusive), and extremely dubious consent. 1188 words. don't look at me.

@vigilskept @dadrunkwriting

Seong Trevelyan never used to remember his dreams, until the Anchor made a home in his hand. He wasn't a mage, and didn't dream so vividly as they did. Still, when he woke that morning he was as sweaty and out of breath as he had sometimes been as a child, when he'd had nightmare after nightmare of Templars storming into his home and stealing his twin away.

He'd not had that dream in years. Not since it became reality. And this dream didn't have the familiar aftershocks; the clashing of steel in his ears, the urge to search the next bed for Viola's sleeping form. (He slept in a room to himself now. Viola liked - or chose, the Tranquil didn't like anything - to sleep in the infirmary to be closer to her patients.) The only things he remembered from his dream - nightmare? - were transient and fleeting as he rubbed sleep from his eyes. Green light. A cluttered table. A hand in his hair.

Seong rose and bathed and put it out of his mind, but he couldn't stop feeling that phantom twinge even as he descended the steps down to the Great Hall, ready for an early-morning lesson with his least favourite colleague.

"Good morning," Solas intoned as he arrived, ever-polite. He'd brewed tea already, and the little bottle of shining lyrium lay next to one of the cups. Seong eyed it hungrily, then forced himself to look away.

It was only temporary. Only until they found a way to save his sister. And then he'd never need to take the blighted stuff again. It had felt like clean fire racing through his veins when he'd first imbibed, it now felt like a candle, never hot or bright enough. It was dangerous, how hungry he was for even this small measure. He could no longer look Cullen in the eye.

"Concentrate," Solas chided him. Seong blinked, and realised several moments had passed. The lyrium bottle was empty, and his teacup full.

"Sorry," he said, gulping down a mouthful of bitter, lukewarm liquid. "Where were we?"

Solas gave the kind of sigh that always made Seong want to shake him. "You were attempting to concentrate on tearing an opening through the rift. Not to suck any enemies in piecemeal, as you are usually wont to, but just to look. Identify anything you can."

"Right, right." He was so fucking tired. And the headache that had been creeping up on him for the last few days was starting to camp out in his temples. Seong shook himself and tried again, summoning that strange and wonderful power he knew next to nothing about. A slice of green light hung in the air.

"Not bad," Solas said. Rare praise indeed. "Now look - not with your eyes," he tsked, as if such a thing were ridiculous. "Close them if you need to. Feel your surroundings."

Seong did, glad for the excuse to shield his eyes from the nauseating light. "I'm trying. There's nothing but… there's nothing." Except an overwhelming urge to vomit.

"Concentrate," Solas chided again, and lay a hand on the nape of his neck. The contact was electric - like that first hit of lyrium, weeks ago. "This is not some tavern melody you can pick up in a few hours. You are searching for inhabitants of a world that has until now been closed to you."

"That hardly takes hours," Seong muttered, and was silenced by Solas's hand gripping his nape tighter, like he was holding a dog back by its scruff.

A hand twisting in his hair, pulling tight enough to make him whine.

Seong jerked in his chair.

"You're getting it," came Solas's voice. "Keep your eyes closed. I believe it's helping you to connect with the ether."

Spread across the cool surface of an unyielding desk. Cold everywhere, gooseflesh, his clothes discarded to some corner of the room he couldn't see. A long finger tasting a tear from his cheek. His heart racing. His hands tied behind his back. The hand on the back of his neck kept him still, unable to seek the friction he was craving. "I need-"

"I know what you need," the voice says. Cold, emotionless, sending shivers of fear and arousal down his spine. "Everyone in Skyhold knows what you need, the way you parade yourself around in front of our Tevene friend. Desperate for him to touch you like this."

"You're not touching me," Seong gasps out. The figure behind him - maddeningly familiar, terrifying and intoxicating all at once - was fully clothed, providing no contact with their skin save for the palm of their hand on his neck. "You can't stand me."

A dry chuckle. "Correct. You're an arrogant child, 'Inquisitor'. Why should I give you the attention you so clearly crave? Why should anyone?"

"You must want something from me, or you wouldn't have me like - like this." He tries again, fruitlessly, to grind against the desk. The sharp slap he gets in return is almost worth it for the brief contact of skin against skin. The humiliation - and the sharp spike of arousal - stings harder than any blow.

"I have you exactly where I want you," the figure holding him down says. "Exactly how everyone should see you. Desperate and powerless."

"Hit me again, then," Seong pleads through gritted teeth. "Just fucking touch me, Solas-"

Seong's eyes flew open. A sheen of sweat covered his body, clammy and disgusting.

"You lost the connection," Solas sighed. "A pity. You were making good progress."

The tear in the veil was gone. Seong accepted the cup of stone-cold tea and gulped down the dregs. "I was?" His heart was racing so hard he was sure Solas could hear it, but the elf was as implacable and unruffled as ever.

Solas inclined his head in dry acknowledgement. "You had allowed your connection with the Fade to briefly consume you."

"Which is what we were aiming for," Seong said, still breathing heavily. "So I did good, right? Come on, admit it."

"I did good, right? This is what you wanted?"

Solas's face betrayed nothing as he helped Seong to his feet. "You showed adequate progression for a non-mage. We will try again tomorrow."

It was a clear dismissal, but Seong found himself lingering at the door. "The lyrium," he said eventually.

"I will have another dose prepared, yes."

"No, not that." Seong rubbed the back of his neck with his hand. "Could the lyrium be affecting my dreams?"

Solas's violet eyes met his, and for a second, Seong was sure that something horrible and unspoken was lying between them. Then Solas merely shrugged.

"They might be more vivid, perhaps. Why?" The elf arched an eyebrow. "Has your sleep been disturbed?"

Like a child asked to relay a nightmare that no adult would understand, Seong immediately shook his head. "Just curious. Tomorrow, then."

"Indeed." Solas turned his back to him to arrange something on his desk, and there might have been a hint of a smirk in his voice, when he said: "Get some rest before our next lesson. You'll be no use to anyone exhausted."

[vaguely-concerned]

every so often, varric will write a black fox story. not anything fancy or for publication or anything, just for fun and because he knows hawke has a soft spot for them. ("an intrepid hero getting into and out of all kinds of trouble and the merry band of misfits following inseparably in his wake? can't imagine why".) some of them are experimental, some of them are straightforward retellings; they're generally pretty short and quick to do, so he allows himself to play around with form and genre and language more than he does in his professional work. stretching over the span of almost twenty years as they do, they contain some of his favourite pieces of his own writing, and some of the most '...was I huffing lyrium fumes or drunk or both for this one, hawke? what the actual hell is this' pieces. hawke keeps every single one of them. varric speculates that this is either because they're just that sentimental, or possibly that it's for future blackmailing purposes. he usually has one ready for their birthday. they have so much blackmail material on him anyway by this point, he figures, what's one more piece of ammunition going to do one way or the other.

varric finishes one of these black fox tales a couple of nights before he brings rook with him to minrathous — the last one. it's about the very last black fox story, the one where the black fox and his friends all disappear together into the depths of arlathan forest, where those in the know say you can find them to this very day, if you know where to look, or if you ever find yourself in trouble and in need of a helping hand. they'll turn up to aid a traveller in need, and disappear back between the shaded trees again once the day is saved, squabbling all the way, seeking treasures and unlikely quests yet unfound and unimagined.

they say on some days, you can hear them as laughter and friendly bickering on the wind from a couple of clearings over. it's not the end, it's just other adventures, some other place. that's the thing about stories. they're funny that way.

(once he wrote a book for his mother on her deathbed and read it to her through the comfortless and drawn-out hours of the troubled nights, and he burned the book the day she died and never spoke of it again.)

after he finishes the manuscript, he sits with it for a long time in the quiet and the candlelight before he wraps it up properly and sends it off back home to kirkwall. he attaches a note -- a story, to the best of all my stories, the one I'd tell forever if I could. take care of each other while I'm gone. first one to arrive saves seats at the bar, right? happy birthday, and send all my lack of love to the merchant's guild, as always. —Varric

he sends that to hawke. just in case. and then he gets up and he goes to find rook — it's time to get going.

[felassan]

What's all this about Solas speaking in iambic pentameter? English isn't my first language so I never noticed anything odd about the way he talks, but your blog is the first time I've seen it mentioned by anyone

hello! ◕‿◕ Solas sometimes speaks in a specific pattern or rhythm. It sometimes gets described as or compared by people to iambic pentameter. (which is a type of rhythm common in traditional English poetry. Shakespeare used it in his sonnets and plays.) Though, I'm not sure that it's actually literally that or always that. The main point is that at those times, he's speaking particularly poetically, with a specific poetic rhythm in his speech. (Like where the stress on syllables is and the 'beats' in his speech.) Occasionally, the Inquisitor's dialogue line[s] in response to him are the same.

When Trick Weekes wrote Solas in DA:I, they wrote some of his key scenes to KD Lang's cover of the song Hallelujah on a loop. They talked about some of their process and the reasons for the use of this technique in terms of Solas' characterization in this DA:I-era blog post:

Trick Weekes: "When Solas talks about things that he saw in the Fade, things that speak to a distant past, I needed him to sound ever so slightly otherworldly and wistful – someone remembering a dream with a sense of both sadness and inevitability. If you follow [that link] and look at some of Solas’s lines, you may notice a familiar rhythm come out. It would have been forcing it to give lines the same rhyme scheme, but giving the words the meter captured some of that wistfulness and made Solas sound ever so slightly otherworldly. (In the rare cases the player got into the same rhythm, there was always an approval bump from Solas. For that brief period, it was like the player was thinking like he did.) I used this a few times over the game, and I love what it did to his voice. Also, Cori (who edited Solas) is exceedingly kind for putting up with my request that changes to those lines keep this surreptitious rhythm."

[source]

An example of when it happens in DA:I is:

"I've journeyed deep into the Fade // in ancient ruins and battlefields // to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I've watched as hosts of spirits clash // to reenact the bloody past // in ancient wars both famous and forgotten. Every great war // has its heroes. // I'm just curious // what kind you'll be."

Compare this with the song's lyrics:

"I heard there was a secret chord // That David played, and it pleased the Lord // You don't really care for music, do ya? Well it goes like this: The fourth, the fifth // The minor fall, the major lift // The baffled king composing Hallelujah Hallelujah // Hallelujah // Hallelujah // Hallelujah"

An example from Trespasser is:

"I lay in dark and dreaming sleep [I heard there was a secret chord] while countless wars and ages passed [That David played, and it pleased the Lord] I woke still weak a year before I joined you. [You don't really care for music, do ya?]" etc.

Recent mentions of this are:

Q. Will Solas still occasionally or dramatically speak in iambic pentameter? A. “Massive kudos to Patrick, who always writes Solas so well. Again, Solas is a returning character. It’s the same Solas you know and love (or hate depending on who you are). The same writer. So I think the answer is yeah, it’s Solas.” – John Epler

[source: BioWare dev Discord Q&A on June 14th]

User: "you really went off with solas. but the iambic pentameter makes writing fanfic dialogue for him so treacherous..." Trick Weekes: "It doesn't always have to be in the cadence! Just when he's deeply feeling The Old Days! He's written in standard prose 99% of the time!"

[source]

I think he does it a bit in the gameplay reveal video [Veil ripping scene with Varric] too. hope this helps :>

[msg refs this post]

[For the developer Q&A from June 14th on Discord: Notes are here, re-watch link is here]

[magesforthedas]

Just have to share this, because I keep seeing critiques of Veilguard that like, try to guilt people who say they love, or even like the game. And HEAVY critiques of the protagonist, Rook, and how they aren't really a hero.

ALSO it contains some SPOILERS so just be warned ☺️ and an edit of additional thoughts now!

Like, yeah I have a couple gripes about the game, but overall it's emotional and amazing and I care about the characters so deeply. I keep seeing how people are saying how Rook and the party were not well written because they caused a lot of death?? This is Dragon Age, everything always goes from bad to worse, but the characters always bring out the light.

Rook was put in a very shitty situation, and I've seen people say they caused the destruction of thousands by trying to prevent the hundreds. But how many people, before the game came out, said Solas's plan to tear down the veil was a bad idea? Not all, I'm sure, but most. I always viewed it, and I know I wasn't alone, as that by trying to "fix" things Solas was just justifying his selfish wants, when he knew somewhere in his heart that the people of today, including the elves that he was "doing this for", would rather live alongside their friends & family in a world without their old magic, than live in a world with it alone.

That being said, even with differing views in and out of the game, it's very reasonable that a group of people would try to stop him, not know the consequences. And the beautiful thing about Rook, why Varric chose THEM, is that they saw what they had created, and didn't give up, didn't leave it to someone else to fix. Whether or not it was really their fault they stepped up and tried to save the world the best they could, from the mistake they unwittingly made (which I would argue against the fact that they made a "mistake", looking at that they were hired to do a job & by successfully completing that job there were unintended consequences).

Parallels anyone? Dragon Age loves those. But the difference, again illustrated in the game, is that while Solas couldn't move past the regret of his mistakes, Rook could. And on the topic of the deaths of those around them, not everyone that died in the past was Solas's fault, but some he did directly lead to their deaths. And he accepted that, did it over & over. Rook never led anyone to their death. Rook walked willingly into it themselves, and the love and trust their companions felt led them to choose to die for Rook, and the world instead.

And people who say the destruction of the south means the earlier games were for nothing? How so? 20 years ago, 10 years ago, things were happening, people were dying that needed saving. The heroes of that age saved the world so it would still be around to save now. And who knows what the south really looks like, or what it might look like as and after rebuilding? We will, in another 10 years once BioWare comes out with more content I suppose, and I wouldn't be surprised if everyone we knew is dead, but I also wouldn't be surprised if many, many of them lived.

Because that is Dragon Age. Death, betrayal, sacrifice, cruelty, pain. It's a dark, dark world. But there is always a ray of light, of hope. And characters who will do their utmost to protect that .

EDIT: Adding!! To this!! And more spoilers!!!

We know because of the Wetlands that it's possible to cause the Blight to pull back. In the end scene, as people are being broken out of the Blight Roots, it seems to me like it's died, at least to some degree. In my playthrough, Neve was cured of her blight sickness. There's obviously some immediate changes, and that all means that the South could have had an immediate reprieve. Plus, once more surviving wardens from Weisshaupt are free to travel south, and all the factions up north get things relatively in order, the South could get a lot of assistance.

The South was overrun... By hordes, by growths? That's the land, what about the people? Could the combined might of the Inquisitor, the Chantry, The Free Marches, Fereldan's ruler, have evacuated enough people that the death toll might be high, but not totally catastrophic? Enough people have survived to rebuild, maybe with a better, more unified attitude towards one another?

(The last bit may be wishful thinking 🥲)

But still!! We have no idea what exactly happened down there. And no matter what, Rook did the best they could, they WERE a hero, and made a difference not only for the North, but everywhere affected.

And yes, I might complain about this or that, mainly that we don't get to put more past game decisions in.... But I love this game and that won't change.

[primedayart]

Solavellan Tarot for my beautiful beloved baby boy's birthday, my perfect @iblazitastic who makes me waste EVEN MORE of my precious life drawing that shitstain eggy bald bitch Solas. :')

(I love him really, he's an incredibly nuanced and amazingly-written character with a spectacular arc...but I don't forgive and I don't forget, Solas, I DON'T FORGIVE AND I DON'T FORGET-!)

I've never done anything like this before, it's a very different style to my usual stuff, but I like it! And Blazi LOVES IT, so that's what matters. ♥ And I got to draw his pretty Hanna Lavellan. ♥

Happy early birthday my looveeee, I hope you like your tarot. ;-;

It's seven of swords because he's a traitorous backstabbing bitch-!

[homeiswheremybooksare]

I've been sitting on this idea ever since I finished DA:TV and I finally wrote it down. Surely, Inquisitor Lavellan would've written a final letter to her friends, a final farewell, a dareth shiral if you will, before rushing to the final confrontation with Solas.

I got out of Solavellan hell, only to make a roundtrip for some coffee and I'm back in the fucking building

Anyway, here's my Inquisitor's last letter:

To the members of the Inquisition

By the time this letter reaches you all, I will have either failed or succeeded in my final quest. Whatever the outcome, I want you all to know this:

Ever since the events at the Conclave, my life has not been my own, even less so after becoming the Inquisitor. Every decision I have had to make, every move I have had to make has had some external force behind it. I never wanted to get dragged into politics, let alone religious debates.

That being said, I am forever grateful for having all of you by my side during all these years. Without all of you, I surely would have perished, alongside with all of Thedas. Without your friendship, I would have lost what little of myself I had in me and succumbed under the crushing weight of responsibility.

Thank you for the nights at Herald's Rest, for the games of Wicked Grace, for the heartfelt conversations, for the shoulders to cry on. Thank you for believing in me when I could not do it myself. Thank you for putting your lives on the line when you could have just as easily turned a blind eye to Thedas' plight, to my plight.

And thank you for letting me do this. For the first time in what feels like a lifetime, I am making a decision for myself, because of myself. Love is a dangerous motivation, but it is also the strongest: it is what still gives me hope that Solas can be redeemed, that he can still be persuaded to find an alternative.

I know most of you do not agree with me, I know that you think I am fighting for a lost cause, but I raise you this question: would you not do the same, were you in my place? Would you be able to cast aside that love, that connection that forms when two souls sing as one? My heart is the only thing that is left of the real me, and I must follow its call to the bitter end.

I am not seeking your approval, or even understanding. I am tired of living as a symbol, as an extension of a religion I do not follow. I am reclaiming myself, my purpose, my life. This is for me.

Your friend,

Inquisitor Lavellan

Ellana

[ashprince-of-bel-air]

Night of Spite.

Part 2: A Touch Of Spite

I've had the game for 2 days and I'm already in love with Lucanis/Spite. I've not seen in much written for them so I've done it myself, I might do a part 2 if I feel so inclined.

Sleep had never come easy to you, even before you interrupted the Dread Wolf's ritual, now your mind was plagued nightly, visions of Solas stabbing Varric and the return of the elven gods haunted your dreams, what little sleep you used to get was now no longer.

It became a nightly ritual for you, to wake almost screaming and covered in sweat, the nightmares having disturbed you once more. The light house was vast and quiet, walking it's halls would soothe your nightly terrors most nights, though most of your newly recruited friends were asleep it still assuaged your mind to walk the halls. This night was no different from any other, you stood outside the door to Varrics room, guilt washing over you, causing you to walk away quickly. You did not know where your feet were taking you tonight until you found yourself outside of his room.

Lucanis had been a favourite of yours ever since he accepted the contract to help you, watching how he dispatched your enemies with ease in the Ossury caused you to notice him at first, but watching him change from a cold blooded assassin to the man you accompanied to the market is what melted your heart. Admittedly you tried to ignore it at first, you felt you had a bond with Harding after helping her train her newly gained stone magic, but this was something else, you felt bad thinking you would have to spurn her advances for Lucanis.

Luckily Lucanis kept to himself, at first you wondered why but after he told you about the demon Spite, you understood clearly then, he could not allow anyone close to him for fear of what Spite would do if it ever took over. You tried to keep your distance from him, not letting yourself get too close but you could still not deny the pull between you two. It broke your heart more to notice that Harding was pulling away from you, now you knew you were in too deep, your unconscious mind unable to accept that you could never be with him truly.

You knew Lucanis was awake as you could hear the fire crackling through the wooden door, he often staved off sleep as much as he could, giving Spite less of a chance to take over his unconscious body. You opened the door gently on the off chance he was indeed asleep, having finally succumbed to his own fatigue. There he was though, sat in the opulent armchair, his nails digging into the arm rests, his knuckles white from the force of his grip.

Ever so gingerly you walked over to him, not wanting to startle him, watching as his eyes squeezed shut, battling for control over his own body. Your voice was barely a whisper as you spoke. "Lucanis?...."

The sound of your voice snapped him back to reality, his eyes were now open but his hands remained on the chair, gripping for dear life. He shook his head as if to shake away the demon, knowing it would not work, Spite was ever in his ear, taunting him and tonight was a particularly bad night. Lucanis took a deep breath to steel himself before speaking, his voice was strained but it didn't lack any of its usual lustre to you.

"Ah Rook.... I was not expecting company tonight." The words came through gritted teeth as he tried to ignore Spite, Let me talk! I want to talk to her!. He tried to affect a small smile for you but you could see it pained him to do so. I know you want her! We want her. Spite was being relentless tonight, Lucanis had regular thoughts of you and Spite loved it, Spite wanted to speak to you as soon as they met you, he could sense you were different.

You stood there concerned, you knew he had been battling with Spite particularly bad for a few days and did not want to exacerbate things for Lucanis. "I.... I can leave if you like?..." Your voice was gentle, it always was when speaking to Lucanis, he enjoyed that side of you, tender and caring, even to him who was an abomination.

He shook his head once more and gritted his teeth before standing politely, his fists balled at his side. "No Rook" He blurted out almost too fast before composing himself. "Please stay... I'll make some coffee" A small smile crept up onto his face as you watched him walk to the coffee pot, you often shared a coffee together, enjoying the rich blend he would often make for you.

You paced the room as Lucanis attended the coffee, your hands stroking the old stone walls of the room, you often wondered how old the lighthouse was, admiring the masonry and architecture on your night time walks. You walked in silence until you felt a hand on your shoulder, turning you and pushing you against the stone wall. Lucanis was pressing his body against yours, holding you tight so you could not escape, you almost cried out until you saw the purple hue in his eyes. Spite.

Spite had been pressing and taunting Lucanis for days, begging to let him through so he could be man enough to do what Lucanis dared not to. He knew that you wanted Lucanis, he could smell your hormones and hear your heartbeat every time you were near him, each time he would shout to him, Tell her! You know we want her! Let me talk to her! Each time Lucanis held fast and kept Spite at bay, fearing Spite would ruin you, that was not what Lucanis wanted, he wanted to adore you and love you properly.

You were held against the wall, the vision of Lucanis pinning you there, his knee between your legs making sure you could not run away. Those purple eyes bore into your own and you could feel the lust behind them. You had never met Spite before and did not know how to act, yet your heart was pounding like a jackhammer, if this was Lucanis you would have given in in and instant, you didn't want to have him this way, possessed by a demon.

Oh don't worry sweetheart, he's loving this really. Spites voice was hot against your neck now, using Lucanis' lips to ghost over your skin, trying to tempt you to him. I'm only doing what he is too scared to do. Coward!. You could feel the heat from his words, laying your head back against the wall you tried to resist, In your mind you hoped Spite wasn't lying, that Lucanis did want you, but you would not take that chance, you would not believe a demon.

Spite roamed Lucanis' lips along your neck, kissing you with reverence, you tried hard not to let a small moan escape you but your attempt was futile, causing Spite to chuckle against your skin. His tour of your body only lasted a few more delicious moments, you could not deny that you had wanted this. Lucanis finally took over and laid his forehead against yours, he was breathless and his skin slick with sweat from the battle for his body against Spite.

You had no words for him as he still stood there, holding you against the wall with his body, breath ragged and desperate. Lucanis looked you over briefly and tried to utter some type of apology, but he could not, to say he had not wanted any of this was a lie, he had dreamt of you on many nights, your soft touch upon him and now you were here in his grasp.

Your foreheads were touching, panting together, you could see it was now Lucanis again and you wanted him to carry on from where Spite left off, hoping to finally break that barrier between you both. Lucanis stood before you, his eyes glancing down wondering what to say, he wanted this and was scared you would reject him. Finally he looked into your eyes, seeing the look of lust was all he needed before his lips crashed into yours, he did not even need Spite to bully him into this. Lucanis' hands roamed your body whilst his lips tasted yours hungrily, for once Spite was quiet and Lucanis would use this moment for his own personal needs.

[vir-bellanaris]

I love your blog and I hope this doesn’t come across rude but I feel like you and a lot of people are overlooking the glaring issues this game has. The writing is abysmal and they are clearly trying to pander the series towards a new audience. Whatever lore they had built up has not been addressed or has been trickled down into crumbs. That ending with Solas and the inquisitor was ridiculously bad and I don’t think we should praise them for giving us fans crumbs when they had built up this idea of a solavellan reunion and us getting a satisfying resolution. Ghil Dirthalen, a massive creator has openly been shitting on people in a recent tweet because we are ‘upset’ and put it down to people getting too invested into their headcanons. No, it is because we have been waiting for SO long, (some people who have been OG fans since Origins) and their beloved series gets turned into this? I’m tired of seeing empty praise and people not calling out Bioware’s shortcomings. This is the worst dragon age game we have ever gotten and at this point, I hope the IP dies.

Hey, normally I wouldn't post this to my blog cause I'm trying to stay positive but I do agree with everything you've said!

I don't think anything I've seen was "well-written," and I do think people have a right to be disappointed.

But hear me out now, if you will. I am simply thrilled we got a Solavellan resolution. A happy one. One where they don't both die, because honestly fam, that's what I was expecting.

To be frank, I don't care about the game as a whole. It will probably be quite a while before I play it, if I even do. I was solely invested in what happens to Solas and Lavellan.

Bestie, we got a kiss. A kiss. I can't even complain because a year ago I never thought there'd be anything ever again aside from fanwork for those two, my OTP since I was 18.

Am I peeved about some things I've seen, like the lore being messed up, etc, yes. But again, my expectations were rock bottom, so maybe I'm feeling it a bit less.

I'm sorry so many people are so upset, and I'm trying to spread positivity where I can for those who felt let down ❤️🫂

I know how much these stories have meant to people for literal decades. I know how much Solavellan means to so many people. And now, because of the ending we were given, it opens up a whole world where we can explore what happens next for those two.

And as an aside, I know there are people who are LOVING the game and are thrilled with the Solavellan ending (myself included) and the last thing I want to do is take that joy away from them.

[inquisimail]

dai love interests' letters to the inquisitor in veilguard, if anyone was curious to see them. transcriptions in alt text & under cut

Amatus,

I'm writing. Again. Yes, the sending crystals still work and yes, you'll be in Minrathous in a few short weeks. But a letter, written in blind longing, is real. It can be touched, and it can be held, when ink and paper must substitute for your skin on mine and my breath in your ear.

I used to scoff at frequent declarations of affection. Trite, I thought. Save them for rare and precious moments. But time and love are no longer things I care to squander, especially not as we race again toward calamity. And so, in each of these fleeting, ephemeral seconds, I will tell you that I love you. Whether penned or spoken, or conveyed by glance or action, I love you. In this moment, and in all the moments to come, for as long as they do, I love you.

I will find you soon.

Yours, Dorian

---

My love,

You have summoned me to Minrathous, and I will answer your call, as soon as responsibilities here in the South allow. I have missed being by your side.

Will these troubles be the last we face? The world seems always to conspire, through duty or disaster, to pull you away from me. I do not resent it. You are dedicated to purposes far larger and more significant than myself. I hope you do not think me a fool for hoping that one day, your only concern will be the color you wish our walls to be painted, or the flowers we will plant beside our gate. I'm partial to carnations.

Yours always, Thom

---

My love,

We are no strangers to duty, or the separation it demands of us. You head for Tevinter, and though I want to go with you, there is work we both must do. I will not falter in the tasks that wait before me and I pray my actions, in whatever measure they can, will keep you safe.

The others see only confidence in my resolve, but you have always known more than mere appearance. I confess to you, and you alone, that I am afraid. I'm afraid of what may happen, that Thedas will face such turmoil as it did before. I know not what awaits us. Yet even in the face of uncertainty, there are two things I cannot doubt and never will. The first is that our paths are never separated long. That I will find you at my side when I need you, as you will find me at yours. I will play my part in this and follow as soon as I can.

The second thing I never doubt is you. Whatever lies before you, trust yourself. Trust your heart as I trust it. It will not lead you astray.

Yours, Cassandra

---

Hey, Kadan,

Not the first time we've marched toward different battles. I know you're keeping the crap from catching fire up in Tevinter. Wish I could be there, but I'll make sure there's a world for you to come back to when you're done dealing with crazy vints and stupid Antaam and whatever other crap Solas kicked up. (Shit, the Antaam. Remember when I was worried what would happen if I went tal-vashoth? That right there!)

I know you're gonna be careful, and you've got Morrigan there. Just take care of yourself. If anything happens to you, I'm going to have to take Krem and the Chargers and stomp across all of Tevinter to come get you. It'll be a whole thing, and you know it'll upset Dorian.

Being apart from you made me realize something else. I spent so long being whatever the Ben-Hassrath wanted me to be. An investigator. An agent. A mercenary sending reports. These past years, since the Inquisition ended, I've been able to be just what I want to be.

And what I really want to be is yours. I like the person I am when I'm with you.

So come back safe.

Love, The signature appears to be a stylized rendering of the Iron Bull's head.

---

(An artistically doodled journal page presumably from the Inquisitor's partner, Sera.)

Keep this as close as I need you. (A drawing of a pile of flowers, with lines like it's moving, an arrow pointing to it labeled "us.")

North again, Mini-wrathus still stuck up its own pucker.

Magiturds are scared of us. They don't even know.

We work with Maevaris, right? She's wow.

So many Friends! Jennies in all the walls!

We kill him this time. He took from us twice! (A drawing of a cracked egg scribbled out, with "can't even joke" in letters that tore the page.)

Still thinking of you sideways.

Never mind the Dalish, here's the Veil Jumpers! Tempest-kin! (A drawing of a tall, shorthaired elf (Sera?) and Irelin brandishing two fingers, backflipping as a tree explodes in runes.)

The memory thing makes my head spin. If that Rook doesn't take it, throw it out.

Tell Morrigan ppbbth! for me.

I'll also tell her ppbbth! She knows why.

Tell them to Stripe. Him. Up. I wanted more books. (More heavy scribbles that tear.)

You meet; I'll keep you safe. Then I'm your time off, and you're my time on.

(The last section has different colored inks, like Sera has returned to it several times.)

New naked names: -Sweet-tits (scribbled out) -Bestest (scribbled out) -Loverly (scribbled out) -Lovey (scribbled out) -My-for-always-and-ever - name's not too long, time's too short. -But "Sweet-tits," though (scribbled out)

---

The top of the letter has been punctured by small, sharp teeth, leaving most of a beloved name and a few sentences too chewed to read.

I fear the puppy started on this letter shortly after I did. I'd start over, but I must send this tonight if it's to reach you. Matters are settled here and I make for Tevinter as soon as possible.

I almost believed chaos might spare us this time. I can't say I wished to see Minrathous before now, but I am eager to see you. I long to see your face and know that you're all right. You are— I've— There's— I wish that I was better at putting into writing all that's in my mind. For now, simply know that I love you. It is the most cherished constant of my life.

The days ahead will not be easy. I know there's much you carry, more than many realize. But whatever you must face, you will not meet it alone. You have my sword, my counsel, my—I could write this list forever when all I mean to say is this—

Whatever you need of me, I am yours.

Cullen

---

My Dearest Lady, / My Dearest Lord,

I have spoken to friends in Minrathous. They offer us their hospitality, not to mention shelter from the worst intrigues of the Archon's Palace. While you're well acquainted with the roving eyes of grand courts, please take care. Tevinter's regard can be the oldest and cruelest of them all.

The family writes the weather back home is beautiful. I do miss our quiet times together.

There is a question I've wanted to ask you for so long. I would like to pretend I have been busy, or it was not the proper time. But, if I am being honest, I only waited because I have been afraid of choosing a poor moment. Please, let me make a promise to you here.

When we return to Antiva, I will ask you, on the steps of the estate, if you will do me a great honor. And I dream you will say yes.

Always yours, Josephine

Postscript: I cannot believe it nearly slipped my mind. Yvette and Lord Otranto send their best wishes, and hope to see us back home in time to welcome their third child.

[original-person]

First post on here let's go!!

SFW the only warning I can think of is argument?

I had a thought that made me want to try and write something with scaramouche

is probably gonna feel ooc? I don't think I know his character that well so most of this is based on what I deduced from YouTube videos and such.

BEWARE I HAVE NEVER WRITTEN ANYTHING OTHER THAT WHAT SCHOOL FORCED ME TO. ESPECIALLY SOMETHING WITH G/T IN IT. (I've used chat gpt to check gramatic mistakes so if anything blame the damn ai)

If you don't know what g/t is just search up giant/tiny

Note:I think this idea fits sagau soooo-

Angst and hurt/a little bit of comfort

Summary: you invite scara to your realm of solace (your room) to rest. Maybe you should have mentioned that you have another form besides your mortal looking one.

Scaramouche was sitting in his chair next to his desk, working on documents. His hand moved with the pen, the scribbling lightly echoing in the almost empty office. It would have been empty if not for you, looking out the window, staring at what used to be the sunset, now a starry sky.

You moved from the window towards the desk and behind the chair. You hugged Scara loosely around the neck and slowly rested your chin against his shoulder. He stopped his movements to not mess up the writing, put the pen down, and slightly turned his head to you.

"Is there any particular reason you're bothering me?" he asked, his tone irritated. Ignoring his tone, you knew he didn't mean it anyway, and you let out a tired sigh. "Didn't you do enough work already? You should rest." He scoffed, turning his attention back to the documents. "I don't require rest as humans do, and you know that. Besides, I'm not done yet."

Looking at the pile of papers, it seemed like it was going to take ages. "Well, I would have less if you knew how to do your own paperwork." Ah, you said that out loud. "But still, can't it wait? I want to be with you." Burying your head deeper into his shoulder and wrapping your arms tighter around him, Scara let out a sigh and put his hand on his forehead. "Great, Archon forbid you aren't with me for some time."

You stood up and sulked next to him. Scara furrowed his eyebrows and let out a big, annoyed sigh on purpose as he leaned back into his chair before getting up and stretching. Cracking his hand, he did feel sore, but he wouldn't tell you that. Jokes on him, you noticed anyway, and you lit up instantly with an idea popping up in your head.

The god glanced at their partner with a gentle, adoring smile. “Scara,” they said softly, reaching out their hand. “I’d like to show you something special.” Scara turned to them, crossing his arms. "What is it?" "That's a secret," you put your finger on his lips, "but it is going to help you rest."

Curiosity piqued, Scaramouche closed the distance between you, grasping your hand gently. "I somehow doubt that." You raised your other hand, and with a simple gesture, the air shimmered, and the room began to change. The familiar surroundings melted away, replaced by a realm—your realm. The realm unfolded like a dreamscape, an infinite expanse of tranquility that seemed to stretch on and on. Soft, ambient light bathed the surroundings in hues, creating an otherworldly pleasant glow.

Scaramouche almost forgot you were a god. Nowadays, it feels okay again, but it reminds him of when he first found out. Oh, how he felt betrayed. He felt worthless, only a mere plaything for you. But you assured him that you didn't see him that way. That you didn't come to Teyvat, to him, just to play god. No, you just wanted to experience it from their view.

“Welcome to the realm of solace,” you said, as he snapped back to reality from his thoughts, your voice resonating with warmth. The ground wasn't surprisingly smooth; rather, it felt like he was standing on a pile of pillows that seemed to shift subtly with each step. “This is a place where reality bends to offer peace and comfort. It’s where I retreat to find solace sometimes from the world.”

Scaramouche’s eyes widened in awe as he took in the sight. The atmosphere itself seemed to slowly wrap around him like a warm blanket. “Not like anything you’ve seen,” you continued with a hearty chuckle. “I also go here to sleep every night, so I guess that makes it my bedroom."

Scaramouche, still absorbing the strange beauty of the realm, nodded slowly. “It’s... incredible,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. “Guess I don't need to doubt you anymore.”

As you settled onto the bed? Ground? Its softness enveloped you, your presence reassuring. “I hope you find it as comforting as I do,” you said, scooting a little closer to him. Scaramouche took a deep breath and let his body relax, trusting in the promise of solace, staring at the seemingly endless, changing ceiling that looked really far away. The gentle hum of the realm lulled you slowly into a deep sleep. For Scaramouche, the comfort was otherworldly, a stark contrast to when he sometimes tried to rest before, as he was quite sensitive to any sounds. But as he began listening to your light breaths, he found himself falling more into a deeper sleep.

As the night wore on, you, feeling an unprecedented sense of comfort and trust with Scara next to you, unconsciously began changing to your godly form, as you always did when you slept here. The change was seamless and silent, but it had an immediate impact on the bed's dimensions. Scaramouche stirred half-asleep, his eyes fluttered open, pushing down on the ground to sit up. His eyes widened in confusion as he glanced around. The realm's soft glow seemed to dim slightly, reality seeping back in as he noticed the absence of your familiar form beside him. Was he really sleeping so deeply? How?  Looking to where you were supposed to be, what he saw made him spring up in caution. Your comforting presence beside him had been replaced with a colossal figure, one that he did not recognize. Panic surged through him, and he bolted upright, his instincts screaming at him to run.

"Who—where?" His voice was a frantic whisper, his body trembling as he quickly turned his head in every direction for you. You were here with him, right? Where are you? Where did you go? Those thoughts were repeating in his mind that he didn't notice the slight stir the figure made.

You were drowsy, but sensing discomfort from Scara, as this realm allowed you to, you tiredly opened your eyes and saw him turning around, looking everywhere, before he felt eyes on him and locked eyes with you.

Shit. Shit, shit, shit. Scaramouche couldn't see you anywhere, and to make this considerably worse, the giant figure woke up, looking straight at him, looking almost at his very being. He felt his blood freeze in his body; he didn't think that was possible. Not wasting another second, he turned and sprinted. Can he even outrun it? Where is he running? Where are you? His breath is labored; it's hard to run on this plushy surface, almost falling at every step.

Your senses were flooded with Scaramouche's fear, and you reached out instinctively. He shouldn't be scared. Your hand, as gentle as it was large, moved towards Scaramouche to soothe him, to bring him back closer to you. But to Scaramouche, it was overwhelming.

Scaramouche’s mind raced as he stumbled, desperately trying to escape from the towering figure that had replaced the comforting presence he once knew. His heart pounded, not just from fear, but from a deep-seated sense of helplessness that he had tried so hard to bury. He hated feeling like a mere doll, a puppet whose strings could be pulled with little regard for his autonomy. The sensation of being so utterly powerless, so at the mercy of someone else, triggered memories—memories that he wishes he could forget. Memories of his early days, when he was first created and learned of his true nature. Back then, every interaction had seemed to confirm his worst fears: that he was nothing more than a plaything for a god's amusement.

The plush surface beneath him, which had seemed so inviting before, now felt like a trap, each step a reminder of his vulnerability. As he tripped, he cursed under his breath, the bitterness of past betrayals mixing with his current dread. “No, no, not again...” he muttered, struggling to get back on his feet.

You, now fully awake and aware of the distress you had caused, stopped in your tracks. Your hand hovered as you weren't sure what to do now, though intended to comfort, the hand seemed to loom over him like an ominous shadow. “Please, don't run,” your voice echoed softly, trying to cut through his panic.

But for Scaramouche, the giant form was a stark and terrifying contrast to the familiar person he had come to trust. The overwhelming size of the hand, the massive gesture, only reinforced his feeling of being a puppet caught in a storm of uncontrollable forces. He had always loathed the feeling of helplessness, of being manipulated—that's why he became a Harbinger, after all—but this situation exacerbated those fears.

"Scaramouche," the figure called, their voice resonant and soothing, but it only heightened Scaramouche's panic. Scara's eyes widened in terror as the god’s enormous hand reached towards him. Instinctively, he struggled, wriggling against the closing fingers that covered him. The sensation was overwhelming; the figure’s hand, though surprisingly gentle, felt like an inescapable force.

Your head hurt. Your senses were overwhelmed with fear, the opposite of what Scara should have been feeling. "Scaramouche," your voice was firmer now, hoping to break through his panic.

“Let me go!” Scaramouche shouted, his voice strained as he tried to free himself. His breaths came in short, panicked gasps. His mind raced with so many thoughts, memories, and fears.

Knowing you should listen, to give him at least a little bit of sense of control, you brought your other hand to the one holding him and slowly opened it, fearing he might try and jump off. Scaramouche felt his stomach flip as he was turned around in the hand. As the hand opened, Scaramouche, now on his knees, looked up, feeling forced to. He once again locked eyes with you. His violet eyes, usually sharp and filled with defiance, were now wide and vulnerable. They blinked rapidly, trying to get rid of tears that threatened to spill. Each flutter of his eyelids was a silent struggle to hold onto reality and calm his racing thoughts. The blinking slowed, but his gaze remained intense, flickering with a mix of lingering fear and desperate hope.

You slowly lifted your hands, your eyes softening with guilt almost to the point of tears. "I'm so sorry, Scara." Recognition dawned in Scaramouche's eyes. He froze, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "You—what...?" Confusion consumed him.

The confusion quickly morphed into anger. Scaramouche’s eyes narrowed, and he clenched his trembling fists. "Let me down," he snapped, his voice rising. "Now."

You flinched at the sharpness of his tone, setting him down. He took a few cautious steps back, guilt weighing heavily on you. "I didn't mean to scare you," you said softly. "I thought it wouldn't matter—"

"Wouldn't matter?" Scaramouche cut you off. "How could something like this not matter?" His voice was sharp, cutting through the tranquility of the realm. "Did you think I wouldn't find out? That I wouldn't care? You... you lied to me!"

"I didn't lie," you said softly, trying to keep your voice steady despite the tears threatening to spill. "I just... I didn't know how to tell you."

"That's a lie by omission," he spat, his fists clenched at his sides.

"Scara, please," you reached out a hand, but he flinched away, anger flashing in his eyes.

"Don't touch me!" he snapped, taking another step back. "How can I trust you now? What else have you been hiding?"

The guilt weighed heavily on you, the pain of his mistrust cutting deeper than any blade. "I never meant to hurt you. I only want to protect you."

"Protect me? From what?" His voice was a mixture of anger and hurt, a rare vulnerability showing through his usual bravado. "I don't need to be protected!"

"I know you don't," you said softly, "I'm sorry. I should have told you." You took a deep breath to calm your growing headache and began focusing to slowly form back into your smaller self.

Scaramouche watched as you shifted back, the process like one big fluid motion. His anger was still simmering but mingling with hurt. "You should have," he said as you took slow steps towards him, giving him some space. His voice was quieter but no less intense.

"Let's go back, Scara," you said as you looked at the ground in shame. Scaramouche looked at you, his expression hard but conflicted. "Fine," he muttered, not meeting your eyes. "Take me back."

You nodded, lifting your hand as the realm dissolved and his office materialized around you, the air thick with tension in the small space. Scaramouche immediately walked over to his desk, his movements tense and agitated.

You stood by the door, watching him with a heavy heart. "I'm going to get some fresh air. I'm truly sorry for all of this." He didn’t respond immediately, his back turned to you as he gripped the edge of his desk, his knuckles white. After a moment, he spoke, his voice low and strained. "Just... leave me alone for now."

You nodded, though he couldn’t see it. "Alright..." With that, you turned and quietly left the room, closing the door softly behind you. Outside, you leaned against the wall, taking a deep breath to steady yourself. The pain of his mistrust still weighed heavily on you, but you hoped that, given time, he might find it in his heart to forgive you. You pushed back against the wall as you paced back and forth, your mind equally chaotic. You couldn't help but replay the events over and over, wondering how you could have handled things differently. The weight of your guilt was overwhelming, but you were determined to make things right, no matter how long it took. You started walking towards the exit, ignoring everything around you as you walked.

Inside the office, as the minutes ticked by, the silence was deafening. Scaramouche's mind was a whirlwind of thoughts and emotions. He hated feeling this vulnerable, this betrayed.

Scaramouche sat down heavily in his chair, his mind racing. He was furious, hurt, and confused all at once. The revelation of your true form had shattered the trust he had painstakingly rebuilt with you. He didn't know how to feel, but he knew he needed time to process everything.

BONUS

As you walked down the hall, your mind still reeling from the confrontation with Scaramouche, you barely noticed Tartaglia approaching from the opposite direction. Usually, you would exchange a few words, but today you couldn’t muster the energy.

He lifted an arm in greeting. "Hey, comrade, are you—" You didn’t even glance his way, storming past him without a word. Ajax furrowed his brows in concern. He stood there, watching your retreating figure. Something was definitely off. He had never seen you this upset before. You were one of the few who seemed cheerful every day.

Curiosity and concern gnawed at him, so he decided to head towards Scaramouche’s office. As he approached, he could hear the furious scratching of a pen on paper, punctuated by occasional grunts of frustration. Ajax frowned, pressing his ear to the door, trying to make out more.

Inside, Scaramouche’s anger was palpable. His pen moved with a fury that seemed to match the tempest in his mind. Ajax pieced together the situation, concluding that you and Scaramouche must have had a serious argument.

With a sigh, Ajax stepped back from the door. He knew better than to intrude on Scaramouche when he was in such a mood. As he walked away from the office, he instead decided to find you and see if there was anything he could do.

I  Honestly hope this is okay I've been writting since midnight to 5am

[elspethdekarios]

Atonement

Hello fellow Solavellan sufferers!!! I've written a little fic about what I imagine goes down between Solas and Lavellan once the game is over. I'll have you know I listened to the Lost Elf Theme on repeat while writing it, if that tells you anything. Anyway, read below the cut or on AO3 here!

SFW, Angst, Hurt/Comfort

Words: 2,821

! HUGE VEILGUARD SPOILERS !

When she stepped into the Fade, hand in hand with her love, Sulah had no preconceived notion of what to expect on the other side, nor did she spend a moment speculating about what it could possibly be. She was with Solas, after all, and there was no use in trying to predict his actions. It was funny, really—how she found him predictable and surprising all in the same. No, there was little use trying to guess where in the Fade he would lead them. Nonetheless, she wasn't sure she would have ever expected this.

The pocket of the Fade they walked into was dull and gray as stone. In fact, most of it was stone. Fragments of buildings and debris floated slowly through the foggy sky above. Tendrils of winding roots grew up through cracks in the stone. There were staircases that seemed to lead to nowhere, and twisted, barren trees clinging to broken columns and walls. The air was so still it felt stifling in Sulah’s lungs. And Solas, downtrodden and bruised, looked like he belonged there. Like he was part of the backdrop. As if he could hear her thoughts, he spoke.

“It is a reflection of what I am. What I don't want to be.” He paused, dropping his head. “What I don't want to face.”

“This is how you atone?”

“I told you it would be terrible.”

“And I told you forever.” Sulah turned to him, heart aching for the bloodied mess of his face. “I meant it.”

Solas lifted his head enough to look at her through glassy, violet eyes. “I don’t deserve you, vhenan.”

“I think that’s up to me,” she said, wiping away a stray tear on his cheek. “Let’s talk, my love. Before you start making your amends.”

They sat with their backs against a nearby stone wall. Solas’s eyes alternated between being heavy with sleep and haunting despair. He looked so much older than she remembered him—not physically, really, but in the way he seemed to be held down with millennia of burden. On the other hand, he had the heartbreaking demeanor of a child unable to emotionally grasp the multitude of his feelings.

“I don’t know… where to start,” he breathed. With one look at her, a hint of hope glimmered amongst the sadness in his eyes. “I have missed you. Desperately so.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Sulah’s voice cracked as she spoke, a stream of tears steadily falling down her cheeks. She brushed them away and smiled sadly. “So let’s start there, shall we?”

His kiss tasted of salt and metal. She didn’t care about the wounds on his face or the small gash on his lip still swelling with blood. It had been a decade since she tasted him, touched him, spoke to him. Even though she knew he visited in her dreams, he never made contact—only watched, a dark figure in the distance. How she longed to reach out for him every time, to pull him close and find solace in his arms like she used to. Sulah crawled in front of him, her knees aching as they pressed into the cold stone, and wrapped her arms around his neck. After a brief hesitation, Solas rested his hands on her waist, his touch timid at first, like he was afraid of doing something wrong. But his touch grew more confident by the second, and soon his arms were wrapped around her so tight she could barely breathe. It felt as if a missing piece of her heart had been restored, held in place by molten gold.

“I don’t know that I can possibly tell you all of it. Perhaps I could… show you, instead.” With a single thought, Solas willed into the Fade a blue crystal statuette of a wolf, not unlike the one Sulah found when his ritual failed. He held it, concentrated on it, and its core radiated bright blue magic. He held the figure out to her. As Sulah took it from him, their destitute surroundings swirled and dissolved, leaving her in front of a young Solas. His face was not quite so worn with pain and exhaustion like the one she knew. Long, auburn hair cascaded down the center of his head, falling over his shoulder as he turned to face the other elf in front of him.

“Solas, how could you?” the other elf asked. His skin was tan, his hair was dark, and his face was marked with Mythal’s branching vallaslin. The same branches that Sulah had tattooed underneath her eyes.

“I do not expect you to understand, Felassan,” Solas said, standing tall and proud as ever. “It was necessary for the enemy to believe we were committed. A heavy sacrifice, but one that gave us a real chance to end the war.”

“You knowingly sent those spirits to their deaths!” Felassan shouted. “We’re supposed to be better than this.”

Felassan spoke to Solas with the intimacy and confidence of a close friend, unafraid to confront his wrongdoings. Sulah could make out a hint of remorse in Solas’s eyes before his face hardened into a scowl.

“I did what had to be done.”

The scene dissipated. Ruins were replaced with the glorious landscape of ancient Arlathan, sprawling greenery among grand, floating palaces. Solas argued with an elven woman who Sulah now recognized as Mythal. She was identical to the spirit fragment she had seen before stepping into the Fade with Solas, only solid and real. The words they spoke were jumbled, as if Solas couldn’t remember the exact things said when he transferred the memory to the statue, but Sulah knew what they were discussing all the same: the Blight. Solas protested, pleaded with Mythal, before finally giving in to her demands.

“I will follow you always,” he said. Sulah had never heard him sound so defeated. A distinct and overwhelming sense of shame settled over her as the scene faded.

The memories continued like this, one after the other, each one brief but enough to show her the actions that haunted him. And enough to leave her with thousands of questions. She saw his regrets from centuries ago—memories of Mythal, Elgern’an, Ghilan’nain, the other Evanuris. She saw him destroy the legacy of the titans, and the corruption that introduced the Blight to the world. She saw his sorrow at the creation of the Veil, the loss of the world he knew, the unbreakable tether he had to Mythal, similar to a commandeering mother and a child eager to please her, desperate for her approval. She saw his plans to give Corypheus the orb go awry, the conflict raging inside of him as he fell in love with Sulah, the way he almost told her the truth that night in Crestwood. She felt the guilt he carried afterwards—that he still carried. She saw him devise his devious plan to mold Rook into someone the prison would take in his place. His betrayal and desperation.

She saw the despair in his eyes when he killed Varric.

Sulah stood on the raised platform where Solas orchestrated his ritual, watching as Varric climbed the stairs in an attempt to stop his friend. Even in a memory, the air was charged with powerful magic, culminating in a swirling wind that blew her hair into her face, obscuring her view. She could only make out fragments of the argument.

“You need to listen—”

“You have come a long way and made a valiant effort, Varric—”

“—able to give me a straight answer—”

“—rather than admit this is mine to solve—”

“—who are you trying to convince here? Me or yourself?”

Varric’s last statement stung like a knife. His words echoed as time slowed. Sulah felt the heavy burden of self doubt imbued in Solas’s memory as the two men locked eyes, their argument hanging in the air between them. In a chaotic flash, several things happened: Solas turned to continue the ritual, Varric attempted to pry the lyrium dagger from Solas’s hands, and the monuments of the Evanuris surrounding the ritual site began to fall. Somewhere in the chaos, while wrenching the dagger back from Varric’s grasp, the blade pierced through his chest. The sound of ripping flesh. The gasp from Varric’s mouth.

“NO!” Sulah shouted. Time had slowed, and she rushed to catch him as he stumbled, forgetting that it was no use. Her arms moved through him like a ghost.

Solas watched his friend fall to the bottom of the stairs, regret bubbling up inside of him at what he’d done. And still, the sense of doubt from Varric’s words lingered, sullying Solas’s certainty as innocent blood seeped through the fabric of his gloves.

He steeled himself with cold resolve and turned away.

The gray of the Fade prison came back into view. Sulah felt like she had been in Solas’s memories for hours, but neither her body nor his had moved from the ground against the wall. He watched her with bated breath, his jaw clenched, eyes glossy with fresh tears. Moments ago, she watched him command a rebellion, steadfast and resolute and proud. A powerful god among mortals. But the Solas in front of her now held little of the immense ancient spirit she’d seen. He was only a man, broken from the weight of his regrets.

“I cannot ask for your forgiveness, vhenan. Not even your understanding.” His voice broke, his next words spoken through a sob. “I am so sorry that I let you fall in love with a monster.”

Solas hugged his knees to his chest. His hands shook and his body trembled as he cried. It was pure, raw, searing emotion—and it was the first time she had ever seen him lose control of himself. Sulah had been lonely for years, yearning for the man who felt like home while sleeping cold in an empty bed, but she’d never felt as alone as she felt now, sitting in the vast emptiness of the Fade with a god shedding centuries’ worth of repressed agony that she could never possibly comprehend. He was the one who always seemed to know what to do, who had a plan for everything. He was the one more familiar with the Fade than the waking world. But he was also the one who had to face his regrets. His pain. And he had already proven that he couldn’t do that on his own.

“Solas,” she said, quiet and sad. “You killed Varric.”

“I’m sorry,” he choked through tears.

“I… I knew he was gone, but no one…” she trailed off, thinking back to the letter she received from Morrigan shortly after she met Rook and the others. Varric was gravely injured in an altercation. He did not make it. I am sorry you have to find out this way. “No one told me it was by your hand.”

“They were protecting you,” he said. “From the truth of what I am. Perhaps they shouldn’t have done so.”

Sulah sat in silence, trying to piece it all together in her mind.

“I never meant to hurt Varric,” Solas whispered. “I have harmed so many people, innocent people, and Varric… Varric….”

He stopped speaking and rested his forehead on his knees, letting the tears fall on his armor.

“My love—”

“How can you possibly still love me, Sulah?” he snapped, a wolf showing his fangs. “I deserve whatever cruel fate awaits me here. You do not.”

“Solas—”

“Would you truly—”

“Let me speak,” she said, stern and commanding. Her Inquisitor voice, the other members liked to call it. It worked. Solas nodded for her to continue. “To heal from your past, you have to confront it. It will be painful, but you must. Tell me about Varric.”

Solas sighed and let his head fall back to the wall, the apex of his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“Varric was a good man. He was my friend.” He closed his eyes and Sulah watched as a single tear ran down his bloodied face. She tried to hold back her own tears, but they streamed warm down her cheeks nonetheless.

“What would you say to him if he were here?”

“That it is one of my greatest regrets, one that I desperately wish I could take back. That I enjoyed his company on our journey years ago, and that I have missed him in the years since. And that I am terribly, terribly sorry.”

Like a prayer, the final words escaped Solas’s mouth in a despondent whisper. In the distance, a structure resembling the skyline of Kirkwall crumbled. Sulah recognized it from her visit several years ago. She had only made it to Kirkwall once in the time that Varric was viscount, a position he reluctantly accepted, but one that she always suspected he secretly enjoyed. He took her to the cliffs of Sundermount, where Dalish sometimes set up camp. It looked remarkably like the area of the Free Marches her clan frequented before she left.

“I thought it might remind you of home”, he had said.

“I came here to see* your *home, Varric.”

“We’re doing that too.” he pointed across the water to the silhouetted, square buildings.

She smiled at the memory and let herself cry as the Kirkwall replica became an avalanche of stone plummeting into the abyss. When its final, broken pieces fell, Solas turned back to her and took a long breath. She looked at him, attempting to reconcile the Solas she knew and loved, the Solas in front of her now, with the Solas she saw in his memories. There was a cruel pride deep inside of him, one he tried to keep from her for so long. She could see it now, and it was fractured.

How could she possibly come to terms with all he had done? He had taken Varric away from this world, a man who, despite his faults, brought hope and friendship and humor into the world around him. She could feel the empty, aching shells of all the hearts who missed him—including her own. There were more adventures to be had, more books to be written, and Solas took it away. Away from Varric, away from the world. Sulah couldn’t bring herself to consider the even larger things he had done. The man she loved was responsible for the Blight. He tranquilized the Titans. He murdered his friends—sometimes on accident, sometimes for what he considered betrayal.

Sulah steadied her breathing and closed her eyes, focusing on the rhythm of the air flowing in and out of her lungs. She let the world fall away until she could feel nothing but the essence of her soul spreading into her limbs, making her weightless. If Solas was a spirit of wisdom, what was she, deep down? A word stirred somewhere in the depths of her heart: patience.

“This is going to take a long time, vhenan.” Solas’s words roused her from contemplation.

“Yes,” she said. “For both of us, I think.”

For the first time since reuniting, he touched her of his own accord, studying her prosthetic arm with gentle fingers before resting his hand on her thigh beside it.

“It’s a good thing time doesn’t exist in the Fade, then.” Sulah placed her remaining hand on top of his. “To answer your earlier question, I choose to still love you despite your mistakes, Solas. I love you because I tried to move on, to meet other people, but none of them could touch whatever piece of my soul that you do. Every person I tried to give my heart to was a flimsy bandage over a gaping wound. And I had to reconcile with myself that I love someone who would tear the world apart for his own stubborn pride. I know your heart, Solas. You are more than your mistakes.”

Sulah felt as if a small part of the rift between them had stitched itself back together; a fragile scar translucent and deep, but healing nonetheless. For a moment, the insurmountable hurdles she would have to help him overcome fell away. It was just the two of them, together in the Fade like all those years ago. She knew how the world would see them: the lovestruck Inquisitor and the Dread Wolf. The cautionary tale of a Dalish girl who fell right into the jaws of Fen’Harel himself.

“Sulah,” Solas reached for her face with both hands, holding her like he had to be sure she wasn’t a mere reflection of his desire. “As long as you will have me, I swear to you: I will never abandon you again. You will have me, always.”

His kiss was soft, but charged with intention. Devotion. As they broke apart, he pulled Sulah into his arms, resting his cheek on the top of her head.

“Ar lath ma vhenan. Bellanaris.”

[amourningcrow]

Late game spoilers, particulary about Varric! I wasn't able to put this into words before, but now that I've had some time, I think I can actually talk about it. It's a little long though.

I tried to start a new playthrough three times now, but I can't even make it to the ritual side without breaking down. It is, frankly, embarrassing.

But Varric means so, so much to me. I knew deep down that he wouldn't make it out of this alive - that he even survived past DA2 was a surprise to me. The man's got tragic death written all over him! But I still wish we had gotten some more out of him. Some more interactions with the companions, more banter, more relationship dynamics. We never even found out what he would have called the others! (Aside from Neve, who was 'Slick', apparently.)

This isn't even a criticism of the writing! I think it makes sense and fits his character, sadly. (Though it's also the first time they actually managed to make me hate Solas, which is quite a feat.) It's just me being heartbroken about one of - or maybe even my ultimate - comfort character. I played DA2 (and the others, too, but DA2 holds a special place in my heart in this regard) during a time in my life where I was very much just... lost, I guess. God. I think I actually felt physical fucking grief when I went through the Fade prison scene? I was shaking and sobbing the whole time and I don't know if I have it in me again.

I'm a bookseller by trade and Varric loving stories always resonated with me. He's often reduced to being the sarcastic sidekick, but I love all his aspects and complexities so very dearly.

The son who didn't ever quite fit in with the society he grew up in, who couldn't hold up to his parents expectations and so instead refused to be tied down by them, but still had a deep love for his family.

The man who was so tragically in love with a woman he couldn't have that he made her his little secret, keeping Bianca's identity even from his best friends. Who probably still didn't let go of his yearning all those years later, maybe because it was easier than opening up and getting hurt again.

The one who was always bickering with Cassandra, this steely woman he was always at odds with, but still wrote her a continuation for his romance series he didn't even think was good because beneath all of his veneer, he still cared.

Who was presented with this half-spirit half-boy and saw just a squirrely kid who needed some help to find his place in the world. (And yeah, this is special to me. Because god damn it, I never had someone like that growing up, and I would have given all my limbs and a kidney for it.)

Who was so, so full of compassion himself, despite all the shit the world had already thrown at him.

I don't know. Maybe I just have a thing for people who try to lock their hurt away so not even they, themselves, have to confront it. (Maybe because I'm a little like that myself and maybe that's why I like Lucanis so much, as well. Damn you, Mary Kirby.)

But anyway. Sorry for the vent. I just needed someplace to share this, I guess. I don't know what to do with this hole in my chest, but props to Bioware (and damn you again, Mary Kirby) for putting it there, because it's definitely not normal for me to care this much. I wasn't even this sad when I had to leave my Hawke in the Fade. Maybe they'll finally find each other again, wherever they are now 💔

[babe-a-yaga]

Alright, I haven't written fiction, fan or otherwise, in probably close to 15 years, so take this for what it is. Took a stab at a short character-exploration piece of Dorian at the end of Veilguard grappling with the loss of a Solas-romanced Lavellan best friend. I've always loved the friendship dynamic between them, and wanted a bit more from their goodbye.

The howl rang through Minrathous, and the chill left in its wake clung to her bones. Solas. She unleashed an arcane volley on an advancing hurlock as she turned. The archdemon was rising above the city skyline, it's great wingbeats stirring the air, otherwise thick and sticky with Blight. And locked in its maw, fighting fiercely, the body of an enormous wolf.

"Solas! That's Solas!”

A wave of ghouls took advantage of her moment of distraction, charging the gap in her defense. Incinerated in a blink by the magister who stood, back to her back. Ten years had passed since she last laid eyes on him outside of dreams, and the creature she beheld now was a far cry from the humble scholar she had loved, or even the grim commander she had met during the exalted council. But she knew.

"What do you bloody mean 'That's Solas'?!" Dorian swore. He caught a glimpse of the look on his friend's face, following her gaze to the battle between behemoths unfolding above them.

"Kaffas!” Dorian shouted over his shoulder, “'Dreadwolf' was a touch more literal a title than I expected."

Lusacan roared as the dread-beast managed to clamp its jaws into the dragon's shoulder, the sound eclipsing the dull roar of the fights raging in every quarter of Minrathous. The dragon thrashed hard enough to dislodge its assailant, and the tremors as the Dreadwolf collided hard with a nearby building were felt even in the lower city where they stood, punctuated by a yelp more befitting of a kicked mongrel in Docktown than the monstrous animal they watched now. 

Dorian heard the sharp intake of breath from behind him as he hurled another ball of flame at a darkspawn that had strayed too close. 

He had never understood the hold Solas had on Ellana's heart. She had been Dorian's dearest friend for over a decade. A brilliant woman, a woman who inspired Southern Thedas to follow her, an elf. Solas had never appeared worthy of her. Not as the arrogant apostate he had begrudgingly worked alongside in the Inquisition, not as the betrayer God of her people. But he did understand her, and he could feel the fear for her former lover radiating from behind him.

He quickly scanned the street, and finding they were free of enemies for a moment, placed a hand on the Inquisitor's shoulder, giving it a reassuring squeeze. 

"We'd best make haste to the Archon's palace then."

Dorian would never understand the hold Solas had on Ellana's heart. But after ten years he'd be damned if he would watch it break again. 

........................

"So after this...you'll be off again?" Dorian asked softly, shooting a sideways glance at his friend. It was no small miracle that they had all made it here, to the highest peak of the city, the magisterium halls beneath the floating palace of the Archon. 

Now not so much floating, as entrapped in an enormous tendril of Blight curling against the eerie red glow of the unnatural eclipse. 

The times they'd been able to meet in person, in the intervening years since the Inquisition disbanded, were fewer and briefer than he'd have liked. His own doing, he knew. She had offered to come with him to Minrathous, all those years ago, when he had first ascended his father's seat in the Magisterium. 

Without the Inquisition, without her clan to return to, without her lover, Dorian was the closest connection she had had left, and he knew she would have followed, and laid before him  the entirety of what resources remained to her, but he had turned her down flat. Some of it had been pride, he had wanted to build his reputation as Magister Pavus free of any more whispers of Southern Influence than were unavoidable, and having the former Inquisitor behind him in the shadows would close as many doors as it opened to him. 

Part of it was a protective doubt. Dorian loved his country, fiercely so, but whatever clout her name still carried in the South, this was Tevinter, and she an elf. The Inquisition was not so fondly thought of in Minrathous as in the backwater villages of Ferelden. The best he could do was leverage the status of his birth, and fight toward a Tevinter where his friend could one day be seen for the marvelous mind and gifted mage she was, and not the pointed ears she was born with. So Dorian had refused her. He privately cursed himself for that lost time now.

Still, they spoke nearly daily. The sending crystals they shared were a lifeline in his early days as magister. Whatever perceptions he cultivated of the cocky, assured Altus mage, forging confident new political paths for the Lucerni on his own merit alone, privately he relied on Ellana's council more than he'd admit, even to Maevaris. The Inquisitor was a leader of people, and a wise and steady hand besides, and he valued her insights more than he'd ever put voice to out loud.

But late night chats muttered into a glowing rock were poor substitute for the full presence of his friend. For all of his performative confidence and bravado, Dorian Pavus lived for those brief trips, for laughter over too many cups of wine. For the knowing glances and sly smiles between two friends who had faced and conquered more ends-of-the-world and would-be Gods before this moment than any living people could boast. Ellana Lavellan was his rock. 

"Something like that."  She answered with a reserve characteristic of herself, but beneath it lay an evasiveness more akin to the man battling the Archdemon on the rooftops around them. She was tense. More-so than the rest of them. Dust rained from the ceiling as something massive collided with the roof above, causing the entire building to shudder. The battle between Archdemon and Dreadwolf had been raging for hours. With each impact and each canine yelp and howl that rang out, he could see the tension wind tighter within her. And she avoided his glance when she replied.

A casual observer wouldn't see it. The Inquisitor kept her cards close to her chest. Perhaps it was a 'Dalish thing', perhaps it was prudence from years of leading a large para-military organization under intense political scrutiny, but she was not a woman who allowed her emotions rule her in sight of others. In all their years of friendship, through all the challenges and losses they had seen together, Dorian had only seen her undone twice. Not after Haven, not when they received word that Clan Lavellan had been exterminated to a man, not when Solas had first broken her heart at Crestwood.  These trials, which might surely have broken a lesser man, Ellana had borne with a stoic serenity, at least in public, that only fueled the religious fervor that followed her. 

Even when it was just the two of them, away from prying eyes of servants, religious devotees, soldiers, and the many nobles aspiring to allyship with the Inquisition, it wasn't a shoulder to cry on she looked to Dorian for. It was laughter, that Dorian brought to soothe the troubles of the Lady Inquisitor. 

It was only after they had come face-to-face with the first Inquisitor, Ameridan, after they had slain the Avvar God Hakkon Wintersbreath, and chased the man's scattered memories to hell and back across the Maker-forsaken Frostback basin, when they found the final memory of his elven lover, Telana, did he finally witness his always-steadfast friend crack beneath the weight of it all. 

There, on a remote island in a mountain lake, far removed from any onlookers besides her closest companions, Ellana Lavellan came untethered. It was Solas who comforted her then, as she sobbed in the dirt by the light of the moons, and Dorian had had to furiously bite his tongue. He had seen the parallels, of course. You'd have to be blind not to. The first Inquisitor, a mantle thrust upon his shoulders without his ask or consent, but one he rose to carry just the same, a Dalish mage. All traces of his Elvhen nature, of his magic, of everything politically inconvenient. Everything that comprised who he truly was, stricken from chantry history. And he could see in his friend's face as the truth was revealed to her, some 800 years later, carrying the same title, the same legacy, with no clan, no Vallaslin, nothing left but her ears to tell the world who she was, where she'd come from, that she knew the same fate was already unfolding for her. 

The elven dreamer lover, separated from Ameridan at the end, when the battle was nearly won, and then dying alone in this isolated place, her spirit crying out for her Vhenan centuries later, was a bridge too far, even for one as strong as she. So Dorian had stood back while his friend grieved the life she had lost in pursuit of a better world for them all, as any remaining hope that her sacrifices might have bought some safety or influence for her people evaporated. While her own elven dreamer, separated from her just before the final fight, held her quietly until her emotions had run through her. They hadn't then known the truth of who Solas was. Didn't know why he had abruptly cut off their entanglement, with little warning, citing only 'duty' in his defense. Most worthy thing the man ever did, thought Dorian privately. But when he disappeared entirely after the defeat of Corypheus, Ellana had never been able to let him go. 

The second time was after they foiled the Qunari plot at the Winter palace. As they finally claimed their victory over the Saarebas, the last obstacle in their path, Ellana had forged ahead through the final Eluvian, toward what they had expected to be a final confrontation with the Viddasala. A barrier had sprung up behind her, blocking Rainier, Cole, and Dorian from following her through. What awaited her on the other side, of course, had been a confrontation not with the Qunari, but with Solas himself.

Dorian, for all of his not inconsiderable magical talent, had been unable to even begin to untangle the wards between them, though he fought desperately to reach her. The magic at work to keep them away was more powerful than anything he had encountered, in Tevinter, in all of Thedas. In living memory, it turned out. Then, as abruptly as it had sprung up, the barrier fell, and Dorian had sprinted through the mirror, gripped with the terror that he had perhaps lost his best, and perhaps only, true friend.

 They found her screaming. It was a sound that etched itself, in sharp detail, into Dorian's memory forever. Her arm, the one that had borne the anchor that had set in motion the events that had lead them all to this moment, was disintegrating before their eyes. Solas was gone. He had finally given Ellana the truth she deserved long ago, the truth of his identity as Fen'Harel, the truth that he still claimed to love her. The truth that that love was not enough to turn him from his path. He gave her the truth, and then saved her life from the wild magic of the anchor that was actively consuming her. The process involved removing the anchor arm entirely, and the agony was beyond fathoming. Dorian was the first to her side, lifting her tiny elven frame with so little effort she might as well have been a doll. The screaming only stopped when unconsciousness finally took her.

When they arrived back at Halamshiral, Dorian barely left her side to piss. It was days before he could finally be convinced she was truly on the mend enough to see the rest of the Exalted Council through to its, and the Inquisition's, bitter end. 

Dorian had never forgiven Solas for that. She was alive, he was, though somewhat venomously, grateful to the mage for that much. It was a truth not discussed, but ever more inescapable, that the anchor would have claimed her life without intervention. The magic had been growing more volatile by the hour, by that time, and despite his best efforts, its power was beyond Dorian's ability to contain. Not without time to study the forces at work, anyway. And time had not been on their side. But for what Ellana had been through, Dorian had a lengthy list of things he intended to visit upon Solas should their paths ever cross again, and all of them violent. 

Rook had departed some moments ago, ascending the blight tendril to launch her final assault upon Elgar'nan, and the mood in the rooms below was dense with anxiety. Ellana inhaled slowly, her back rigid and hand twitching toward her staff, clearly steeling herself for something.

"She's killed at least as many Gods as you have, by my counting." The corner of his mouth quirked with the half-hearted attempt at levity, "If anyone other than you can wrap this up cleanly by supper time, Rook is the one."

Her hand arrested before reaching the staff, and this time Ellana caught his gaze. Though on some level, he had known her intention, the full realization hit him now and the smile faded from his face. 

"You're not coming back."

Before anyone in the room could react, the former Inquisitor and the soon-to-be Archon were locked in a tight embrace. All of her reserve, all of his bravado, and all audience forgotten. Ellana had launched herself around Dorian's neck. Dorian's breath caught in his throat.

"I have to try." 

"He'll never deserve you, my friend." Dorian muttered in her ear, trying to blink away the sting that threatened his eyes, arms wrapped around her, squeezing her fiercely to his chest, Ellana's toes fully lifted from the ground with the force of his hug. 

A thousand scenes of a thousand shared moments played in his mind. Dozens of hands of Wicked Grace in the Herald's Rest, bawdy stories of the times Before they came together, traded freely as drinks flowed and bets changed hands. Dozens of moments when he, who had never had her gift for gracefully bearing his troubles, had turned to her for gentle words and a steady head when he was deep in his self-pitying cups. When his father had first reached out, conspiring with that insufferable, meddling Chantry Mother to trap him into reconciliation. A reconciliation he'd have thrown away for pride and anger without her to temper him. When Alexius had been captured. When word arrived of Felix's passing. When a flirtation with a handsome Laetan mage had turned sour. When Maevaris had taken the fall for a political misstep, allowing herself to be stripped of title and position to protect his own. Dozens of moments of explosive laughter in Skyhold's library, trading jokes, and flirts, and the best bits of gossip about the Inquisitor and the Tevinter they managed to glean from eavesdropping on the cooks and the servants. All ludicrous, but they both lived to feed into the tales. Their shared little rebellion amidst so much duty to Chantry image. All of them, moments Dorian treasured. He wasn't ready to face a world where she wasn't a whisper to a sending stone away.

"You'll make an incredible Archon, Dorian." She choked back, "You have always been my dearest friend. That doesn't change, wherever I may go."

Even now, when she was about to face perhaps the greatest storm yet, it was she who reassured him. Finally, with one last squeeze, Dorian relaxed his grip, lowering her back to the floor, and Ellana pulled away, swiping her hand across her eyes as she turned.

"I know it's a tall ask, Magister Tilani," Ellana smiled, "but do try to keep him out of trouble."

"It's just Maevaris to you, Inquisitor." The other woman stepped forward, placing a hand gently on her shoulder and returning her smile, "and I'm afraid trouble is what he's signed up for. But he won't face it alone, I can promise you that much."

Ellana took her staff in her hand, decisively this time, and turned her gaze back to meet Dorian’s again. 

"Whatever will I do without you?" Dorian whispered, a noise that was intended as a chuckle but came out half-choked escaped him.

Ellana shot him sideways smile. "Unparalleled wit and powerful magister that you are? You won't even notice I've gone."

Dorian managed the chuckle then. "You forgot breathtakingly handsome."

The silence stretched between them, the weight of another last time hanging from every moment of it. 

"I won't be the one to say it." Dorian declared, raising an eyebrow with feigned petulance.

"No, I suppose this one is on me." Ellana sighed, then offered him one last sad smile. "I love you, Dorian. Goodbye."

And then she was gone, disappeared into the corridor where Morrigan awaited. 

...................................

Dorian stood alone on the balcony, surveying the city below. Dawn's first rays coloured the sky. The soft silver of morning painting a stark contrast to the apocalyptic red sky of the eclipse that had preceded it. The day was won, the world saved again, for now. But as Dorian gazed down at the wreckage of the city - his city - it was difficult to feel victorious. Minrathous was in ruin. It would be days at least before they had any idea of the toll in lives. Blackened, dessicated Blight crawled over what felt like every other building. Removal alone was an intimidating undertaking, to say nothing of repairing the actual damage. 

Minrathous had never in history fallen - until now. And he was its Archon. How was he meant to remake Tevinter socially, when he now needed to rebuild it physically? Stone by stone? 

Dorian reached for the wine on the nearby end table, ignoring the goblets that had been placed beside it and instead taking a long swig directly from the bottle. 

Two goblets, he had had the servants set out before the battle began in earnest. One for himself, one for....

Dorian had been waiting at the head of the crowd when Rook and their companions descended the now-blackened tendril that anchored the Archon's palace above the city - his palace, now. If they could figure out how to free it without bringing it down around their ears. Eyes scanning the climbing figures for signs of a small elven woman, returning against all odds once more. 

"Rook! You've done it?"

The Shadow Dragon nodded as she jumped the last few feet from the Blight tendril back down to solid stone. She looked as worn down as he felt. Probably worse, he thought. "Elgar'nan is dead. The Veil stands." 

A cheer went up in the crowd behind him. People hugged, and cried. It was over. The Blights, the city's occupation. It was over. Dorian was not deterred. 

"And Ella- the Inquisitor?" He pressed, "Solas?"

"Get my people healers and you'll have my full report, Archon Pavus." 

Dorian took another swig from the bottle. Rook had been true to her word, she had told him everything, in as much detail as she was able. 

He had known, of course. Long before this, even, that Ellana was going to try to convince Solas, to save him from himself. She believed, long past the point of sense, - or evidence - Dorian thought bitterly, Varric's face flashing in his mind, that there was good in Solas' heart and that it could be reached. And she had reached it, in the end. And she had gone with him, to the Fade. Perhaps to the Black City itself.

"You'll never beat the 'Herald of Andraste' allegations now, my friend." Dorian said to the empty balcony, with a chuckle. 

He felt the heat of the tears on his cheeks, irrepressible now, in the solitude of his own chambers, with the wine spinning in his head. He ran a thumb over the smooth facets of the sending crystal, an unconscious gesture he made often, the stone always around his neck, an ever present reminder that he wasn't alone. Except where she had gone now, not even Dorian's magic could reach her.

He lifted the pendant from his neck, and held the stone in his palm, staring at it. It was mad - futile. The magic was of his own design, crafted to carry words across distance, not dimension. But grief makes fools of the best men, and despite his posturing, Dorian did not count himself among the best men. He raised his palm toward his face, and whispered into it, a plea he did not expect an answer to.

"Ellana Lavellan"

The stone glowed.

[queenaeducan]

Related to that post by mythalism, I've seen so much criticism of VG written off bc it was written by a Solas fan. As if the reason I couldn't like the game was bc I am a fan of a particular character, but in the days leading up to DA4's release I remember telling people that my love of Solas was rooted in the love of the lore and the world. That I was anxious about his ending, but that he was a culmination of many of the things I loved about Dragon Age and that even if I had criticisms about its handling of him, I'd be ok because I'd have the world of Thedas.

But then I didn't have that.

The keenest sense of disappointment I had playing VG for the first time wasn't related to Solas at all, in fact. It was after Harding's personal quest. I was a dwarf fan long before I was an elf fan, and the fact that the culmination of the stuff I had loved since I played the Aeducan origin on my parents' couch back in 2012 felt so... bland and full of empty hope gutted me. That the slow apocalypse the dwarves have been struggling against since the Blight got back into the world was kind of shrugged off without any meaningful action being taken or even planned felt bad, and ultimately emblematic of what I disliked about Veilguard. The world, to me, had never looked better and never felt emptier.

[dross-the-fish]

Do u think Solas would have killed Lavellan if it has been her instead of Varric?

to be honest I think he would have killed her if she had earnestly tried to stop him. It doesn't even mean he didn't have feelings for her but looking at his track record caring about people has not been a deterrent before so there's no reason it would have been at the time. Not for a person he's only known for a year and hasn't spoken a word to for almost a decade. Varric was his friend, Felassan was his friend, who knows how many friends he has buried because his mission comes first. That is something that has been consistent with his character, that he will put the mission above his own wants or interests. To a point this is because the game requires certain plot points to be met and the story would be over if he could be swayed before the final battle. That's partly why I don't like the idea of romanced Lavellan or the high approval Inquisitor being framed as somehow "exceptional." Because for 1000s of years no one else was.

Stripped to the barest components (time-frame, interactions, levels of emotional intimacy shared between both parties) there is nothing about the relationship between Solas and the Inquisitor that justifies viewing it that way. It would be a blip even in a regular human life time. I cannot think of any reason to justify why Solas would have spared someone he claimed to love but still held at arms length for a year when one of his closest friends of 1000 years wasn't worth sparing. And if he would spare a romanced inquisitor that doesn't make him look better. It doesn't redeem him. It just says he values his romantic relationships, no matter how brief and uneven they were, over everything else. It would make him a hypocrite and cheapen the one thing that works about his character. his commitment to putting aside his own feelings for "what must be done". I think the dissonance for me comes down to the framing vs the actual logistics and that's been my whole beef with Solas as a character where what I'm told doesn't match what I'm shown. There are people that will argue that Solavellan is a deep romance and it's well written but I've always felt like compared to the other romances it was a bit of an after thought and a very shallow experience that relies heavily on the player to create headcanons to sustain it. It's also one that requires you to create a character that is ultimately ok with never being trusted or treated as an equal and to some degree being willing to forgive being used. Let's not forget in the inquisitor's romance Solas has all the cards. He's the very reason everything in the game is happening and intentionally or not he is responsible for the current state of the world.

He watches the inquisitor shoulder the burden of cleaning up his mess and restoring order to the world but he never gives them more than breadcrumbs or nudges in the right direction. I think what i find the most repulsive is that he would have watched the inquisitor die unknowingly as a direct consequence of his actions while carrying on a romance with them. Case in point, in Trespasser when the mark IS killing the inquisitor it's still ultimately on them to do the leg work to track him down and find him. He's not going to come to them and he only even waits for them to catch up because he needs the anchor. He would not have been by their side or offered them any kind of comfort or protection had something killed them before they could reach him. The inquisitor could also have died at any point from the blight Solas caused in that 10 year span he was gone because they have been on the front lines the whole time. The inquisitor's survival has NEVER been his priority unless there was something he needed from them. He has always viewed them as expendable. He had already committed to thinking of them as a cherished regret. Which is why I fully believe he would have killed the inquisitor if it had been them instead of Varric, even if it was a romanced Lavellan.

[ravioliage]

What is this about So/lavellan fans whining about Lucanis saying he won’t let Solas hurt Rook (again)? What are they complaining about?

They can't stand any slight against their genocide blorbo, and to them a character is badly written if they in any way stand against Solas.

I've seen them cry about how "Rook is a shitty protagonist that they'll never forgive BioWare for" (actual quote) just because of Rook's staunch (and reasonable) anti-Solas stance.

And that's all I'll say before a bomb is sent to my house