#icis lavellan

[lotuslia]

So I've been strongly on team "Ellian won't remove her vallaslin" (and she'll do a u-turn to go romance Lace Harding afterwards anyway)

but then I thought... what if... matching tattoos...

[Ellian & Brass are from my second worldstate where he has the anchor and she becomes inquisitor]

[fenharel-apologist94]

They’re talking nerd shit

[midnight-coffee94]

Picrew Tag Game!

Was tagged by @beast-of-moss on this post. Got lost in blrobo thoughts. Made a new game!!

Rules: Using this picrew, design yourself and your OCs! Or just your OCs if that’s what you’re comfy with - it’s up to you!! :D ✨

Featuring: a wild Icy, Kieran Lavellan and Sethari Lavellan!

Tagging: @vahingoniloinenlapsi @transprincecaspian @beast-of-moss @nightmarist @idolsgf and @rustythorns and anyone else who’d like to do it!!! :D

As always, no pressure and reminder it’s up to your comfort level!!! :D it can just be your ocs, it was a fun picrew! :3

[katsitsiyo]

Praying for a quest in the Lighthouse where Solas and a Solas-romanced Lavellan are both there and have to work together unwillingly as advisors. They’re icy, barely acknowledge each other, and their history and UST are ruining the vibes at base.

So Rook has to go back and forth between the two of them to relay messages until Rook puts their foot down and tells them they have to finally figure out their issues on their own if their plan is going to be a success.

If you’re successful, they’ll be standing next to each other the rest of the game being all lovey with each other. 🥹

The quest can be called “Operation get mom and dad back together”.

[lagunapoint]

1,500 sad words about Lavellan's last day in Skyhold, filled with tears and pain, inspired by the beginning of the rainy season💔

At the end, as usual, there's audio if you love the atmosphere

Skyhold roared in the evening haze. Former soldiers of the Inquisition were packing their belongings, noisily bidding farewell and pouring ale for each other. In the tavern, voices never ceased. Everyone wanted to pay their respects to their comrades and to the Inquisitor, who had united them, inspired them, and kept order. This battle was over, and Lavellan had let them all go to live their happy lives, allowing them at least a few years to simply enjoy their work, their families, and their love, far from service, war, and death. She knew all too well about the healing power of love, as well as the hopelessness and selfishness of war.

Lavellan slowly ascended the main staircase and looked into the empty hall, where only shadows and ghosts of her allies remained. Once, the hall had been full of noise, guests laughing and gossiping, messengers darting back and forth, but now only workers were taking down the heavy curtain. The fabric fell to the floor with a terrifying crash, sending clouds of dust into the air. Lavellan smiled sadly. Her life collapsed in much the same way, created by the people around her and destroyed by their hands. But in this chaos, she had found her true self and... him.

She took a few unhurried steps, paused by the extinguished fireplace, and cast a quick glance to her left. Emptiness. Varric would have certainly said something ridiculously amusing, seeing her weakness and tired gaze. He would have immediately tried to stop her from entering the rotunda, and she could hear his warnings and advice to move on in her thoughts. Perhaps he could have been right, but Lavellan had delayed it for too long. She dispelled the images and entered the dark and empty rotunda.

The click of her heels echoed, rising up to the library, where only a few candles flickered like distant beacons, before dissolving among the empty cages of the ravens. The lights that had once illuminated the frescoes with a warm glow had gone out, and there was no one left to rekindle them. The door leading to the connecting bridge to the commander’s tower stood wide open, and an icy wind blew in from there. Out of habit, Lavellan wrapped her arms around herself, bracing against the biting cold, and a painful spasm gripped her consciousness when only one hand performed the motion and touched the still aching stump. Darkness engulfed her like a blanket as she closed her eyes, and hot tears rolled down her cheeks. She couldn’t move, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think.

“Don’t do it, my friend,” the low voice of the mage came from above, shaking the rising panic that gripped Lavellan. She swallowed the lump with a slight sob, but instead of it, chains of pain constricted her throat, forbidding her to speak and trying to choke her.

“Listen, if it helps, I’ve done some checking. The decision to disband the Inquisition has calmed many people here, in Orlais, even in Tevinter. Some had begun asking too many questions about you, but now... it’s all quiet.”

Silence. Stillness. The mage stepped back from the railing he had been leaning on.

“Why am I even saying all this?” he muttered to himself, turning his gaze aside. “This isn’t what you want to hear.”

“I have to do this,” the elf whispered, ignoring the familiar voice, and waved her hand. The entire rotunda ignited with light, illuminating the vibrant frescoes that depicted her path. Once, they told the story of her victories, her strength. Now, they reflected only emptiness. She looked around desperately, quickly, on the edge of panic and hope.

Her breathing quickened, and she felt reality crashing down on her, as her hopes shattered into tiny fragments, just like the mirrored surface of the eluvian in the distant room, unable to withstand the force of her magic. A few days ago, in a fit of rage, she had destroyed what could have once brought him back, leaving her not even a sliver of hope. Swiftly, precisely, and irreversibly just as the void of the rotunda now screamed in her face that everything was over. Lavellan froze and covered her eyes with her hand. Her shoulders shook with uncontrollable sobs, twisting her insides, turning her inside out, making the air around her vibrate, thinning the veil, and drawing in demons from the Fade, eager to feed on her suffering. Perfect. Perhaps the danger would bring him back? A distant rumble of thunder reached her ears, low, mournful, deep. It was the same sound the Breach had made before it was sealed, trembling with waves of magic, electricity, and death. Breathing was unbearably painful, as if with every breath, she inhaled shards of broken glass, cutting into her lungs and tearing her heart apart.

He wasn’t here. On the table, his unfinished work and letters remained. The ink in his inkwell hadn’t dried, and the quill lay on the parchment. She lowered her hand from her face and looked at the mess on his desk. Could she read what he had left unfinished? Did she even want to? With trembling fingers, she reached for the parchment, when suddenly, her hand was covered by another. Warm, gentle, and always soothingly tender. Lavellan glanced up, and the brief flash of hope that lit up her face quickly faded.

"Dorian," she stumbled over the name, accepting his kind gesture. A gesture meant to save her from even more pain. A gesture meant to protect her already shattered heart. Her thin, icy fingers found support in his hand, and she turned to him, pressing herself against his shoulder. Her body ignited. It ignited with the terrible pain of despair and acceptance.

"He's gone, Dorian. I…" she panicked and tried to pull away, but with a gentle motion, Dorian placed his other hand on her back, not denying her the refuge of their friendship.

"Yes, my friend. He acted like a true idiot. I don’t care about his godhood, he condemns everyone he touches to suffering." Dorian paused and cast a quick glance at the vibrant frescoes on the walls. "Ah, damn fool. I miss him too. Not like you do, of course, but he helped us. Helped us a lot. He was almost killed twice, and yet he still stayed with us until the end. I’ve almost gotten used to his choice of clothes."

Lavellan barely listened to what Dorian was saying. She remembered how Solas used to be jealous of him. How his gaze would flicker, and his brow would arch slightly when she mentioned that Dorian had shared new information and that this information could be trusted. It was so funny, so ridiculous, so beautifully romantic, given that Solas knew Dorian’s preferences, yet it never stopped him. And in a cruel twist of irony, it was Dorian who remained with her in the very end, leaving a crystal to be there for her when she needed it most, and now he sacrificed the silk fabric of his robe to offer comfort for her tears.

"Thank you for staying, even if only for a little while," Lavellan stepped back, no longer daring to make use of his care, and wiped away the remaining tears.

"Don’t mention it. I know, I’m an amazing friend, and you’ve never met anyone like me," Dorian’s feigned half-smile lit up his face for a brief moment before fading just as quickly. "Are you all right?"

"Me? No, I’m not all right. I came here to say goodbye. Tomorrow I’m leaving Skyhold. And I think… for good," Lavellan’s voice cracked, and Dorian looked into her eyes with concern. He saw nothing but emptiness, where once joyful sparks had danced in her green irises.

“In Minrathous, you’ll always be welcome, you know that? I’ll prepare an entire basket of sweet fruits for you and a room with a view of the sea. I miss the warmth and the ocean so much, I’m sick of this cold and endless mountains.”

“You’ll prepare it yourself?” Lavellan raised an eyebrow skeptically.

“Well, you don’t know all my secrets yet,” Dorian quipped sarcastically. “And... if you ever need me, just say the word. This was the most important journey of my life. It changed me. You and the Inquisition changed me. I’ll always be there for you. I promise.”

“Stop, Dorian,” Lavellan felt her breath catch again, and she quickly wiped away the foolish tears from her cheeks. “Don’t say goodbye to me. I hate goodbyes now.”

“All right, lady Lavellan. In that case, goodnight,” Dorian gave a polite bow, with a feigned smile, though his eyes betrayed a growing worry and concern. It was hard to say whether it was the reluctance to leave his friend at such a moment or the weight of everything they'd been through together.

“Goodnight, Magister Pavus.”

“Ugh, how pompous that sounds!” Dorian began, leaving Lavellan behind, “I’ll never get used to that tone. Though… I suppose I already have.”

Lavellan followed him with her gaze, watching as he left the rotunda, and as the door closed behind him with a soft creak. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath. If tomorrow she was to leave Skyhold for good, tonight she would spend here, in the rotunda, surrounded by the living reminders of him. Here, where she always found solace. Here, where she rushed on her darkest nights and her brightest days. Here, where her heart beat and her love lived.

[anti-eluvians]

Lavellan changes after drinking from the Well.

She had mirrored her surroundings, trying to be as bland and Chantry-like (as human-like) as possible. If she acts too inhuman this unpredictable Seeker might throw her back in the dungeon to be forgotten. Certainly no one in Haven would protest. She reaches out to other elves but is swiftly rejected. She doesn’t hear from the clan and assumes she must handle this alone. So Lavellan smiles and tells no lies. She moves softly. She doesn't know what happened in the Fade, she makes no claims of divinity, she tells jokes only when she knows they will land. She asks Cassandra if an elf should really lead this religious Inquisition, then declares the Inquisition for order, for safety, for all of Thedas. Only when asked directly does she say “I believe in the Elven gods.” And when Cassandra asks "Is there no room in your pantheon for one more god?” Lavellan bites her tongue and smiles.

After the mages, the Wardens, Halamshiral, she reflects less and dares more. She tells jokes that makes her audience groan. She charms the most prickly Orlesian visitors, teaches Harding dances and trades songs with Maryden. She helps Cole help people, she adopts Sutherland And Company, she attends drinking parties with the Chargers, she tends the wounded at Skyhold, she visits the soldiers down in that icy pass at Skyhold’s feet. She is everywhere doing good works, carefully building a reputation for the Inquisition and the Dalish and, despite herself, the Maker. She smiles at “rabbit” and tells Solas later that she just barely resisted the urge to hop around the ballroom. Leliana only gets reports of muffled screaming (as if into a pillow) after particularly nasty nobles visit. Lavellan is friends with everyone in the fortress, she is interested in everyone and all they have to say. She interviews scholars and priests, taking copious notes, until they flee the castle. She joins or starts chess tournaments open to all. She pulls in Dalish mages to show the kitchen staff (and any human mage who will listen) how to make ice cream. 

But after the Arbor Wilds, everyone tumbling to the floor in a tangle days before the Inquisition leaders can return, she stays down longer than the others. Morrigan and Solas leave immediately, and only Cole remains when she can finally stand. Over the next month the inner circle finds her staring into space more and more often. They find her in the eluvian room where Morrigan no longer goes, sitting beside the mirror with eyes closed and face lifted to the sunlight. Iron Bull and Varric hear whispers that she’s praying. Sera joins her one day but can’t stand being so close to ancient elfy magic and flees after an hour. Blackwall quietly carves her a chair in the Dalish style and asks Dorian to distract her while he sneaks it into place.

Lavellan is less prone to bad jokes. She trains alone and starts fewer games with the denizens of Skyhold. For a week she skips her nightly study session with Dorian and Josephine, driving them both frantic with worry. But after seven days she appears like clockwork, bringing a small journal crammed with notes on ancient elven culture to discuss with Dorian. She begins to wander the soldiers’ camps near the lake, or stare into the wind on Leliana’s balcony, or, more and more often, sit silent in the eluvian room. The normal folk assume she is praying to one god or another. Those closer to her hope she is meditating on the mirror and what Corypheus might do, until one day Vivienne sees a flash of light and watches her step down from an unannounced stroll in the Crossroads.

“You are the Inquisitor,” Josephine begs over dinner that night. “Please do not go to such dangerous places alone. I cannot think what we would do without you!” Lavellan blinks, her halla-horn mug paused just above the table. Most of the circle holds their breath. “I wasn’t alone,” she assures them all with the smile that Josie now dreads. “I had an excellent tour guide. The spirits of the Well are very familiar with the Crossroads.” Solas stands, drawing everyone’s attention. Impishly Lavellan adds, “And they're full of stories.” The elven apostate leaves without a word.

Morrigan and Solas rarely speak to her anymore. Lavellan pretends not to notice but her hurt is made obvious by Cole’s sudden, constant presence at her side. Varric knows she looks up to Morrigan as a hero of the Blight. Solas’ sudden withdrawal had left her spinning, untethered and angry. At first Varric (and the rest of the castle) attribute her odd behavior to the breakup, but her resilience and stubbornly hopeful outlook make that hard to believe. But many more things go missing around the fortress, and when asked Cole apologizes for leaving so many people bemused. But he also says the tree's roots have not regrown so he will not stop. Whatever he's doing helps; Lavellan begins to spend less time with the mirror and more among her people again. The chess tournaments resume though she refuses to play herself. 

But months pass and during state dinners, or out in the field on night watch, or in the war room, she closes her eyes mid-sentence to listen to something only she hears. She might nod, or frown, or smile gently, then look at the faces around her and change the subject. When Morrigan sees this she always leaves the room in a huff. When Solas sees this, The Iron Bull tells Krem over a pint, he flees like his clothes were afire.

Lavellan replaces her human-made armor with Dalish styles one piece at a time. Cassandra frets at the lack of steel until Lavellan points out that the chainmaille on her arms is safer than the hide she had been using. Only the Inquisition chestplate remains, strapped on over tabard and belts. She polishes it herself to such a shine the eye flashes when she turns, blinding enemies but calling allies. She is always fully present during a fight but the inner circle votes not to send her to the front lines; keeping her safe is more important than keeping her present.

One day while bringing books to the Inquisitor’s tower Dorian sees the Templar flag is down, neatly folded and draped across a banister. In the room upstairs, he tells the others, are the red sheets presumed lost to Cole’s helpfulness weeks ago. They gently drape from ceiling to the floor over her bed, a long warm arc like a ship’s sails. The image reminds Cassandra of something she can’t quite place until their next visit to the Exalted Plains, Dalish aravels rumbling past them on the road. Cassandra watches the Inquisitor wave to the clan with a smile on her face and something dark in her eyes. That night Lavellan goes missing again and returns at daybreak, arms full of dusty relics from a lost elven fortress nearby. The group seeks out yesterday’s clan and spends hours being thanked, fed, blessed, and promised favors for the return of such treasures. Cassandra watches the Inquisitor laugh and smile and ask if she can visit them at the next Arlathvhen. 

After months of avoiding the Exalted Plains and Emerald Graves, suddenly the inner circle is in semi-permanent residence. Lavellan vanishes for hours at a time and comes back with torn clothes or twigs in her hair. Dorian, Varric, and Vivienne work out shifts to escort her on what turn out to be simple walks. They move with her through mists and down paths, taking her gently by the arm when she’s so deep in thought she doesn’t see the trees ahead and the giants in the distance.

Then at last, after two encounters with Mythal they are ready. Everyone agrees Corypheus has been too quiet. The Inquisition has the power and people to stop him if they just knew where to look. During a late night (or early morning) war briefing Lavellan takes too long to respond to Josephine's "Does the Well have any suggestions?". The advisers trade nervous looks as her eyes sink closed then snap open. Cullen softly ventures “What um... did they say?” Her glance cuts through him, through the walls, through the stone and wood between the War Room and the library rotunda.

She walks out. 

[thatapostateboy]

I'll be your safety, you'll be my lady

Pairing: Freya Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford

Word Count: 1569

Synopsis: in which Cullen has a nightmare, and makes a confession to his lady

Prompt: Day Three: Devotion from the Veilbound challenge by @/nympthi and @/citadrells on Twitter

Warnings: Suggestive sexual content but non-explicit, non-Inquisitor Trevelyan - she's Lavellan's right hand

Crossposted: Here on AO3

It was a nightmare that jarred Cullen awake, the details of it already slipping away as his breath came in a rapid panic, shaking hands raking across his sweat damp face and into his hair. The lyrium withdrawals were getting worse, torturing his sleep with memories and visions, hauntings from his past and things he feared to come. And with the lack of sleep made the withdrawal worse, sending him spiralling deeper. How long until it would affect his ability to do his job? Before it got someone hurt? Was any of this truly wise?

He near jumped out of his skin as a warm hand cupped his cheek, a gentle voice telling him to breathe.

He was breathing, wasn’t he? But too fast, heart pounding, head spinning, unable to focus his vision in the dark.

“I… I can’t…” he panted out before the room filled with a soft glow of light, the scattered candles lit by a wave of a hand.

The hand on his cheek guided his gaze to the bed beside him where a familiar figure was sat up in bed next to him, red curls loose around her shoulders, his shirt hanging from her frame, concern in her ocean eyes.

“I’m right here,” she said softly, “Just breathe in time with me.”

Freya.

He did as she asked, slowing his breathing, matching the deep inhale and exhales she demonstrated until he finally calmed down, reminding himself that he was here, he was safe, whatever nightmare haunting him was not real.

“Maker,” he sighed, bowing his head a little to avoid her gaze, “Forgive me, I-”

“There is nothing to forgive.”

“You get less time to rest than I do, and yet again another night where I’ve disturbed your sleep.”

At the beginning of their love affair, it had started with stolen kisses out on the ramparts or when she could corner him after a meeting in the war room, finding excuses to take dinner in his office; often under the guise of working on reports together or assuring Cassandra and the Inquisitor that she would keep an eye on him as he went through the withdrawal. More physical intimacy had soon followed after a particularly close call at the Shrine of Dumat, the pair of them falling into bed together upon their return to Skyhold after a heating argument about taking risks to protect one another. Still, at first, she had kept her own space, leaving his bed to return to her own quarters. Until one day she simply… stopped. She found her way to his bed every night, and even if neither had the desire for anything more than sleep, she would stay the night in his arms.

“Cullen, look at me.”

It took him a moment, desperate to compose himself before he finally met her eyes again.

“There is nowhere I’d rather be.”

He took hold of her hand, pressing a gentle kiss to her fingertips, “What did I ever do to deserve you?”

She gave a soft, amused hum, and he could tell from the quirk of her brow that she was considering some witty comment, but it melted away, leaving only a look of adoration that still left him a little shocked.

She pulled away from him then, sliding out of bed, “Right, let’s get you a bath, you’re covered in sweat.”

“It’s the middle of the night,” he reminded her, “Don’t call on anyone.”

She smiled at him as she crossed the room and dragging his empty bath tub closer to the centre of the room, “You forget, darling, that magic has its uses other than on the battlefield.”

He watched with wonder as she cast an ice spell, filling the tub completely with solid ice before flames came to her palms and she melted it. She slid her hands into the icy water and released more magic, and soon the water began to steam with heat.

She went to the small trunk of her belongings that she kept in his room, rooting around in it, pulling out a few of her soaps and oils. She dashed a few of the fragrances into the water then beckoned him over.

He stood, padding closer to her. She didn’t hesitate to start stripping him out of his sweat soaked bed clothes. Once he was naked before her, she helped him into the water, smiling as he let out a relaxed groan, the hot water already soothing the aches in his body.

“There we go,” she said quietly, kneeling next to the tub, “Feel better?”

He nodded, “Much.”

He looked at her, and felt something tug at his heart. He had never felt so bare and vulnerable in front of her before. They had been naked together more times than he could count, but this was different. There was no lust here, no desire. It was affection and tenderness; the warm, caring look in her eyes.

She rolled up the sleeves of the shirt she was wearing; his shirt, and grabbed the soap.

“Love,” he said, “You don’t have to-”

“Hush,” she silenced him with a quick peck to the lips, “I know I don’t have to, but I want to. I cannot take away your pain, or the nightmares, but this I can do. I just want you to relax.”

She set to work, washing his hair, rubbing the aching muscles of his shoulders and back with her forever warm hands. He closed his eyes and for a long while, there was nothing but her; the smell of her in the bath oils, the soft touch of her hands, the quiet sounds of her humming under her breath.

He was only roused from his thoughts when he felt her hands on his face. He looked at her, her beautiful features lit by candlelight; the flickering flames giving a softer look to her usually vibrant hair and eyes. It was how she looked whenever he found her in the Chantry, praying quietly; often the prayers were for him, to help him get through the lyrium withdrawal, to keep him safe when she could not. He always stood as a shield against any danger that would come her way, but it was times like that when he was reminded just how fiercely protective of him she was as well.

“Come on,” she insisted, “It’s time for bed.”

He hauled himself out of the water as she passed him a towel. He wrapped one around his waist, but she sat him on the edge of the bed and dried his hair for him with another, smiling to herself at his rogue damp curls.

“Ah, the fierce Lion of Skyhold,” she giggled, twisting a finger into one of his locks.

He chuckled, “And where would the lion be without his lioness?”

He slid his arms around her waist and pulled her onto the bed, capturing her lips in a kiss. She kissed him back eagerly, seating herself neatly in his lap; her favourite seat in the entirety of Skyhold, she told him often. He quickly rolled her beneath him, their noses brushing together as took in the sight of her, a little breathless from the surprise, the exposed freckles on her shoulders as his shirt had slipped away to reveal more skin, her hair fanned out against the white of his sheets.

He kissed her again, hands grasping at her, desperate to devour her in any way he could. However much he had of her, it was never enough. Her mouth, her taste, her scent, her laugh, oh Maker that beautiful laugh, and above all, her kind, wonderful heart.

“I love you.”

His eyes went wide as he realised the confession that had slipped out of his mouth, but he just let out a breath, “I love you,” he said it again, as though he was realising it for the first time.

“Cullen…” she looked up at him, “Do you mean it? Truly?”

“I love you, Freya.”

“Say it again.”

“I love you.”

She kissed him then, desperately, and he could feel the tears slipping down her cheeks.

“Freya…” he tensed to pull back, but she clung tighter to him, words whispered against his mouth.

“Again, Cullen, please.”

“I love you.

She pulled him closer, hooking a leg around his hip, his shirt bunched around her waist, the towel falling from his. He kept saying it, confessing his love and devotion to her as their bodies connected, drawing sighs and soft moans from the woman beneath him, begging to hear those words again and again as he brought her over her peak and soon his own.

As he held her in the quiet afterwards, their limbs still tangled together, he could see that the were still silent tears being shed.

“Love,” he whispered softly, brushing away the tears from her cheeks, “Are you alright? I-“

“I love you too,” she said, her words barely a breath, “Maker’s breath, I love you so much.”

“Freya…”

She shushed him softly, burying her face in the crook of his neck, “Not tonight. Let’s just have this, us, tomorrow we can talk more. But tonight... I love you. Unashamedly and wholly love you.”

He wrapped his arms around her and held her close until she found sleep, his own coming soon after. Whatever demons his lady held of her own, he would keep them at bay. At least for tonight.

[ly-art]

Chapter 19 of my Solas x Lavellan fic (NSFW content)

I'm so happy to be so early this time, and I proudly present my next chapter! And I wrote smut again. I couldn't stop myself, lmao a snippet of the current chapter can be found below!!

But it did bother her. The thought of him with anyone else made her chest tighten. She couldn't shake the image of him whispering sweet words to another woman, touching her the way he touched Amatisha, making her feel the way he made her feel. She hated it. She couldn't help but wonder about the life Solas had led before the Inquisition, before their paths crossed in Jader. Where had he lived? Who were his family? What kind of person had he been? Her jealousy melted into curiousity, a burning need to know more about this mysterious elven apostate who had become her mentor, her friend, and now her lover. His pace increased, and she gasped, her hips riding his fingers in a wild frenzy. Her body was no longer her own; every shred of self-control had vanished. It didn't take long for her to reach the edge, his touch finding the perfect spot, adding another finger to her behind. She shattered, stars exploding behind her eyelids, her vision going black. But when the blinding light faded, she was no longer in her quarters with Solas. Instead, she stood before a tall, middle-aged elven woman with golden hair that seemed to capture the sun's very rays. Fashioned into what seemed like horns, reminiscent of a dragon, it lent her an air of danger rather than absurdity. The woman's ethereal and regal beauty was accentuated by her narrowed eyes as she fixed her gaze on Amatisha. It was like standing before a god. The woman's red gown, embroidered with golden vines and flowers, exuded authority, judgement, and *power*. Her blazing eyes seemed to pierce through her, and when her mouth tugged upwards, Amatisha *knew*. *That woman can see right through me. I don't know how or why, but she can. It's terrifying. I need to get out of here.* "A little bird has wandered where it shouldn't. I wonder what will happen if I clip that birds adorable delicate wings and pluck its feathers. Perhaps then it will learn to keep its beak out of matters that do not concern it." Her voice was gentle, almost sweet, but the underlying threat, the horror rippling off her, couldn't be contained. The woman's eyes flared, the gold intensifying to a dangerous shine. Fear wrapped its icy arms around Amatisha. It wasn't just the sheer power emanating from her; it was the familiarity. Recognition settled in, bringing with it a new wave of terror. This woman was like *him*. A monster. A predator. A queen. Amatisha could feel the woman's power reaching for her, golden tendrils that sent her into a silent scream. When they touched her, she jerked back, finding herself once more in her quarters, in Solas's arms, sweat trickling down her back.

You thought I'd put the smut here right? Nope lmaoo

Also, I'm sorry for not posting a lot, I'm juggling work, writing on 2 fanfics and a book aaaand currently reading ACOTAR lmaoo

[bishicat]

I am curious...👀

What are your Lavellan's views on Solas beginning of their relationship and the final end to the redemption arc in Veil Guard? Love your art btw❤

Hi!!! omg thank you for the question, and people like you make posting art worth it! This is gonna be a long rambling answer so I'll tuck it under the cut. ❤

BEGINNING:

When I think of Emrys and Solas' relationship at the start of Inquisition (like Haven times), her view of him started off pretty neutrally. She saw him as an equal in intellect and magic know-how, and it comforted her to know that she wasn't the only elf in the party. I can imagine her developing a bit of a crush during their discussions about history, magic, or the Fade, but she kept her feelings on a short leash. His opinions about the Dalish made her more reserved about her own feelings, as she wanted someone who would accept all of her, rather than just the parts he liked. I think she saw through his harmless old man persona quite early, even if only in the sense that he was hiding something that he wasn't comfortable sharing. She liked the parts that he thought no one could see, like his quiet kindness. They would clash a few times (both being prideful), and after their intense debates, she would think they were finally going to do something about this weird energy, but he would just walk away. So in short, their dynamic was "nerds arguing but with sexual tension".

SKYHOLD:

This is where whatever icy barriers they had against each other melted and became real love :'). Though aware that he's still holding her at arm's length, she thought their love would get through whatever came their way. I think they have a lot of conversations about this subject, but he always finds some way to steer the conversation elsewhere.

I think she was caught completely unaware when he ended things at Crestwood. She was mad, confused, heartbroken, literally everything and more. The dialogue option "Tell me I was some casual dalliance..." gets me every single time!!!! It's the perfect mix between hurt and anger, and it fits Emrys' character SO well. After the break up, she tries to be professional (AKA too stoic & serious around him) but her inner circle (and Solas) can see how much she's imploding inside. She still works with him as a colleague but she can't stand looking at him without feeling like there's a gaping hole in her chest.

TRESPASSER - VEILGUARD:

After two years, the gaping hole heals into an ugly, knotted scar. When she hears the rumour that Solas is around, it feels bittersweet, cause how can you get over a relationship that ended like that? When she learns he's Fen'harel, it puts a lot of things into perspective. She feels toyed with, she hates him, but she still loves him. Like... two years of "healing" is undone with a short meeting, and a part of her will always wonder what could have been if he just talked to her about it. In the end I chose the "I will redeem you!" ending.

Honestly, I imagine that a lot of solavellan post-romance is just a lot of healing and breaking on both ends (Solas and Emrys). With every new piece of information they learn, their hearts need to learn how to mend all over again. And I'm not saying that Emrys is going to be a husk in all those years between DAI and DATV, but a part of her will feel rubbed raw during that time. It's hard to say right now but I picture her on a relentless search for the Dread Wolf, always inquisitive. As for Veilguard, I can see Emrys as bone-tired when she finally catches up to him. I'd like to imagine a sad embrace between the two, some tears, but a terse meeting is just as likely. Between the two of them, there's gonna be a lot of quiet yearning and sadness, and maybe even a small bit of hope? She'd still love him and we all know/like to think that Solas is still so down bad, but they'd put duty over talking about their feelings for now. I think when they finally have a truly private moment, they make up somehow. I truly hope they have some kind of happy ending, whatever it may be!

[imakemywings]

To Lead You to an Overwhelming Question

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solavellan

Summary: Lavellan thinks Solas needs to relax, and Solas is fighting a losing battle.

Length: 3.8k

AN: Dragon Age 4 trailers come out and I run back to decade-old kink meme prompts. This one is for a 2016 prompt requesting Solas and Lavellan taking a bath together with fluffiness and a bit of Lavellan's anxiety. Hope you're all enjoying being dragged back into DA brainrot as much as I am!

AO3 | Pillowfort

  The sounds of travelers dining and chattering—and occasionally, of Iron Bull’s booming voice in particular—sounded so clearly through the floorboards it was as if Solas had never left the room at all. Normally he might have even enjoyed being amongst them—there was, at times, something comforting about being lost in a sea of voices, unobserved, unnoticed. But that night he preferred the space to himself, and he suspected it would be hours before his companions retired to join him in either of the rooms Lavellan had booked for them there.          

  She found him there, facedown on one of the beds, not sleeping, and not particularly relaxed.

            “Solas?”

            “Did you need something?” he asked, pushing himself up onto his forearms.

            “No, no,” she said quickly. “I only—wanted to see how you were doing.” Solas could tell himself she’d do the same for anyone else in the group—and likely, she would. But when Blackwall had remarked, offhandedly amidst another conversation, that Solas was special to Lavellan, he had struggled to come up with a believable disagreement.

            “Fine,” he said, I f a little tersely.

            “If you have the time, we should clean it,” she said. Solas suppressed a sigh. She was right, of course, but he would rather be left to lay like a rag doll on the thin straw mattress and not have to be responsible about things.

            “Yes, you’re right,” he said, and didn’t add the rest. He peeled himself off the mattress and followed Lavellan downstairs and out back behind the inn. Rocking forward on the soles of her feet, she presented him with not a basin to wash up in, but a full bath, water steaming no doubt from one of her spells. He thought he caught the scent of embrium wafting off the surface. He blinked. Lavellan looked enthused about this, and he could gather she meant it as a gesture.

            It was a leaky wooden tub dumped into the pebbly dirt behind a roadside inn in the middle of ass-fuck-nowhere, Ferelden.

            “I thought it might be more pleasant,” she said. “And I’m sure the rest of you needs cleaning too!” She smiled and so Solas began removing clothes. What did it matter that he recalled the bathhouses of Arlathan in gilt marble, when Lavellan had arranged this one just for him, filled and heated the tub herself?

            When one spent as much time on the road as they did, one became accustomed to limited personal space. Solas was more than habituated to standing calf-deep in icy mountain streams, hurriedly scrubbing days of sweat off himself alongside Varric, Dorian, Blackwall, and the others—even occasionally joining in their banter and horseplay. Even, at times, with the women of the Inquisition, though with no horseplay and considerably less banter, usually owing to a certain amount of rush on account of Inquisition business.

            But that was different than stripping down with no one but Lavellan there, even if she politely turned her attention to the bath, as if the temperature of it might need some careful moderating.

            “Thank you, Guinevere,” he said, sliding off his jawbone necklace to drop onto the pile of his clothes.

            “Hot baths can fix quite a lot, I think,” she said, turning again as he stepped into the water so she still saw nothing of him.

            On that account, certainly, he couldn’t argue; it was all he could do to suppress a groan of relief as he sank into the water, steam briefly enveloping his face.

            “It’s rather large,” he observed in some surprise. If she had told him “the inn has a bathtub” he would have expected something that would leave him with his knees jammed up into his face, assuming he could sit down in it at all, but the tub was fairly roomy. His next words came out of his mouth before he could appeal to the better angels of his common sense: “You could join me.”

            Lavellan’s attention snapped over to him and suddenly she was twisting her hands about in front of her and turning those great brown eyes up to the sky and shuffling her bare feet on the dirt.

            “Ah, well, I…”

            Solas had flustered her, and he found it utterly and entirely impossible to deny the pleased pride that ballooned in his chest about that, no matter how little business he had feeling that way. He mostly managed to keep from smirking while Lavellan dithered.

            “I suppose I could,” she allowed at length, slowly removing the jerkin over her dress. “I’m sure I need it too!” But this time there was a nervous, girlish pitch in her laugh. “Ah, but first, let me have a look at it, won’t you, hahren?”

            Now he knew she was trying to mollify him; this term she almost never used anymore outside of inquiring as to his areas of expertise: she was trying to flatter him with a show of respect. It only made him feel more the crotchety old man, but it was sweet, too, and so he sighed and leaned forward, elbows on the edges of the tub.

            “Ah…” Lavellan moved to stand behind him, and ran her fingers over the inflamed flesh around the gash between his shoulder blades, her touch cool to the angry skin. “Yes, this should be cleaned…” She took up a small, worn cloth draped over the side of the tub, dipped it in the water, then cooled it before she began to carefully dab at the edges of the wound.

            Solas focused on his breathing and intermittently noticed the rigidity of his back and shoulders. Lavellan had healing abilities; he had seen her tend the wounds of others in the Inquisition. And yet…

            (When was the last time someone other than himself had cared for his wounds?)

            The cloth moved away from his injury, passing over undamaged flesh on his back before darting back to wipe around it once more. Solas breathed in and out and told himself it was the perfunctory touch of a healer and nothing more.

            “You needn’t be embarrassed about it,” she said gently then, which of course, only made Solas feel it the more keenly. “It was a difficult fight. You were not the only one injured.”

            What he could not say to her was that it simply was not the same. And, in this instance, no one else’s injuries had been of the severity of his own, a consequence of both of the weakness still lingering after his awakening, and his recklessness in combat, which had been an enemy of his for years.

            “I should have been more careful,” was what he said.

            “We all make mistakes,” Lavellan said, and Solas bit back a hiss as she dribbled a bit of water over the wound to sluice it out.

            “Some cannot afford to do so,” he replied. “We are among them.”

            “If we must be infallible to succeed, we are bound to fail,” Lavellan murmured.

            Even outdoors, the clamor of the dining room could be faintly heard, and in the other direction, the chittering of birds in the trees. The water of the bath sloshed quietly each time Lavellan rinsed the cloth.

            At length, she said: “But that is why we have a team. Where one fails, the others may recover.” She hesitated only briefly before adding: “We look after each other.”

            Solas stared into the thin semicircle of trees around the backside of the property and tried to think of the kind of trite, reassuring thing to say that would be appropriate. Before he could get there, he was distracted by Lavellan’s cloth on his shoulders and the back of his neck and automatically his attention returned to her.

            “Guinevere?”

            “I was here already,” she responded cheerfully, stroking the cloth down his upper arm. He froze, again lost for the right thing to say if for entirely different reasons, and then she froze, and for a moment they must have made a ridiculous tableau. Then she moved away, over to where he could see her clearly, and offered him the cloth.

            “Unless you prefer to do it yourself,” she amended. “I did not mean to overstep; I’m sorry.”

            “You have never,” Solas said quickly. “Please, if you—if you wish, you may continue.” For his part, he tried only not to shudder when he felt her touch resume. At once he was far too aware of his physical form: of the racing of his heart, the beat of his blood in his ears, the thorough care of Lavellan’s hands as she wiped the grime of travel and war from his body (he even felt the studious tickling of the cloth behind his ears).

            His thoughts were a storm-wrecked sea; he could make sense of none of them; they beat too loudly and violently against the rocks. The only one which surfaced clearly was a sharp awareness that he could not recall that anyone had ever touched him precisely as Lavellan was doing then, with such care and concern and—

            You’re special to her, Blackwall had said.

            I can’t be! Solas wanted to scream.

            He couldn’t even try to make the reverse argument; it wasn’t worth the wasted breath. No one else in the Inquisition did he give as much time as Lavellan, and it was wholly apart from her organizational identity. But to break his own heart was a burden he would simply have to bear; to break hers…

            When he managed to pull himself back onto the beach of his mind, Lavellan was sitting on the edge of the tub, taking his hand in hers, eyes cast down at her work while she rubbed clean his hand and wrist. Each fingernail she gave a little scrub and he could feel the callouses on the hand grasping his, and he felt lightheaded. Lavellan did not touch him with the reverence of a devotee nor the cold dismissal of an employer; he wanted never to move, to feel her at these ministrations with the rag for the rest of time, and he wanted to grab her hands and kiss every knuckle and every line.

By the time Solas managed to reign in the half of his mind intent on fantasizing about meeting Lavellan in Arlathan, she was sheepishly offering him the rag.

            “I imagine the rest you’ll want to do yourself,” she said. Automatically, Solas took the cloth and began a rapid, rote scrubbing of the rest of himself, still dazed.

            That was how he missed that Lavellan was undressing.

            Because he, stupid fool, had invited her into the bath with him.

            She too, was accustomed to bathing with company, he imagined. She had been on the road with the Inquisition nearly as long as he had, and even before that it must have been typical for her. As he saw and understood, privacy was virtually nonexistent among the Dalish; their lifestyle simply did not allow for compunctions about doing virtually anything in full view of other people.

            Yes, he had seen her naked before. But there was a difference—a vast, perhaps insurmountable difference, he was learning presently—between catching a glimpse of her a few yards down the river out of the corner of his eye, or staring intently at her face to avoid looking lower while he answered a question, and having her standing overhim near enough that he had to turn his face away to avoid being directly eye-level with the nest of tight black curls between her legs.

            Hastily, he attempted to make room for her, idiotically moving his feet apart in an effort to get his legs out of the way so that he effectively invited her to come sit between them.

            Perhaps it would have been better if he had never woken up at all.

            Fortunately she only laughed a little and stepped delicately into the water, tucking herself against the far rim with a quiet noise of pleasure. Aware that the water had cooled since they began, Solas warmed it again with a gesture of his hand and Lavellan’s eyes fluttered shut for a moment.

            “Ah, that’s nice,” she sighed.

            “I should return the favor for you,” Solas said, sending down a cascade of water as he jumped to his feet. Lavellan’s eyes fixed demurely on the place where the wall of the inn met the dirt; he hurriedly moved out of the tub so she had room to stretch herself out a little more. “If I haven’t spoilt that rag entirely.”

            “It can’t be dirtier than I am already,” Lavellan chuckled wearily, tipping her head back against the rim of the tub. Nevertheless, he gave it a good rinse, and Lavellan leaned forward so he could get at her back.

            Hours in the Haven jail he had held her hand, draped her limp body over his lap as he picked and puzzled at the anchor in rising frustration and desperation. If he had known a way to do it, he would have killed her then to take it back. But as he had learned when she invited him to show her a few spellcasting tricks, there was yet another difference in handling an unconscious body, and being welcomed to touch a person.

            Water glistened off her dark skin and as Solas wiped the rag over her back and shoulders, so simple a motion that felt like running his hands over the firmament, he observed a small scar on her right shoulder.

            “What’s this?” he asked, pressing a finger against it.

            “Oh,” she said, and then gave a small laugh. She did not withdraw from the touch. “An effort at Dalish entertainment.” When Solas’ only answer was puzzled silence, she elaborated: “We like archery competitions. Only when you’re of a young enough age, you’re meant to be observed by an adult.”

            “Ah, I see.” Some amusement crept into his voice.

            “Well, you know how young ones are. One of the children around my age forgot to wait for the rest of us to finish gathering our arrows before taking another shot.”

            Solas fingered the scar, envisioning Lavellan as a gap-toothed child, running through the fields of the Dales or under the canopy of the Emerald Graves, mimicking the way she saw her elders handle a bow.

            “Everyone else was mostly cross he got us in trouble.”

            “And you?”

            “I was rather more concerned with the arrow, as you might imagine. Although I was also unhappy to be in trouble.” She laughed. “There is a particular shame in being scolded by a healer trying to fix you up.” Solas wrapped the cloth over one finger, and gently scraped behind Lavellan’s ears, observing the tiny wisps of hair that curled there, little locks much too short to make it into her braids. Now that it was he with the license to touch her, he could not have imagined doing less than a thorough job on every square centimeter of her. “That is one thing which prepared me for this, I suppose,” she said meditatively.

            “And what is that?”

            “Part of a keeper’s job is keeping social harmony within the clan,” said Lavellan. “That means she can spend a lot of time mediating small disputes. Many of these she might delegate to a first, if she has one.”

            “Ah, so you were the arbiter of Clan Lavellan’s petty squabbles,” said Solas. No wonder she was patient; he could not have imagined a less desirable job himself if he tried.

            “Often, yes,” she said. “And it is a skill I have found quite useful in the Inquisition!”

            “I imagine so,” he agreed. “Would you lift your arm?” She did, and he wiped along the underside of it, and then went to wash her underarm, but there she squealed and flinched away.

            “Not like that, that tickles,” she objected.

            “My apologies,” Solas said graciously. “Allow me.” And as soon as she had exposed her armpit again he did the exact same thing, making her yelp and spin around to look at him, water sloshing over the edge of the tub.

            “Terrible!” she cried. “What a liar you are!” But he could see her lips twitching, trying not to smile and so it was impossible not to return the look.

            “Perhaps I should allow you to finish yourself,” he said, holding the rag out to her. Lavellan responded by giving him a face full of used bathwater and as he crouched naked in the dirt, dripping wet and taken by surprise, Solas could not stop himself from full-throated laughter. Lavellan’s smile appeared clearly and she snatched back the rag.

            “Some Inquisitorial advisor you are,” she sniffed.

            “I never saidI wouldn’t do it again,” he pointed out as Lavellan scrubbed at her legs and feet.

            “Tch. If I were your keeper I’d give you a time out,” she said, and Solas laughed again.

            “Oh, yes? And what does that entail?”

            “Naughty children go sit away from their toys and the other children to think about what they’ve done,” Lavellan said, bending over to splash water on her face.

            “So this is a punishment for children?”

            “If you behave like a child, why shouldn’t I scold you like a child?” she asked, looking up at him, and Solas bit down on a grin.

            “I suppose that is fair,” he said with feigned gravity.

            “Now, are you going to finish washing up?”

            As it turned out, even with a larger-than-expected tub, there was not a great deal of room for two people, so they settled for taking turns. Lavellan sat on the rim with her feet in the water while Solas a enjoyed the tub, and then they traded. As mages, they could keep it warm as long as they liked, and it did feel positively divine on joints and muscles sore from travel and combat, so they had no rush.

            Lavellan gleamed in the fading afternoon light and Solas’ eyes traced the path of stretchmarks on her hip he could have reached out and touched. Perhaps she even would have let him. Her own gaze was fixed off in the distance, and Solas did not have to be a reader of minds to guess the Inquisition was weighing on her. As with his own burden, he imagined it was a constant companion—it was just that sometimes she was able to subordinate it to other things.

            “This was a kind thing of you to do,” he said quietly when their conversation had lapsed for some time. Lavellan shrugged one shoulder and swung her feet through the water. When she said nothing, he added: “The Inquisition is fortunate to have one at its head with such a heart.”

            “I worry it won’t be enough,” Lavellan blurted out, looking over at him. “It should have been someone else. I haven’t the temperament for this. But.” She waved her left hand humorlessly, the glow of the anchor low presently. “They had no choice. It should have been you. You know so much more about these things, and you are so much more certain of yourself than I am. Keeper Deshanna used to tell me I avoided making decisions so much it was like having no leader at all.” She exhaled in a long sigh and tipped her face up towards the sky. “I’m glad it’s not, though,” she murmured.

            Solas straightened slightly, tilting his head.

            “What do you mean by that?” he asked. Lavellan’s eyes fell on him once more and he found her thoughtful expression difficult to read.

            “I would not wish this position on anyone for whom I cared,” she said. For a moment—for a moment—Solas felt sure there was something more she wanted to say, and perhaps even meant to say—but she did not.

            He stared at her, at her face, at the anchor, and the shame in his breast pierced keener than an arrow. What kind of wretch was he, to play at friendship, at flirting, at love with one he had—albeit inadvertently—put in this position?

            “You look tired,” said Lavellan sympathetically. She rose to her feet. “I have disturbed your rest long enough, I think. Let’s go inside. Would you like me to do the healing before bed?”

            Solas sighed, and nodded.

            “Yes, I think that would be for the best. Thank you.” Healing was never a comfortable experience.

            “As the keeper of the Inquisition, I don’t mind,” she said with a smile, stepping out of the water to gather her clothes. A few minutes earlier, Solas might have teased her more, asking if that was the only reason she didn’t mind—but shame held his tongue now.

            “Nevertheless,” he said soberly. “I appreciate the effort you give.”

            Lavellan’s expression grew more serious, and softer.

            “I am happy to do it, Solas,” she said. “Truly.” For a few moments, they were busy dressing, and then she added: “There are so many parts of being the Inquisitor at which I fail, or struggle. This, at least, is something I know I can do. I am glad to have the chance to do it. Not,” she added, looking up in a rush, “that I am glad you were injured! Only that I have the ability to help.”

            Solas looked long on her in silence, the upwelling of grief in his chest making it too tight to speak, and then at last he said something he had told her before: “You have a good heart, Guinevere.”

            She seemed as at a loss for how to respond then as she had before.

            “Thank you,” she said at last. “I am relieved you think so.”

            “Guinevere?” Seeker Pentaghast stuck her head out the back door and did a double-take to see both of them beside the filled tub. “I didn’t see you in our room so I wanted to make sure nothing was wrong.”

            “No demons here,” said Lavellan with a smile. “The water’s still hot if you like, though there’s probably a mud bottom to it now.”

            “It is truthfully still tempting,” said Cassandra. “And we should probably wash while we have the chance.”

            “That’s what I thought as well. I’m going to see to Solas’ wound now; if anyone else needs healing, let them know I’ll be ready to do it soon,” Lavellan replied.

            Seeker Pentaghast returned inside, and Lavellan looked over at Solas.

            “Well…do you feel any better?” she asked.

            “Yes,” Solas lied, because physically it was true, and the rest was not Lavellan’s responsibility. “Very much so. Thank you, Guinevere.”

            “My pleasure,” she said, and Solas knew she was genuine. He felt that much more miserable about it. “Shall I take care of you now?” she asked, gesturing towards the door.

            He could not stop the way his eyes softened, or the way his heart yearned towards that question.

            “Yes,” he said gently. “I would be glad for it.”

[shivunin]

FLORENCE! ✨✨✨✨

Ok, choose only one if it's too much but this list is cool and...

12. What a thing to admit for Elowen

And/or

48. Sweeter than heaven and harder than hell for Maria

Ahhh sorry this has taken so long! I've been fiddling with the last part for what feels like eons. As always, the second prompt will be in a separate post c:

(Florence + the Machine Prompts)

A Sudden Squall

(Cullen/Elowen Lavellan | 1,613 Words | No warnings)

Summary: An unexpected storm forces Cullen and the Inquisitor into close quarters.

“What a thing to admit that when someone looks at me with real love, I don't like it very much Kinda makes me feel like I'm being crushed.” —Florence + the Machine, “Girls Against God”

The rain came all at once, with no warning at all. 

One moment, Lavellan and Cullen were sparring in the ring as usual and the next, sleet was pouring from the sky, frigid and grasping. When it first struck her, Elowen sucked in a breath and froze, but Cullen gathered himself more quickly. He reversed his hold on his sword hilt at once, snatched his mantle from the training ring fence, and towed her along behind him by the elbow. The closest shelter was the armory, and he ran there as quickly as possible, head bent against the stinging cold of the rain. The door was, of course, locked—as happened sometimes when inventory was being done. 

“Maker’s b-breath,” he snapped, but the sleet was still pouring down, and the Inquisitor had begun to shiver. The path to the great hall would take too long—and though they might manage Herald’s Rest, the idea did not appeal. At least here there was a slight overhang here that they might huddle under; the worst of it would pass soon enough. He hoped. 

“Here,” he said, hefting his already damp mantle over one arm and bracing it on the wall above her, “This should keep off the worst of it.”

It had seemed like a good idea—truly, it had. This was simply the most sensible way to shield them both from the worst of the frigid rain, and keeping the cloak close to their heads would help them retain any heat they generated. But. 

But. 

Cullen hadn’t bargained on how it would feel to lean so close to her, both of them soaked to the skin, her tunic plastered to her torso. Before he’d covered them both, he hadn’t imagined what it would be to feel her breath across his cheek, to see the way her eyes looked when they dropped to his mouth. 

Maker—she couldn’t be thinking…but—what else could that expression mean? 

“Elowen?” he said, her name slipping out despite himself, and her eyes drifted up to his. 

“You called me by my name,” she whispered. 

Her hand lifted, hesitated, touched the stubble along Cullen’s jaw. Her hands were like ice. The thought of her so cold ought to have worried him, but all he could think about was that she was touching him. Not for training, not to pass a report, but—for no other apparent reason than the desire to do so. 

Cullen was drifting toward her before he decided to do it, drawn closer despite all knowledge that it was foolish, that it was wiser to keep a distance, that she might stop him at any moment. But she wasn’t stopping him; she was tilting her head to the side, shifting her grip on his jaw until she was cupping it, one thumb leisurely stroking an arc over his lower cheek. Was she—were they—he wanted—

As he shifted, the mantle shifted, too; it was only a little, but it was enough to send a wash of frigid, icy water right down his back. Cullen pulled back with a yelp, struggling to set the cloak right again, and by the time he’d corrected himself and hoisted it back into place she was looking away. 

He couldn’t read her face; he wished desperately that he could read her face. What was she thinking? Was she wishing they hadn’t…? Was she wishing they had? 

His thoughts were interrupted by the creak of a door, and an equally creaky voice. 

“That you under there, Commander? Ey, it’s a mite chilly to be standing about, no? Come inside where it’s warm.” 

Elowen had slid out from under the cloak almost before the woman stopped speaking, and she’d already darted inside by the time Cullen had slung the sodden cloak over one arm and sloshed in the direction of the door. 

“Won’t tell no one about this, Commander,” the woman said in an undertone with a wink, “Keep it between ourselves, yeah? Old Mays knows how to keep her mouth shut, she does.” 

“Ah—” Cullen began, then abruptly realized what she was actually saying. He would have flushed bright red if he hadn’t been freezing, but even so he barely mustered a fumbled “Ah—thank you,” before making his way into the room after Elowen. 

The Inquisitor stood in front of the massive fire, hands outstretched, shuddering faintly. All of a sudden, he saw not the Inquisitor, slayer of dragons, doer of impossible deeds, but only a woman, cold and alone before a fire. It occurred to Cullen then that before this moment he’d never once seen her as small, though of course she was two heads shorter than he and built more like an archer than a swordsman. She was smaller—and yet, until now, she’d never seemed so to him. 

As if she knew what he was thinking, Elowen turned her head and looked up at him. 

“Determined to suffer the cold in silence, Cullen?” she said quietly, and he realized he’d just been staring at her, his cloak wetting whatever parts of him had remained dry until now. 

Cullen dipped his head, cleared his throat, and drew closer. His cloak spread easily before the fire and began to steam faintly after a moment—a worrying sight for the fabric, but well enough for time being. He wrung out the hem of his tunic and stretched his hands before him, as she had. Heat returned in an uncomfortable tingle up both arms, and he flexed his fingers to disperse some of it. 

Maker—he had to say something. That moment in the closeness of the cloak…

“About…what happened just now,” he began, and she looked up at him again. Her hazel eyes flickered with fire, the flames illuminating and shading her face by turns. 

“I…can’t,” she said softly, and Cullen straightened. 

How to apologize for overstepping—how to make things as they had been before—but she was already speaking again.

“Not yet,” she said, and the words took several seconds to penetrate the haze of panic he’d been collecting around himself. 

“I’m…not ready,” she added. “But…I think I want to. Someday. If that’s…if you…”

“I do,” he said, before he could rein the words in. “That is—when you’re ready.”

She nodded once, biting her bottom lip faintly before turning back to the fire. 

Neither of them spoke again, but he saw the smile curling her mouth whenever she glanced up at him. For the moment, that was enough.

He held his hands out to the fire and let himself smile into its warmth. 

Someday—someday wasn’t never. If Cullen had learned one thing these past months, it was how to wait. 

|

When Elowen reached her bedroom at last, she cast off her damp clothes and stood before her fire wrapped in the warm dressing robe Varric had gifted her months ago. It beat away some of the chill that had settled into her bones, but none of the comforts of her own space slowed the hammering of her heart. 

It was as if, for just a moment, Cullen’s cloak had shielded them from her own fears as much as it had shielded them from the rain. For a moment, he had leaned close and she had wanted him, but the moment he’d looked away…

It was ridiculous to be scared of wanting him after everything else, but she was. The fear had tangled its cold hands in her lungs until she had been entirely unable to breathe. IWhat a relief it had been to make some space between them, to think again when he was not looking at her like he’d never wanted anything else. Now, in the warmth of her own room, she could draw the moment out and think about it again. 

In the armory, his cheeks had been red with the cold, eyes fixed on hers; he had smiled when she’d told him someday. Cullen could be horribly impatient—she’d seen it herself—but she knew that he would not rush her in this. Whatever pressure she felt, it did not come from him. 

What would it be like, to feel his face in her hands and know that she could go on touching him? What would it be like to feel his lips against hers? 

It was absurd to be standing here in the middle of the night thinking about his eyes, his hands, the way he’d taken her arm and shielded her from the rain. It would be wisest to climb under the covers and get some rest. She would no doubt need it; tomorrow would be another busy day. 

Elowen moved to the edge of the rug and sat down instead, pulling her dressing gown more tightly around her chest. She did not know how long she sat before the fire, palms outstretched. Light that she could not touch brushed over her hands, gold and red and warming every inch of her that had been cold for too long. She could not live forever torn between fear and wanting or she would lose herself entirely. 

Yes. She wanted him, too. She admitted it to herself at last and sighed, closing her eyes in relief. Someday, she’d told him. Soon, she hoped. If she could get around the horrible weight in her chest—yes. Yes. She wanted him, just like he wanted her and she no longer wished to pretend otherwise. 

When she finally uncrossed stiff legs and climbed into the bed, her hair had dried entirely. The fire went on crackling and glowing well into the night, long after she’d finally drifted off to sleep.

[fenharel-apologist94]

Hell yeah love writing my two fics:

Tea Leaves and Sweet Dreams, a cute lil teashop/college AU!

And certainly not about the overwhelming exhaustion of never being known by those who claim to love you and learning how to accept the passion you've always wanted to love even though others have used it to misunderstand you

and Not Another Dragon Age Fanfic, a fun time-and-space-bendy retelling of some DA fanfic tropes you've come to know well!

It definitely doesn't seek to ask the question what if duty was no more than a shackle around your neck and around your ankles, and as much as you wish to spare the one you love from that fate, you swallowed the key yourself because what else can you do what else what else what else -

[crabs-with-sticks]

Happy Friday! If this inspires you how about - [ knowing ] sender has been holding receiver's hand all this time without realizing it and hurries to let go - for Ghilara Lavellan and Solas?

Hope you enjoy angst hehe :P The context is that Solas was injured from the ritual before Ghilara stopped it and faked both their deaths. @dadrunkwriting

536 words

He was going to die and there was nothing she could do about it. There were no creators who cared to listen, no last trick she could pull. It was up to chance and all she could do was sit, watch, cool his fever with damp cloth, try to feed him watery soup and sugared water inbetween his fevered tossing. The stream- where she was now- was as far out as she dared to venture. When- no. If he died, she wanted to be close. She wanted to be there to see the person she had thrown away everything for passed over.

The icy cold of the water shocked the thoughts out of her head as she waded in barefoot, one of the clay pots in her hand. She dipped it in, listening to the gurgle and glug as the water flowed in, fingers going numb from the snow melt waters. She hauled it back onto the river bank next to the second one- already filled. It was hard work, and she probably spilled a good quarter of the contents trying to get it back into place on the carrying pole. Checking the rope attachments were secure she hoisted the pole up onto her shoulders, let the hanging pots stabilise from the initial swing and then began trudging back to the cottage. It was only a few minutes walk, even laden as she was, and she set about the mundane activities of bringing the water inside, pouring it into bowls, some which would go onto the small stove to warm, others which would be used to try fight the fever. She didn’t look at the man lying in the bed as she did it. He was still right now, and without the tossing and the turning, and the crying out in spiels of elven, she could pretend he wasn’t who he was. She could pretend he was just some poor anonymous soul she had given charity to. “Sathan! Sathan ar halani! Sathan ar halani sa’lin! Letha’len!” She rushed over and was by his side in three quick steps. Her eyes swept over him, checking, checking to see if anything had changed, if anything was wrong. “Halani letha’len! Ane ar rya’halani!” She sat next to him on the bed, feeling it sink underneath her. “Ir abelas Solas,” she whispered, tears in her eyes, “I am doing all I can. You have to fight. You must. Please Solas. Endure Solas. You must endure this. Please.” It was only when she stood, only when she went to make some desperate attempt at being useful, to weigh the dice in their favour however she could, that she noticed. She noticed her hand clasping his, gripping it so tight she must have been afraid that he was going to float away. Her eyes stared down at it. The pallour of his skin against hers, the faint sheen of sweat and the heat radiating into her skin. Her hand released his as if she had been burned, letting it fall back down onto the bed. She couldn’t afford to let her grief get in the way. She had to be useful. He was just another patient. He had to be. She couldn't afford to break. Even if it wouldn't change anything.

[seigeocs]

Finn Aldwir

Name: Finn Aldwir, formerly Lavellan

Age: 24

Faction: Veil Jumpers

Class: Rogue

Specialization: Veil Ranger

Weapon: Bow

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

Relationships with others:

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[lagunapoint]

MAOW

summary: Solas is once again dreaming of the Fade, and Lavellan is comforting him, naked. This takes place during or after the events of Veilguard.

pairing: lavellan x solas

genre: experimental

rating: 18+

word count: 0.8k

a/n: I’ve finally decided to take part in at least one day of DAtober. Of course, I missed the deadline, so here’s my little experiment on the theme of Edge (Day 21). If you want to join too, consider yourself tagged <3

warning/includes: I haven’t experimented like this in a while, so I totally understand if something goes wrong <3

Edge.

A flash blinds. Forces the eyes shut. Wild vibrations pound the ears. A hum. Fear. Emptiness. Someone is watching. Asking to turn around. Pulse felt at the fingertips. Lips freezing. Loneliness. The burning fear of eternity. In the dark. Alone. Madness spins within a confined world. The edge. Was this always the only true reality? Icy hands reach for the throat. Thin fingers. A familiar scent pulls away the obsessive thought. Movements in the shadows. A hungry gaze. Ragged breath. Hot lips gleam from the poison of a kiss. I know your face. I kissed your lips. Your neck. Your chest. Your body. Is it possible to keep breathing?  Am I breathing anymore? 

Space falls. There is no beginning. No end. Demons in the shadows devour fears. Create images from consciousness. Desired. Tortured. I cannot breathe. The whirlwind of the Fade’s energy devours reason again. There are no sounds, except for the pulse in my head. The beats grow louder, swallowing the world around me. I reach out. Nothing there. No one. Only Fade. Endless. Consuming me whole.

Darkness. Everywhere. Always. Only darkness remains in my heart. I surrender to it. I want to surrender to it. To not see. Not remember. Not feel. There is no air here. There is nothing. Bitterness. Regret. A shiver runs through the skin. Icy. Intoxicating. Lyrium. Pure energy. Forget you. Forget everything. Fall into the abyss. Disappear. Let the darkness erase everything within me, but spare the memories of you. Forever. In blissful ignorance. Hands covered in blood. Your blood. The air is gone from my lungs. My heart pounds in my ears, in my temples. Hot blood cools in veins, arteries, capillaries, bursting like a billion explosions across my body.

"Solas" 

She brushes away the remnants of his nightmare with a soft kiss. He opens his eyes. Breathes. He can still breathe. Looks into the void. She touches him. Warmth. First gently, like a whisper. Pulls him from the void. Is it real? His heart pounds in his ears. Nightmare. Edge. Fade. 

"It was just a bad dream."

Her voice. Real? Is it really her? Her scent. Familiar. Real. The Fade recedes. Her touch grounds him. Pulls him back. To reality. To the sweet fog. To the softness of the bed. The darkness is still there, but muted by the heat of her body beside him. Fear dissolves. Another touch. She’s real. A flash. He grabs her wrist. Pulls her to his chest. An embrace. One. Strong. Hungry. Needed. Salvation. His arms hold her naked body tightly against his. She hears his heart pounding wildly. Strokes his shoulder, his neck, caresses his cheek, calming him. 

"I’ll never leave you alone again," she whispers into his chest. Kisses him. Softly. Lightly. Tenderly. His hands are cold. Burning her warm back. They slide down her waist. Over her chest. Over every inch of her skin. He needs to know she’s real. Forever. Right now.

"Never," he repeats after her. Catches her gaze. A second. A breath. The sweet warmth of her mouth and tongue warming his lips. Desperately sliding lower. To her neck. To her nipples. To her core. To feel every second. Every lost chance. His hand cups her jaw. Lowers to her neck. Shoulders. He nibbles her sharp ear, leaning in. The smell of home. Reality. Here. Now. Sweet movement inside. Whispering. Breathing. Touches deeper. Insistent. Pressure. Passion. Desire. Life. Her soft moan stops time. 

The edge of madness. Of love. Her passion hotter than fear. Her breath sweeter than poison. I’m ready to die from this poison. She writhes. Moans. Trembles. Her shuddering under my hands. Under my fingers. My lips. She leaves wet traces from her bitten lips on my face. She breathes against my neck. Presses her lips to mine. Forces me to not be gentle. Power. Persistence. Conquest. She shifts the roles. Rises above. Takes initiative. The honey taste. Her lips. Mouth. Tongue. Despair still glimmers in the reflection of her desire. In her tight embrace. In the closeness. In the depth. In her grace. Tremors. Rocking. Love. She takes me. I surrender to her. Forces me to close my eyes. A flash blinds. Ar lath ma, vhenan. Nothing else matters anymore.

[vir-tanadahl]

Timeless

Summary: Isera Lavellan is living in modern Thedas completing her research on plants when her research takes her to a place in the Solasan Mountain range. The discovery of a strange glowing mirror takes her to a world she has never known before where she meets someone she never thought existed. (Find on Ao3) Fen'harel (Solas) x Lavellan

Chapter 2: Trapped Between Worlds

Isera waded through the cold water, her breath ragged as she staggered deeper into the cave. The guards had been close—too close—but somehow, she’d managed to lose them in the dense grove. Her body trembled from the exertion, but the icy water soothed the relentless ache in her ankle, offering a momentary reprieve from the pain.

The cave was dark and damp, the air heavy with the smell of wet stone. Isera moved as far back into the shadows as she could, the weight of exhaustion pressing on her chest. She sank into the water, letting it rise up to her waist as she sat, her legs submerged in the cool, numbing stream. The sound of her shallow breathing echoed softly in the cavern, mingling with the distant drip of water from the cave walls.

Her mind raced, thoughts tangled in a web of confusion and fear. ‘What just happened?’ The glowing mirror, the strange elves, the guards—it was all impossible. Yet here she was, hiding in a cave from armored soldiers who should not exist.

As she sat there, wet and trembling, a familiar phrase floated to the forefront of her mind. Something she’d once read in a detective novel during an undergraduate philosophy course: ‘When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth.’

And how that phrase echoed now, ringing through her head with unsettling clarity.

The impossible had happened. She had crossed some threshold—whether through time or magic or something else entirely—and now she was trapped in a world that shouldn’t exist. ‘However improbable, it must be the truth, she thought with a bitter laugh. Her hands clenched into fists as she tried to calm her racing thoughts.

‘Time travel isn’t possible.’ Magic is nothing more than stories. ‘Science’ is fact, and science doesn’t support magic, nor the possibility of time travel. Isera repeated these thoughts to herself, trying to cling to reason, but every glance at the world around her tore at the edges of logic. She was clearly not in 15:23 Modern anymore. The landscape, the architecture, even the dress she wore—it all screamed of ancient times, the kind that only existed in stories or dusty tomes. The intricate garment she now wore wasn’t just a relic; it was alive, part of this world she didn’t understand.

She wasn’t an archaeologist or historian, but her work as a botanist had led to collaborations with experts in elven history. She had spent enough time around those scholars to recognize the signs. The ruins, the armor, the language—it wasn’t just for show.

Her mind raced through every rational explanation she could think of. If this were some elaborate reenactment, then why had no one stopped her? Surely the staff would’ve called for help when they saw her, or at the very least, security would have intervened the moment she set foot inside the ruins. And yet, none of that had happened. Instead, the place had shifted around her, the dust swept away, the gold gleaming as if it had never been abandoned.

Isera rubbed her temples, trying to push away the rising sense of panic. She sighed, her body sinking deeper into the cold water, her eyes closed as the weight of the situation finally began to settle on her. As the adrenaline ebbed, the surrealness of it all hit her like a wave. Her body ached, and her mind raced, but she was powerless to make sense of it.

She repeated a mantra silently, ‘this is not real, this is not real,’ as if trying to will herself back to the familiar world she knew. But the water around her felt too cold, too tangible for it to be a dream. The numbness that crept up her limbs was all too real.

Her breath, released through her nose, bubbled up in soft bursts, the surface rippling as the air escaped her. She wanted to believe that she’d wake up any moment, safe and far from this ancient place. But that hope shattered as the familiar sound of clanking armor echoed into the cavern.

Her eyes fluttered open, and her heart pounded as she instinctively sank further into the water, trying to make herself small, invisible. The icy liquid lapped against her chin, her pulse quickening as the splashing of footsteps approached. Shadows flickered against the cave walls, long and shifting, accompanied by low voices. She strained to listen, but the water muffled their words, turning them into an eerie garble in her ears.

‘Stay still. Don’t move,’ she willed herself, fighting the instinct to breathe too deeply and give away her hiding spot. Her muscles were tense, the cool water numbing her skin, but the heat of fear burned inside her chest.

The shadows danced closer, and Isera’s stomach twisted with dread. She didn’t know how long she could stay submerged, her breath held tight, waiting for the figures to pass by—or worse, to find her.

As the shadows grew closer, Isera took a deep, shaky breath and submerged herself completely beneath the cold water. The chill bit at her skin as she sank down, her heart hammering in her chest. She squeezed her eyes shut, praying that the darkness of the cave would conceal her from the approaching guards.

For a few agonizing moments, all she could hear was the muffled gurgle of the water in her ears, her lungs already tightening as she held her breath. ‘Please… just pass by,’ she begged silently, her body trembling beneath the surface.

But luck was not with her.

A rough hand plunged into the water, grabbing her hair and yanking her violently upward. Isera gasped in shock as her head broke the surface, cold air mixing with the piercing pain in her scalp. She screamed, her voice echoing off the cave walls as she struggled against the iron grip.

Her hands flew up, clawing desperately at the armored arm holding her, but her fingers scraped uselessly against the metal plating. The guard’s armor deflected every frantic strike, her attacks futile against the cold, unyielding steel. She kicked, twisted, but nothing loosened the hold on her.

“Let me go!” she screamed, but her voice was met with indifference. The guard ignored her protests, dragging her from the water as if she were little more than a captured animal. Her drenched dress clung to her skin, the weight of it making her struggles all the more difficult.

She fought harder, panic seizing her as she thrashed in his grip, but her efforts were useless against the sheer strength of the guard. Her body was trembling from the cold and the fear that coursed through her veins. Every muscle screamed in protest, but nothing she did made a difference.

The guard’s grip tightened, and Isera’s vision blurred, her desperation mounting. She could feel the hopelessness creeping in, but she couldn’t stop fighting, even if it was in vain.

Isera’s fingernails scraped helplessly against the armor, her efforts only adding to her pain as she was dragged from the cave. Water dripped from her soaked dress as the guard hauled her out into the open, her body aching from the rough treatment. With a grunt, the guard tossed her down onto the wet ground, the impact jarring her already battered body.

Before she could scramble to her feet, more guards descended on her, encircling her like predators around prey. Rough hands seized her limbs, and Isera thrashed wildly, every instinct driving her to fight back. She kicked, twisted, screamed—anything to stop the ropes they were tying around her wrists and ankles. Her breath came in ragged bursts, desperation fueling her resistance.

One of the guards leaned too close in an attempt to hold her down, and without thinking, Isera sank her teeth into the meaty part of his cheek. Her jaw clenched hard as she tasted blood.

The man howled in pain, yanking his face back with a snarl. His fist collided with her face before she could react, a sharp crack of knuckles against her cheekbone. White-hot pain exploded through her skull, and for a moment, everything spun. The world tilted, and her body slumped against the muddy ground, her head throbbing from the impact.

The taste of blood—his and hers—lingered in her mouth as she gasped for breath, her mind reeling from the blow. Her vision blurred, but she could still hear the grunts and curses of the guards, their hands roughly binding her wrists tighter, pulling her movements to a halt before her vision goes dark. Pain throbbed through Isera’s skull, radiating from her temple as she stirred, the heaviness of unconsciousness slowly giving way to the harsh reality of her situation. Groaning softly, she opened her eyes to find herself enveloped in darkness, the cold, damp air pressing against her skin. Every inch of her body ached, but the searing pain in her cheekbone was the worst. She reached for her face but was stopped short by the cold bite of metal around her wrists.

Her heart skipped a beat as her fingers brushed against the cuffs locking her hands in place. A chain clinked softly as she instinctively pulled, testing it for any weakness, but there was none. The metal was secure, bolted tightly to the stone wall behind her. The cuffs dug into her skin as she tugged again, more desperately this time, but still, there was no give.

Her breath came in short, panicked bursts as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. The dim light barely outlined the cold, jagged stone of the room. A cell, by the looks of it. A low groan escaped her lips as she shifted, her body stiff from whatever had happened to her.

It was only then that she noticed the absence of fresh pain. Her wounds—though still sore—had been tended. Bandages wrapped around her arms and face, her bruises cleaned and dressed with surprising care. But that only made the situation more confusing.

The questions swirled in her mind as she leaned back against the wall, the heavy chain rattling with the movement. She bit her lip, stifling a cry of frustration as she realized her efforts were futile. She was trapped.

Isera sighed in frustration, pulling at the chain again, but it was as futile as before. With a grimace, she forced herself to stand, wincing as her weight shifted onto her injured ankle. The pain had dulled, but it was still there, a constant reminder of her recent ordeal. Her movements were slow, deliberate, as she limped toward the barred door of her cell.

Peeking through the narrow gap, she strained to see beyond. The faint outline of two guards caught her attention, standing rigid in the dimly lit corridor. But something was wrong. They were unnaturally still—no shifting, no breathing, no signs of life. A shiver crawled up her spine as she stared at their motionless forms, as if they were statues rather than living men.

She moved away from the door, heart pounding, as the sound of footsteps echoed down the hallway. Faint voices drifted toward her, growing louder with every step. Isera held her breath, pressing herself against the wall near the door, her ears straining to catch the conversation. The chain rattled softly, and she froze, hoping the sound had gone unnoticed.

The voices were clearer now—two men, their words muffled but distinct enough for her to catch fragments. The language was still elvish, though not the kind she’d grown up hearing. There was a formality to it, a weight of authority.

Isera’s pulse quickened. They were talking about her. She pressed herself further against the wall, each beat of her heart louder in her ears as the footsteps grew closer. Whoever they were, they were about to reach her cell. She held her breath, trying to still the rising panic within her, and waited for the moment they would appear.

"Why bring me here, Felassan? Simply kill the trespasser," a voice floated down the corridor, smooth and dripping with thinly veiled annoyance. The words, though spoken in elvish, took Isera a few seconds to fully register. ‘High elvish?’Her mind raced, trying to piece together what she was hearing as she instinctively stepped farther back into the shadows of the cell.

"Trust me," the other man replied, his tone more measured. "You’ll want to see."

Isera’s pulse quickened, her back pressing firmly against the cold stone wall, her arms hanging awkwardly in front of her, restrained by the cuffs. She watched, breath caught in her throat, as the first man stopped in front of her cell. His presence radiated an unsettling calm, and a low hum of approval escaped his lips. “Ah, and she is awake,” he murmured, a slow grin spreading across his face. He gestured toward the man beside him, urging him closer. "Come, see for yourself."

Isera’s eyes darted to the second figure who stepped into view. He moved with the deliberate grace of someone used to command, his long, dark hair pulled back into a low ponytail, golden cuffs glinting against his head like a crown. His armor, too, was golden, gleaming even in the dim light. But it was his eyes that unsettled her the most—sharp, observant, a mixture of curiosity and caution, as though he were studying her, measuring her.

"Felassan, open the door," he ordered, his tone cold and authoritative.

Isera’s heart pounded as she watched Felassan move to unlock the door. Mirrored in golden armor, Felassan obeyed the order without hesitation. The door unlocked with a heavy, resonating click before it swung open, the creak of the hinges reverberating through the cell.

Isera inhaled deeply, trying to mask the uncertainty and fear swirling within her as the second man, adorned with a small skull in golden casting, stepped inside. His gray-blue eyes, so pale they almost appeared blind, locked onto hers, studying her with a piercing intensity that sent a shiver down her spine.

“She looks like one of them," he mused, his voice cold and analytical, "yet you say she didn’t use magic to flee from the guards.” His hands remained clasped behind his back as he towered over her, eyes narrowing slightly. “How do you know she isn’t simply blind and got lucky in eluding the guards for a time?” His words, though calm, carried an undercurrent of disdain, as if he found the very idea preposterous.

Felassan stepped inside the cell, his golden armor gleaming dimly in the low light. “Solas,” he began, his tone measured, “I was part of the team that retrieved her. One does not simply wander into a well-hidden cave in the grove. It’s no accident she found it.” He raised a hand to his cheek, brushing the spot where Isera had sunk her teeth into him, violet eyes fixed on her with a hint of amusement. “She bit me quite well, too, if that’s any indication of her… determination.”

Solas glanced at Felassan’s cheek before returning his gaze to Isera, his expression unreadable. The air between them felt heavy, charged with a tension she couldn’t fully understand. Isera shifted against the cold wall, her cuffs clinking softly as she adjusted her arms.

Isera couldn’t help the small snort that escaped her as her eyes flicked to the red welt on Felassan’s cheek. A smirk tugged at the corner of her lips, proud of her small victory. Felassan’s frown deepened, and he harrumphed in annoyance.

“She’s proud of her work. Look how smug she is,” he muttered, clearly displeased.

Solas turned to him with a look of mild disapproval, his expression cool and unreadable. “Evidently, she’s not blind,” he announced calmly, before adding, “But that doesn’t mean she’s one of them.” His attention returned to Isera, his gaze sharp as he grabbed her wrist. Without hesitation, he pushed up the sleeve of her dress, his touch firm but not painful, revealing her bare arm.

“Unmarked as well,” he stated, his tone clinical as he studied her exposed skin, looking for any indication of magic or allegiance.

Felassan shrugged, a twig suddenly appearing between his fingers, which he placed between his teeth with a lazy grin. “Well, there’s only one way to find out, then,” he said, leaning back against the wall of the cell with a bored expression. He cast a sidelong glance at Solas, as if waiting for him to take the next step.

Solas hummed softly, his grip tightening around Isera’s wrist, his eyes narrowing as he glared down at her. At first, the warmth spreading across her skin was a comfort against the chill of the cell, but it quickly turned unbearable. The warmth intensified, growing into a burning heat that began to sear her flesh.

Isera’s breath hitched as she jerked her arm, desperate to pull away, but Solas’ grip was unyielding. “Stop!” she cried out, her voice rising in panic as the pain became excruciating. “You’re hurting me!”

But Solas didn’t respond. His cold, unblinking gaze bore into her, as if waiting for something—something she couldn’t understand. The searing pain coursed through her wrist, and a wave of desperation surged through her.

“I said stop!” she screamed again, her voice echoing through the cell. Without thinking, Isera launched herself up, the top of her head slamming into Solas’s nose with a sickening crack. The force of the blow sent him stumbling back, his grip finally releasing her as blood poured from his nose.

Solas cursed in Elvish, one hand clutching his face as he stepped further back, his posture no longer composed but furious.

Felassan burst into laughter, slow claps echoing through the room as he leaned against the wall with a wide grin. “Oh, that was fantastic!” he chuckled, clearly entertained by the turn of events. “She’s a spirited one, isn’t she?” His laughter filled the room, the sound almost mocking, as if relishing Solas’s momentary loss of control.

Isera, breathing hard, clutched her wrist to her chest, the burning pain still fresh in her mind. She met Solas’s furious gaze, but despite the fear coursing through her, a flicker of satisfaction crossed her face.

Solas glared at Felassan, wiping the blood from his nose, fury still simmering in his eyes. “She’s not one of them. There’s no record of her arrival. She’s most likely a spy,” he snapped, his voice cold and final. “Kill her.” Without another glance, he turned on his heel and swept out of the room.

Isera’s heart dropped, her body frozen as the order hung in the air. ‘Kill her?’ Panic surged through her, and she stared at Felassan in horror, her breaths coming in shallow gasps. He merely shrugged, his face apathetic, as though it were nothing more than a mundane task. “As you say,” he muttered, pushing himself off the wall with a bored expression.

With a swift motion, he drew his sword, the blade igniting in flames as it left the sheath, casting an eerie glow around the dim cell. The flickering light danced across Isera’s terrified face as she instinctively backed up, her spine pressing hard against the stone wall. There was nowhere to go.

Felassan raised the fiery blade, his movements slow, deliberate, as if savoring the moment. Isera’s pulse raced, her throat dry, and without thinking, she screamed. She squeezed her eyes shut, raising her hands in a futile attempt to shield herself from the inevitable blow.

But it never came.

Moments passed in tense silence, the crackle of the sword’s flames the only sound in the room. Isera’s breath trembled as she dared to open her eyes, expecting to see the blade descending upon her.

Instead, Felassan’s body lay crumpled against the wall outside the cell, his flaming sword discarded on the floor nearby. The fire had dimmed, its glow fading as it rested uselessly beside him. Isera blinked in disbelief, her chest heaving as she tried to make sense of what had just happened. One moment, death had been imminent, and the next… he was down.

Moments later, Solas returned, his eyes locking onto Isera with renewed interest. His expression had shifted—no longer filled with cold fury, but with something more calculating, as if seeing her in an entirely new light. Behind him, Felassan began coughing, his body still slumped against the wall, though a weak laugh escaped his lips.

“Told you,” Felassan muttered with a rasp, patting his chest with one hand, still catching his breath from whatever force had flung him across the room. His laughter, though weak, carried a knowing edge.

Solas hummed thoughtfully, never breaking his gaze from Isera. His eyes flickered with curiosity, a glint of something dangerous hidden beneath his composed exterior. “Perhaps she will be useful after all,” he mused, his tone betraying a hint of satisfaction. He turned smoothly, his back now to her as he began to walk away. “Have her wounds tended to,” he ordered, his voice commanding but calm, “and provide her with a room. Guards at all times.”

With that, Solas exited once again, leaving the tension in the air thick as Isera stood there, trembling, her mind racing. Felassan, still chuckling softly despite his obvious pain, shook his head slightly, as if amused by the entire ordeal.

After regaining his composure, Felassan rose to his feet and made his way over to Isera. Without much fanfare, he removed her cuffs, the cold metal falling away from her wrists. Isera rubbed the sore skin, watching him cautiously as he gestured for her to follow. She hesitated for a moment but ultimately stepped out of the cell behind him, curiosity and confusion swirling in her mind.

As they moved through the corridor, Isera’s attention shifted to the figures she had seen earlier—the ones standing motionless in the shadows. Her heart skipped a beat when she realized they weren’t men at all. The forms were like silhouettes, ethereal shadows that shimmered faintly, almost like holograms, dark and faceless.

She stopped in her tracks, staring at the beings, her mind struggling to comprehend what she was seeing. Felassan, noticing her pause, looked back with a bemused smile and gave a light tug on her arm. “Ah, yes. Most people have that reaction,” he said with a nonchalant shrug, as though shadow figures were just another part of daily life.

Felassan led into a small room that resembled a healer’s apothecary “We lost our healer in the last attack, I’m afraid.” The scent of dried herbs and aged wood filled the space as Felassan began rummaging through jars and containers, muttering under his breath as he searched. After a few moments, he pulled out a small jar, studying it with a thoughtful hum.

“I believe this is it,” he said, handing her the jar with a casual grin. “Burn salve. Should help with your wrist.”

Isera took the jar, her thoughts still tangled in the strangeness of everything around her. As she stared down at the burn salve, the weight of her situation settled on her—nothing here was as it seemed, and she had no idea what would come next.

Isera took the jar, her eyes narrowing with doubt as she shook it lightly, watching the contents swirl around sluggishly. Something about it didn’t seem right. She popped open the lid and brought the jar closer to her face, inhaling cautiously. The foul stench of decay and rotting flesh filled her nostrils, and she recoiled in disgust.

“This is din’gen'ur... deathroot,” she said flatly, glaring at Felassan with suspicion. Her voice was low, but her frustration was evident.

Felassan, who had been rummaging through more jars on a nearby shelf, glanced back at her, completely unbothered by her discovery. He offered a small shrug, as if her revelation were of no consequence. “Well, I did say the healer was killed,” he remarked casually, as if that explained everything.

Before she could respond, he opened another jar, pulling out a small twig and inspecting it with a discerning eye. “Bark,” he explained nonchalantly before popping it into his mouth and chewing lazily. “For the pain.” He tilted the jar toward her, offering her some with the same casual indifference.

Isera eyed Felassan suspiciously, her gaze flickering between him and the bark. Skepticism gnawed at her, but she took a small piece and brought it to her nose. ‘Willow,’ she noted, its familiar scent reassuring her slightly. With a nod, she popped the twig into her mouth, chewing it slowly as she turned back to the jars, searching for something that might actually help her burn.

After a few moments of rummaging, she found what she was looking for—the faint, earthy smell of feladara, elfroot, wafted from one of the jars. It was a staple among healers for treating injuries, and Isera recognized its medicinal properties immediately. Satisfied, she pocketed the jar and stood up.

“Found it? Good, let’s go,” Felassan said, motioning for her to follow him with his usual lack of concern. Isera hesitated briefly before trailing behind him, clutching the jar as they walked.

The hall they entered next was crowded, but the people there seemed distant, detached. Some bore the intricate markings of the vallaslin, while others’ faces were bare, unmarked. It was clear they had all seen some kind of trauma—many wore tattered, dirty clothing, riddled with holes, and others stared blankly ahead, their hair matted with dried blood. Their expressions were hollow, their eyes unfocused, as though lost in some unspoken horror.

No one paid her any mind, but the weight of their suffering hung heavy in the air, making Isera’s stomach churn. She wanted to ask questions, to understand what had happened to them, but the words died in her throat as they passed through the hall.

Felassan led her up a narrow stairwell into a tower, the stone walls closing in around them as they ascended. At the top, he stopped abruptly, turning to face her with a serious expression. “You will stay here,” he said, his tone leaving no room for argument.

Isera stared at Felassan, her eyes narrowing slightly. “Am I a prisoner, then?” she asked, placing the jar on the nearby end table, her voice tinged with frustration.

Felassan didn’t hesitate, nodding with a grin that seemed almost too cheerful for the situation. “Yes,” he replied, his tone casual, as if the word carried no weight. Without another word, he turned on his heel and left the room, the door closing with a soft click behind him.

Isera let out a long sigh, her shoulders sagging slightly as the reality of her situation settled over her. She glanced around the room, taking in the details with a growing sense of resignation. It was elegant yet simple, the kind of space that could almost feel inviting if it weren’t for the circumstances. The furniture was finely crafted but unadorned, the fabrics rich but understated.

Her gaze drifted toward a second entryway. Curious, she stepped through, her bare feet padding softly against the cool stone floor. The room beyond held a modest bath, the gentle trickle of water in the basin adding a calming backdrop to the otherwise quiet space. For a moment, she just stood there, staring at the bath, the thought of warmth and cleanliness momentarily distracting her from her thoughts.

A smile crept across Isera’s face as the soothing scent of lavender filled the air around her. She wasted no time shedding her torn and stained dress, letting it fall to the floor in a crumpled heap. The hot spring’s steam curled upward, beckoning her, and she sank into the warm water, sighing as the heat worked its way through her sore muscles, loosening the tension that had built up from days of fear and pain.

As she relaxed, something caught her eye—a small glass bottle nearby, its contents softly glowing. Intrigued, Isera reached for it, inspecting the liquid within. Only a handful of plants in Thedas glowed like this, and yet the oil didn’t resemble any specific plant essence she could recognize. ‘How is it glowing?’ she wondered, shaking the jar gently, watching the light swirl inside.

Pouring a small amount into her hand, Isera rubbed it between her fingers. The product maintained its gentle glow but offered no other clues—no visible plant particles, no sediment. It smelled wonderful, though—a mix of something floral and clean, calming in a way that felt almost unnatural.

Still curious, she massaged the liquid into her scalp, savoring the scent and texture. It left no residue, but the glow lingered until she ducked her head beneath the surface of the water. To her surprise, the light dissolved in the water, vanishing as it washed away.

Isera quickly finished her bath, savoring the last bit of warmth before changing into a fresh set of clothes left for her. The soft fabric felt strange against her skin after so much time spent in the torn, bloodstained dress. With a renewed sense of curiosity, she explored the room further.

There wasn’t much—just high ceilings and tall windows that bathed the space in natural light. A gentle breeze drifted through the open windows, carrying the scent of fresh air and greenery. The simplicity of the room felt almost soothing in contrast to the chaos she had been through.

Drawn by the light, she wandered toward the balcony and stepped out, her breath catching in her throat as she took in the view. Below her lay the vast cavern she had discovered, but beyond that was a sea of lush green trees, their leaves shimmering in the sunlight. The mountain ranges stretched endlessly in the distance, the peaks rising like ancient sentinels, and not a single building interrupted the pristine landscape.

“Wow...” she whispered, her voice barely audible as she leaned against the edge of the banister. The sight was breathtaking, nothing like the world she had left behind. The beauty of the scene, the untouched wilderness, brought a rare sense of calm that settled deep in her chest. For the first time since awakening in this strange place, she felt a moment of peace.

Despite the peaceful view before her, Isera’s mind was already turning over her next steps. She couldn’t stay here. No matter how serene the landscape appeared, this place wasn’t home. She needed to figure out how to escape—how to find the mirror again and return to where she belonged.

Felassan’s words echoed in her mind: the last healer had died in an attack. The people she’d passed earlier looked like refugees, worn down by some conflict she didn’t understand. A war? If there was chaos brewing in this place, perhaps it could provide the distraction she needed.

Her eyes drifted back to the forest below, a mix of determination and desperation settling in her chest. She would have to be careful, bide her time. But the path was clear—she needed to find a way out of this place, take advantage of whatever disorder this war might offer, and return to the mirror hidden in the cavern.