#in which solas loses his mind

[hoboblaidd]

Hey Chuckles. Hope I’m not interrupting.

Solas stands on the crumbling stone of his prison. Varric’s voice, or the vestige of it at least, echoes into the cavernous nothing. Sometimes, it was just this: a constant repeat of their last argument. Others, he and Varric engaged in stilted, unending conversation. The most honest they'd ever had. Fitting, since it was only ever Solas' mind folding in on itself.

Last time they'd talked about the book, Solas thinks. Or perhaps shared a drink in the rotunda. Though…that may’ve been the same thing. He can’t remember. But they’d talked about the book before these memories or echoes. Before the ritual. Both of them roasting under the sun of the Western Approach. Solas for once not laughing at Varric and Sidri’s complaining about the outdoors. Even he’d had to agree in the Approach. The sun was relentless. Only Cole had been happy on that walk, and Solas suspected that was due in no small part to the wide rim of his hat.

And then he's standing in the Approach, but the golden sand is nothing but charcoal. The crystal clear blue sky is an endless expanse of black. The once brilliant sun is a shock of blinding white. 

Sidri passes him, but her movements are stilted, twitching and spasming as she checks her map. She turns to look at him, but her face is...gone, and when she speaks her words are swallowed by the air until they are naught more than muted sounds. He sees Compassion - not Cole; a wisp of an achingly familiar shape that flits under the sun without being burnt into something monstrous.

Solas leaves the path this memory ought to follow, walking to the very edge of the Approach, and stopping at the sudden drop-off into the Abyssal Reach. The pitch black of the blight twists and swirls, choking the stagnant air, and in its shudders he hears the cries of the Titans.

"That's a long way down," Varric whistles, suddenly at his side.

"Hm," Solas gives a noncommittal sound. He doesn’t look over at him. He can’t bear it.

"Can't say the view's improved since the last time we were here." In the corner of his vision, Solas sees Varric’s silhouette lean over the chasm to get a better look. His arm jerks to grab Varric’s arm before he leans too far, but Solas finds himself paralyzed, rooted to the spot. “One thing I don’t miss about those days is all the walking we did,” Varric continues, undeterred by Solas’ silence. “Andraste’s ass, we did so much walking. Even at the end with Corypheus, there were all those damn stairs.”

"That hadn't happened yet in this memory,” Solas reminds him, determined to keep his thoughts in some semblance of chronological order. Structure reinforced sanity, and sanity felt like it was slipping from his grasp.

"Sure," Varric says. "But time's weird in a dream."

Side-by-side, they stare down into the abyss. It is silent now, despite the relentless wind that stings his bare face.

“Don’t start that shit again."

Solas can't recall when was the last time they spoke. They'd shared a drink in the rotunda. Or they'd continued their unending, stilted conversation across an abyss as impassible as the one below their feet.

“I am reasonably certain I said nothing.” Reasonably. It grew increasingly difficult to tell where his thoughts ended and his words began. 

“You’re brooding.”

“There’s little else to do in here. I designed it this way.”

“Oh, so you invented dreaming now. Anything else? Did you place the sun into the sky, too? Carry the moon on your back until it found its home among the stars?”

“You are not dreaming, Varric,” Solas says, and though the words are harsh, his tone is anything but. “Dwarves do not dream.”

“Do dwarves hallucinate?”

“Presumably. Although in my experience, dwarves tend more towards self-delusion.”

Varric laughs. “Takes one to know one, pal.”

“Yes,” Solas grins, despite himself. “I suppose it does.”

But the Abyssal Reach swells, rising like a torrent until the inky black rushes over their feet. His feet. He at last dares to look to his right, and Varric is gone. The memory collapses, and the black ooze plummets into a limitless void. 

He stands back on the crumbling stone of his prison. He’s only been in here…weeks? Or is it months? Is he already going mad?

Hey Chuckles. Hope I’m not interrupting.

Their argument at the ritual site echoes around him, an overlapping cacophony of call and response until the words are so muddied as to be unintelligible. Solas knows the words by heart anyway, just as he knows the sound of the dagger piercing Varric’s chest, his stuttering inhale through a pierced lung, and the sound of his body falling to the ground.

Solas hears the dagger again, this time piercing Mythal’s chest. Hears the last, stuttering inhale of Felassan. Hears the sound of Sidri falling to her knees before his eluvian as his anchor tore her apart.

“Maybe we’re both delusional.” Varric’s voice cuts through the din. But the chasm is between them once more, and Varric a mere shadow on the other side. Continuing their unending, stilted conversation as if no time had passed.

“Yes,” says Solas. “I believe we are.” He’d never spoken a truer word in his life.

“Gotta be a way to change that.”

“Not a way that either of us would enjoy, I think.”

“Yeah,” says Varric. “You’re probably right.”

It’s so difficult to tell when Varric leaves, even though he’s never really here. Even though he’s never really gone. Sometimes a moment of silence will pass, while at other times, his words overlap with that last argument at the ritual site.

Solas digs his palms into his eyes, tired despite being neither truly awake nor asleep. Tired of the oppressive silence and the constant noise. Tired of the circular memories and unending conversations.

He removes his hands from his face and he’s at the Winter Palace. Not during the Exalted Council, as he first suspects, but when they were embroiled in the Orlesian civil war. Stiff wool chafes his wrists, and he looks down at the Inquisition parade dress he’s wearing. The deep red of the coat is grey, the royal blue sash is grey. The elaborate drapery, expensive runners, pristine marble, dwindling candles - all grey, muted, and lifeless.

“Forgot how ugly these uniforms were,” says Varric.

Despite himself, and despite his own self-pity, Solas snorts a laugh. “On that, we can agree.”

“Why’d Ruffles spend all that money on tailoring just to pick the ugliest damn colors?”

“Some mysteries are unknowable.”

Takes one to know one, pal.

Solas frowns. That…is not responsive to what he’d said. It isn’t responsive at all.

Don’t start that shit again.

As quickly as Solas’ laugh had come, it evaporates, and his shoulders slump as far as the rigid wool allows. 

You’re brooding.

Repetition, following no logic of conversation save one: confirmation that all of this is a wholly one-sided exchange on Solas’ part.

“Hey. Chuckles.”

“I know,” Solas finally snaps. “You ‘hope you’re not interrupting.’ But you did, and now we are here.”

“I’ve been doing my damndest to interrupt, actually,” says Varric, “while you’re staring off into space. Brooding. Do you know how boring it is to have a one-sided conversation with an elven god? Almost as boring as a regular conversation with an elven god. Why are you this insufferable even when I’m dreaming you up?”

“You are not dreaming, Varric,” Solas says in exasperation. “Dwarves do not dream.”

“Yeah, you said that last time. Would it kill you to be a little more interesting right now?”

“‘Last time?’” Solas repeats (repetition). He looks around at the Palace, the details of it growing hazy as the monochrome colors bleed into each other like water on an unprotected coat of paint. “You’ve never acknowledged that our conversations have beginnings or endings,” he says, ignoring Varric’s likely rhetorical question (unresponsive). “You only ever talk.”

“You’ve lost me, Chuckles.” 

“Varric,” he says hurriedly, entirely unprompted (following no logic of conversation). If Varric acknolwedged that time had passed between their talks, then perhaps this wasn’t just memory or torment from his prison. Perhaps this could be something more. Something real. Solas desperately needed it to be.” “Tell me something about yourself,” Solas pleaded, “something that I could not possibly know.”

“That would fill an encyclopedia. I hope.”

“Please, Varric.”

“Hell, I don’t know. What about the time me and Hawke - ”

He stands on the crumbling stone of his prison. Their argument at the ritual site picks up right where it left off. 

Solas sits on the cold ground and laughs. It’s a pitiable, hollow sound that is utterly devoid of humor. It’s swallowed by the thick air and left to hang over his head. Because of course it is. He built this prison too well. All it took was weeks or months to break him. A blink of an eye to an immortal. He wonders how long Elgar’nan could’ve held out, and hates that he knows it would’ve been longer than this.

He’s still sitting when the rotating columns converge into the Great Hall of Skyhold, still shaking his head with a resigned grin as the stone fortress settles colorless around him. The flicker of the fireplace to his right is silent and offers no heat. Sidri sits in judgment, and she has no face. 

“I’m not joining you on the floor,” says Varric. “My knees can’t take that shit, dream or not.”

“You’re not dreaming, Varric,” Solas says softly. Repetition. That’s the nature of regret, isn’t it? An endless, stilted cycle with no true end or beginning. Just a constant, unrelenting middle. “You can’t.”

“Will you at least let me help you up?”

Solas’ chuckle is hollow, as empty as the prison. “I think we both know the answer to that.”

“Yeah,” Varric sighs. “I guess we do.”

Solas doesn’t turn to look at him. He can’t bear it. 

But the silence of the memory is broken by the shuffle of thick boots and groaning knees, and the cold of the dream is stopped by a feeling almost like warmth pressing against his side. Varric sits next to him. They stay there, together, until this shattered regret completes its circuit.

And then Solas is back, alone, on the crumbling stone of his prison, and the cycle begins anew.

[vaguely-concerned]

sophia seeing cailan's body hanging there when they go back to ostagar, and suddenly all she can see even through the rot and the ruin is just how much he looked like alistair...... :'(

a mental image that totally will not haunt her through alistair's many years on the throne as rebellions and assassination attemps come and go. doesn't send her unhinged and unwise even a little

[scribeofmorpheus]

Dragon Age Veilguard: Love, Wisdom and Pride

A very long Dragon Age post!

Warnings for: Veilguard Spoilers, Solavellan spoilers.

Okay, so I will preface this by saying that this ‘analysis’ primarily focuses on Solas’ arc; both romanced and unromanced. It isn’t intended to be a romanticised analysis, though it is very much enamoured with how a romanced Solas and his relationship with Lavellan foils (and informs my reading/reception of) that of Solas and Mythal’s relationship in Veilguard. There is a relationship I will address that I feel does parallel Solas and Mythal! Scroll down to “Reading Between the Lines” if you wanna skip my little intro below. Spoilers follow.

Truth be told, I wasn’t ever expecting much in terms of actually getting a sequel to Inquisition. The game dev market went through a tumultuous reshuffle before the remake madness breathed life back into many studios. Bioware game sequels (Mass Effect Andromeda) were underwhelming and not as fleshed out since the EA acquisition. I absolutely believe Bioware would have been shunted had Mass Effect Legendary Edition not been so successful. EA’s reputation was always lacklustre and underhanded, but laying off or losing several head writers attached to Bioware with almost two decades of work under their belts was the biggest red flag. Trevor Morris not being asked to return in exchange for a ‘bigger name’ was also a grave warning that returning to the atmosphere, ambience and world of Thedas that we knew was getting further and further away from a plausible reality. And on top of that, there’s the fact Solas was never intended as a romance interest during early development of Inquisition.

Solavellan seemed doomed!

Despite this, I still held out hope for a sequel, but I feared we’d always be in permanent Solavellan/developmental hell. Heck, I’m still waiting for a Beyond Good and Evil sequel—the game released in 2003! So, actually witnessing people play Veilguard, seeing reactions to it, seeing memes and gifs and essay pieces (like this one), it’s like my community has awoken again, and I never thought I’d see the day. Yet I am not blind to the fact we were robbed of so much potential. I knew thing’s wouldn’t live up to re-emerging expectations when Dragon Age: Dreadwolf was rebranded to Veilguard—the shift seemed to imply less of a primary focus on Solas (and apparently, according to the artbook, the early concept art proves this implication correct).

Things seemed even more dire when the devs revealed there was no tapestry mechanic. I had only one hope: that with the Inquisitor’s confirmed return, we’d get at least some form of catharsis for our Inquisitors (Lavellans and otherwise), if we couldn’t get the conclusions to so many storylines present in each of our worldstates. My main fear was that they’d go the clichéd Ultimate Sacrifice route (which happens anyway, but in a way that makes thematic sense given the stakes and heavily blighted worldstate).

Suffice it to say, there was a lot of evidence that Veilguard would disappoint me in the end. But it hasn’t. It hasn’t lived up to the many expectations and marks of excellence that the Dragon Age world built itself into with the first three entries, that’s for sure, but I am also just so deprived of conclusions, of endings (whether it be because TV doesn’t exist in a sustainable format anymore or that comicbook movies are made with a sequel in mind, never letting anything just “Exit Stage Left” gracefully; or the fact we live in a regurgitating content cycle with late-stage-capitalism where anything remotely profitable gets turned into a caricature of itself: Squid Game, Star Wars, etc.). The cycle is so exhaustive that I am actually at a point where I can say I am content with the ending we were given (on a Solas/Solavellan front), Veilguard gave me relief, and beautiful, achy pain to boot. Though I would absolutely be disappointed by both the "non-romanced Solas" endings, given that Solas winds up either "dying alone, forever" or turns to Tyranny.

Now onto the actual review of that Solavellan ending, Mythal and themes of Love!

Note: I have only gotten the ‘best’ ending in my first playthrough, but I also thought the consequences of not maxing factions would be more… dire? Another note, pls, if your romanced Inky swore to stop Solas, how does that ending differ, if at all? Let me know, I’m dying here!

Sidenote: I’m working on writing another review about my views on the ‘sanitised’ worldstate, the new companions (and why I think Varric was the wrong choice to have as an advisor in the game, given that the Inquisitor or Morrigan would have been more impactful; and not to mention that Cole or Briala should have been companions), removal of the tapestry and what it means for the future of stories in Thedas (The Story We Lost is such a poignant compilation of the sheer volumes of lost lore and depth that I honestly think I won’t go as in-depth on that review as this one), and why I think Veilguard is my final entry into Dragon Age.

Reading Between the Lines: What Pride Hath Wrought

One thing is for sure, Trick Weekes flourishes when writing within the ambiguities and complexities of meaning. This makes every word uttered by Solas so great to dissect, he's a god of lies not because he 'lies' but because he's so careful with how he phrases things, what he holds back, and what he reveals.

For instance, the famous Trespasser exchange where Solas mocks his own follies with sarcasm by saying:

“What is the old Dalish curse? May the Dread Wolf Take you.”

Then a softer, more saddened and beaten-down Lavellan replies:

“And so he did.”

This irks him. Because he then realises in that moment that he absolutely did take advantage, but for some reason he frames it around sex rather than power because that’s easier to address than the latter. And he rejects the notion, even though he brought up the expression he knows to mean nothing close to a sexual inuendo for being ‘taken’, and yet he has the gall to try and derail the conversation by pivoting and saying:

“I would not lay with you under false pretences.”

When I first had this dialogue exchange, I was baffled, because did this mean that there was another meaning to ‘Dread Wolf take you’ that Dalish clans lost through the years, or was it more of a self-deprecating joke Solas had with himself because he, the Dread Wolf, romanced (took) a Dalish Inquisitor (away from her people’s beliefs, histories, past), and he found irony in the saying?

On the surface, “wouldn’t lay with you under false pretences” could simply mean “we didn’t sleep together” or “we did sleep together, but I wasn’t taking advantage as the Dread Wolf, I was simply Solas in your presence”. But I have recently thought of a more… ambiguous reading.  Lay could have been used in a milder, more vulnerable way; to mean to be at peace, to be completely vulnerable, as if to sleep. In that sense, the phrasing becomes: “I could not be at peace with you because I was living a half-truth”.

I absolutely think the moment he feels he is truly beyond hope is when we see his expression of abject horror as Lavellan shouts: “I would have had you trust me!”. He realises then that he did fuck up, he did take the choice away from her because he thought he knew better, him and his pride led to a decision that hurt someone close to him, and he could finally see how wrong he was, how alike the entire situation became to Mythal’s treatment of him. Especially if Lavellan asks to go with him. Because he can see that despite the hurt, the lies and the betrayal on his part, Lavellan still wishing to join him draws too close to his first regret: following Mythal.

Whether he likes it or not, Solas’ love which could burn like a bonfire was directed at a powerful woman—a Herald, an Inquisitor—and inspite of her greatness of character, it still shaped her into someone willing to follow him on his dinanshiral out of love, much like he left the Fade and took physical form for Mythal. So now whenever I hear Lavellan shout “Var lath vir suledin”, Solas replying with “I wish it could, Vhenan,” changes drastically with the Mythal reveal, knowing he always walks away from the Inquisitor in Trespasser.

“I wish it could, Vhenan” sounds heavily like: “You would regret me, as I regret Mythal, and I cannot bear for that to happen us.” More poetically, it could read as: “I wish our love could overcome a duty that has lasted an incomprehensible amount of time, I wish I could change my nature, but then I’d be twisted into a demon, like the spirit of Wisdom in the Dales; and yet again, I would become your regret.” These two readings are very, very romantic. Realistically, given what we know of his kinship with Felassan, and how they were comrades and friends for centuries (“A story unfinished. His back turned!”), and given what we know of the complexity of Mythal’s will that presides over the creation of his very being, and yet he was still able to muster the strength to kill a fragment of her to fulfil his mission,  “I wish it could” was most probably a lament: “Do not ask me to hurt one of the two women I’ve loved on this journey, because if it ever came to it…” he would.

Knowing what I know of Solas, of how he was able to convince himself that Varric’s death (avoidable as it was) was just another necessary step, that it was just another sacrifice, another loss that would be worth something only if he completed his ritual, I have no doubt that Solas would also be able to rationalise hurting Lavellan (which is why in his mind, turning away from her, breaking her heart, leaving with no explanation and aiding her in Trespasser so she could live whatever few years remained in “relative peace” is actually an act of preserving that love). I partially think the reason he reveals the truth in Trespasser (especially for a romanced Lavellan) is in the hopes his ‘truths’ will push her away. But on a deeper note, I think he also thinks of it as some twisted form of repaying her for loving him to the point that he could have almost forgotten what it was to be the Dread Wolf, to just be with her as Solas, that night at Crestwood. Maybe his harsh truths would push her to the point where she’d give up her love for Solas, now that she knew he was the Dread Wolf, freeing her from the shackles of their love. He’s very self-flagellating, all about self-sacrifice for the ultimate goal, the ends always justify the means, he will endure any pain and punishment as long as Arlathan returns in the end.

What is his love of a mortal compared to the despair and loss of an entire empire? Solas views himself as selfish for falling for her, and that nearly broke him, if he was selfish enough to leave the dream of Arlathan behind for her, what would that do to his spirit then?

In his way of thinking, perhaps telling the Inquisitor the truth is a way out, a rationale they can use to justify stopping him or to make it easier to hate him as the Dread Wolf rather than love him as Solas (someone he hasn’t been in so long).

‘Masking’ as the Dread Wolf

During Trespasser, the Inquisitor has every right to despise Solas after all they’ve learned, and I think he half reveals the truth as a tactic so the Inquisitor can have an excuse to hate him, to be driven to anger and have less pull over his choices, once they learn the truth. Solas is particularly skilled at making other’s play the role that makes his own choices seem inevitable, he orchestrates a lot of events to play out in a manner where it's easier for him to talk himself into bringing down the veil.

He goads Elgar’nan to anger easily. He inspires the spirits to fight for him to the death as a necessary distraction during the war. He absolutely allows the Inquisitor to speak to him one last time so he can offer insight, yes, but also so he can easily frame his actions as just and inevitable. But, Oh boy does he get in for a shock if the Inquisitor shows empathy towards him, it scares him because he’s become accustomed to being seen only as the Dread Wolf. To be understood? That gives way to remorse. And remorse gives way to doubt. And he cannot doubt his purpose, twisted as it is, it is all he has left of his former self. Without it he would most likely change into something different. Someone he doesn’t recognise.

This fear intensifies more so if a romanced Lavellan asks to go with him, and in that case, he takes command and distances himself away (rejecting the help of someone close to him; the chance for a possible betrayal; the chance at another Felassan or Mythal [x]; the chance to twist Lavellan outside of her purpose, in this case, the purpose would be love/empathy) but not without showing remorse at having sacrificed yet another relationship for his crusade.

“Ir abelas.”

Sorrow for what cannot be is at the heart of why the Solavellan romance is so powerful, especially because even though both Solas and Lavellan love each other passionately, love alone cannot be enough when faced with regrets. Love would ultimately be stifled. Corrupted into something else over time. And so, for Solas, having loved and lost tragically is better than having loved and corrupted.

He will not do to Lavellan what was done to him, even if it is her choice, because she knows so little, her naivete cannot close the distance of a millenia’s old sea, and it would hurt him immensely to take advantage of her kind heart [x].

By leaving, he keeps her heart pure. And the yearning! Knowing the love is there, but on its own it cannot be invulnerable to corruption, so it is better to lose it than twist it. Ugh! Him leaving Lavellan is the ultimate show of love! IT IS A WISE DECISION. A rare glimpse into pure wisdom. Which is why he kneels beside Lavellan in Trespasser, he does not “Stand Tall” in the face of Wisdom’s heart. He kneels beside her. And when he stands tall again, he is Solas once more, filled with regret, and once through the eluvian, he returns to masking as the Dread Wolf.

Sidenote: It’s especially confounding that Veilguard allows Rook to push the Inquisitor to save or stop him after you’ve reached act 2 despite your world state choice (I think this was done in case they feared the Inquisitor wouldn’t stand by Solas after everything he was revealed to be responsible for in Veilguard, however it doesn’t work because the Inquisitor wasn’t an advisor, Rook never told them what they learned from the wolf statues, so having a stranger hold the ability to make Lavellan keep her promise or not rings hollow). Personally, I wish the Inquisitor’s presence had more weight in the non-Solavellan endings, too. I wish the Inquisitor could end up being the last friend/former love that Solas destroys (if you don’t collect the wolf statues) which then prompts Rook to fight him because Solas’ last tie to empathy failed to redeem him, that the Inquisitor falling is the last straw and Solas snaps, choosing to be a villain in the hopes of being stopped because he can’t stop himself, and not the ‘I am a God’ ending they gave us. Same for if your Inquisitor vows to stop him. I also wish the Inquisitor was the one to do the wolf statue missions. Would have been a nice secondary protagonist mission like the switching perspectives between Kratos and Atreus in GOW: Ragnarök (the old guard and the new; Inquisitor and Rook). I would have loved if they dedicated more dialogue to Inquisition days too, which is why I think Cole should have been a companion (if he wasn’t recruited, he could simply be a compassion spirit that ‘follows’ the greatest pain in the Fade that yearns to be healed, giving a compassionate viewpoint to Solas’ folly; recruited Spirit Cole could have a greater connection to Solas than even Varric, seeing as Cole was most likely a literal representation of Solas rewriting his own history by preventing a spirit from becoming too ‘real’; Human Cole would have a deeper connection to the world of Thedas, and could have been a great tool to prove how change was inevitable, not always a bad thing, and inevitably out of even Solas’ control. But alas, we live with what we are given! Even Imshael could have served in this role! Spirit/Demon of choice and it wasn’t incorporated into the game that supposedly asks you to make the greatest world-changing choice ever; redeem the Dread Wolf or end the age of the Evanuris entirely?!

Now onto the next segment: I want to talk about Solas’ regrets and how I read the ‘love story’ between Solas and Mythal, and why Lavellan (and what she represented) wasn’t enough to get through to him (and that’s a very believable thing, that’s what makes their love both tragic and epic!).

The High Price of Redemption

A romanced Lavellan has the most agency to see through his guises, if she resolves to save him, but even she cannot undo the shackles that still bind him to Mythal—the binds that twisted Wisdom so far from its purpose it became Pride, even when he burned (Mythal) from his face. (Likewise, A close friend Inquisitor who promises to save him is most likely a parallel to Felassan, again, they cannot undo the shackles of regret either.) I fully believe the vallaslin had a deeper magic than simply marking one as being committed/devoted to an Evanuris, I think it linked them magically, and since Solas was the first to burn the vallaslin away, he probably wasn’t as good at severing the link on himself as he was for other elvhen, so maybe a part of Mythal’s will still lingers in him, twisting him to Pride still.

In Veilguard’s final confrontation, I love the intention of showing how Lavellan approaches Solas slowly, as she doesn’t know who she’ll be faced with up those steps, Dread Wolf or Solas. But when she speaks to him, trying to get him to change his mind yet again, forgiving him for his wrongs, we are reassured that Wisdom hasn’t been completely consumed by Pride despite everything we’ve witnessed in the game because he bows his head at her in reverence as he apologises.

He shows humility towards her. He elevates her and her enduring love as worthy of his respect, but he does not consider himself worthy of hers. Thus, Lavellan pries open the door to acceptance but his heart is still not enough. Which is why love alone cannot turn the tide. He’s too broken to accept it. He doesn’t think he deserves it, so the only way out is through; to continue the ritual, to prove he was right. The shackles persist. Varric’s death weighs on his conscience now more than ever. Possibly members of Rook’s team too if they died on his crusade. But he is vulnerable enough for Morrigan to approach, and now Rook can use Mythal’s essence to make the final push. The only way he could be with Lavellan, the only way he could atone for the past and shed the weight of his armour (his crushing duty to the Elvhenan) is as Wisdom, fully restored, unbound by mistakes.

“Ar lasa mala revas.” He could only find absolution once Mythal (the angered and more brash essence of Mythal, the one unchanged by Flemeth and all the human women’s lives she’s been shaped by, but the closest iteration to that of Mythal in Arlathan, the version that he perceives as having every right to be angry at him for turning his back on her, for not going that last final stretch with her and subsequently, not being by her side when she died) severed the final connection: facing his regrets, showing humility and apologizing, while not taking away the blame but sharing it.

What is Benevolence without Wisdom if not Hubris?

We know Elgar’nan was twisted to Tyranny during the war, and I saw a post somewhere where someone wondered what led to his corruption, and what he was before (leadership/command). Likewise, Mythal was not above corruption.

So far, I’ve seen a lot of takes on Solas’ ties to Mythal, the power dynamic of being a student/disciple enamoured (could be romantic) with the benevolence of Mythal, but not how Mythal’s purpose was possibly also twisted towards hubris the moment she asked Wisdom to turn physical and build weapons from its knowledge, twisting it to Pride. Without Elgar’nan’s tyranny to rally against after the war with the Titans, Mythal would most likely turn a similar route, seeing her ruling as “necessary” for the people: “If not me then who?”. And that is a very short stop and quick drop to “I am your all-powerful ruler, I liberated you, and only I can guide the way”. Benevolence twisted by hubris can easily turn to Tyranny too, only one more subtle, a kind of cultish indoctrination compared to violent subjugation. If Solas had not turned his back on Mythal when she chose to be Evanuris (a god over her people) then they most likely would have made the worst (best) pair in the Evanuris. Pride is the Seventh Deadliest Sin. But imagine Pride next to Godhood?! That is frightening. So, when Solas burns the vallaslin, walks away and works against the Evanuris, I believe that he also inadvertently stops Mythal from becoming a corrupted version of herself. The sorrow at having lost her closest confidant and “love” grounds her, keeps her saintly in Solas’ mind, and in some ways, perhaps saves the Elvhen empire from a worse fate than him erecting the veil to begin with. But neither of them ever consider this. And I think that sort of self-blindness perfectly encapsulates how flawed both Mythal and Solas are. Now onto love.

Solas and Mythal – a Love too complex to simply classify as mortal ‘Love’.

There’s no doubt Mythal and Solas shared a deep bond, one that definitely had love in it, when we hear Mythal calling him ‘love’, without the possessive ‘my’ in front of it, it’s easy to misconstrue what type of love they share. A small nitpick, but like a thorn, it applies sometimes just enough pressure to change a perspective. Not calling Solas “My love” but instead choosing to simply use “love” works within those wonderful ambiguities/complexities that Weekes thrives in.

If one started out as a spirit, it’s safe to say concepts like familial bonds, romantic bonds, and blood ties mean little to nothing. There is no one type of love and there is every kind of love all at once. It is only once physical bodies are introduced, that physical touch, the ability to stab someone in the back, to kiss out of affection, to hug out of empathy, to strike out of anger, that love now becomes this twisted thing too. There are no spirits of love because spirits always possessed love, but there are demons of Desire (Gluttony) and of Rage (love denied).

I believe, from GDL’s acting skills, his soft whisper, his almost submissive smallness in the breadth of Mythal’s already soft voice, that Solas was in love with Mythal, devoted as a student, beguiled by her benevolence, content even in her shadow, and possibly star-struck. He was in love with someone who doesn’t have the possibility to love him back the same, it is not in her nature to love those beneath her in the same intensity that those who look up to her do. It’s like a priest being in love with God. The priest can devote themselves, sacrifice everything, but a God will always love their flock equally, but they can still play favourites.

Benevolence cannot be enamoured with Wisdom because to be truly benevolent they must possess Wisdom but there is also Pride to be had in walking beside benevolence, but they can never be on equal footing. Likewise, Solas’ love is not reciprocated entirely by Mythal, but she does love him back in her own way. While Mythal is definetly Solas’ first love, layered and complex, it is also strangled by regrets and twisted by uneven scales of power. It would never be a nurturing love, only a consuming kind.

When he speaks of Mythal during the Solavellan ending, he calls her his “oldest friend”, much like what Mythal says, (paraphrasing) “would you have me be angry at my oldest companion whose experienced so much with me”. Because friendship is perhaps the easiest way to describe their companionship. They went through many iterations, one certainly holding romantic tensions (specifically from younger Solas), but ultimately, with that much time shared, kinship/friendship becomes the easiest to surmise. You can love your friends, fall in love with them, fall out of love with them, only to love them again, be disappointed in them, etc.

Media today is flushed with romance as a linchpin for driving a hero to make dire choices, and that has warped our perception of how a platonic/non-romance-based relationship can be all-consuming, and sometimes more impassioned than strict romance. But, to make it easier for people to understand Solas’ motivations, it's easier to see their love in the light Taash sees it (an unreliable, somewhat “still juvenile” narrator, in that they are still growing into themselves and their culture and the world): “They were doing it”.

However, Bellara, a companion whose entire companion story is linked to her strong, deeply character-driving relationship with her brother (platonic love) refutes that reading by saying (paraphrasing here): “We don’t know if their ‘love’ is the same type of love we tend to think of in a masculine and feminine relationship.”

Felassan’s letter after the Mythal Dragon fight alludes to Solas having been in love with Mythal, but nothing about how she felt. This is why I consider the Solas/Mythal relationship to be more of a one-sided romantic love, but a requited ‘love’ relationship for them both.  

A parallel I find so compelling: Solas and Mythal vs Briala and Celene. Solas and Briala both hold deep emotions for people in great power with the ability to end a tyrannical cycle of subjugation, enslavement and classism, yet for both of these ruler’s charisma and well-meaning intent, they often are swayed to side with tyranny. For Mythal, that was Elgarnan, the Evanuris who made all the other’s worse tyrants; as well as her own hubris for believing her presence alone could dampen the ravenous hunger for power that the rest of the Evanuris held at the small prospect of leading the Elvhen in a time of confusion (being a North Star is hard when all the other lights around you aim to blind the flock into submission). For Celene, this is more about the nuances of retaining favour, pull and power over other noble families, their backing (be it financial, political or simply cut-throat), and their support so she can be the ‘lesser of two evils’ compared to Gaspard’s warmongering personality and Florianne simply being a puppet with no backbone. Both Briala and Solas are turned to pawns despite their immense strength and compassion for their respective elven plights; Briala is rendered a fangless lion (for lack of a better metaphor) if she is reunited with Celene, whereas if she is chosen to puppet Gaspard, there’s every likelihood her story could parallel a ‘power-mad’ Solas if he’d been tethered to Rage (at betrayal) and not Regret (at having not rejected Mythal when she asked him to take a physical body) throughout his tenure as the Dread Wolf.

Solas and Lavellan – a Heart that was never intended to be Given/Taken

Now I will compare the lack of possessives in front of Mythal’s “love” to Solas declaring Lavellan as ‘Vhenan’ and then ‘Ar lath, ma Vhenan’ vs ‘Ar lath ma vhenan'; again, the coma is the thorn, the pause that shapes the quiet unsaid things we can deduce. In the Trespasser cutscene DGL puts the pause after “Ar lath”, even though the subtitles construct the sentence with Vhenan as a proper noun since it’s a nickname often used by Solas: “Ar lath ma, Vhenan”. But I believe Solas actually says “Ar lath, ma Vhenan”.

With “Ar lath, ma Vhenan” the stressor is after the pause, so the line reads: “I love [you], my heart.” And with “Ar lath ma, Vhenan” it makes even less structural sense but can be inferred to mean: “I love you, Heart”.  

The possessiveness of “My” is what definitively differentiates the love Solas feels for Lavellan as one more of the romantic side, it is a love of yearning and desire and a wish to have one last good thing that is pure and incorruptible. The one thing he had left to give. His heart. But that does not mean his heart is enough! The rest of him is still bound to the love of Mythal that was twisted through the ages. That changed him. And given how Pride often comes before a fall, I absolutely understand why Solas is actually very brash and ill-considering when he’s romancing Lavellan (“The kiss was ill-considered”/”It would be kinder in the long run”/”I wanted to show you what you mean to me”). He's on a precarious cliff during Inquisition. His first plan failed. He's allowed ancient elvhen magic to fall into a blighted Tevinter magister's hands. Literally everything the Inquisition did could have been for nought if the Mark had fallen to the wrong person. Things could have easily fallen apart for Solas too, so why not indulge in something trifling and fleeting? Execpt it wasn't trifling. Nor was it fleeting. And when he saw that the fall could potentially not happen, that the Inquisitor could do it, save Thedas and retrieve the orb, he was struck by the gravity of his brashness, of letting impulses control him instead of acting according to a plan. But it was too late. They'd both fallen for each other.

Solas didn’t expect to form entanglements within the Inquisition. He was committed. He was angry at the world, “walking through a sea of tranquil”, called flat-ear by the Dalish that later chased him from their village when he proved he was the Dread Wolf. He was despised by people who looked like him. Spirits were constantly being abused and turned into demons. People erected monuments to heroes who slew demons. Mages were caged. Elves were subjugated. The empire fell. Humans razed the lands with their wars and petty squabbles of succession. The darkspawn tainted the land. The dwarves would never dream. Solas awoke to the worst possible fate; in his eyes, it was all his fault.

So when he kisses Lavellan in the Fade, impulsively, he isn’t kissing her there because it is less ‘real’ than if they kissed while she was awake, it makes it so much more real. He’s kissing her in the space where he is most himself. Where he can shed the body he was forced to build and trap himself within, the body of Pride. He is acting on the impulses of an enlivened Wisdom spirit that does not consider tomorrow, for the first time in a long time. It isn’t a long game with Lavellan, like so much of his life has been about always thinking to the future, always considering the outcome, machinating, scheming, the wiles and woes of every trickster god in mythology. It’s being in the moment with her that is all-consuming. It lowers his guard, leaves him vulnerable, and when she enquires about the Fade or spirits or histories, he gets to be useful as pure Wisdom again.

Lavellan challenging him when he first shows animosity or irritation towards the Dalish (a prideful act), and then him being taken aback when she explains that maybe the Dalish could be shown another way (making him consider her words, being given a morsel of wisdom back, reminding him of his old self), these are all small moments where Solas can begin to see springs of hope in the broken world. And that’s terrifying. It means he’s destroying not just himself, but the memory of Mythal and Arlathan too, all for the love of a woman who fell for an apostate.

The best, most genuine unmasking of Solas for me is during Wicked Hearts, when he’s tipsy on wine, has no inhibitions, and revels in the intrigue, the gossip, the dancing, the music (something we now know is important enough to have an entire music room in the Lighthouse), the sex! He is at his most relaxed, and then he asks Lavellan to dance, not caring about how it would look for the “Inquisitor’s serving man, Solas” to be intimate in a fucking Orlesian palace with the Herald of Andraste, right after stopping an assassination attempt! He finds comfort in the world of Thedas at that moment. Something he rarely shows so outright.

When he takes Lavellan to Crestwood to confess, I believe removing her vallaslin wasn’t entirely just for her, it wasn’t just to free her from slave markings or to simply reveal a form of a truth he wanted to tell her, it was to resolve himself of what his first purpose was supposed to be, what she distracted him from. Removing the vallaslin had been something he’d done for the slaves of Arlathan, it was what earned him the mantle of Dread Wolf. When he removes Lavellan’s vallaslin, he resets.

Thedas cannot allow Wisdom to truly exist without fear of corruption to Pride, Thedas the world he was responsible for shaping, literally the Maker of the Veil, and he falls for a woman Heralded as Andraste’s Chosen One, Mythal’s incarnation in the South. The irony. The cruel, cruel irony. The Inquisition is tied to his past, every Andrastian he meets, every Dalish person with vallaslin on their face, every slave or city elf. Tevinter worshiping the dragons that still have the essences of the Old Gods. His heart alone cannot withstand all of the punishing, gruelling, oppressive weight that is Thedas. Even for Lavellan. So he frames their romance as this tragic, short-lived tale that was beautiful but ultimately destined to end. He expects it to pass for her, she’s mortal after all. But he also leaves his heart with her, literally giving her power over the last uncorrupted part of himself. Think Will Turner and Elizabeth Swann at the end of World’s End, but metaphorically. He gives her his heart to safe keep as he goes on a journey that could corrupt a heart, turn it cold and bitter, destroy it.   

Ar lasa mala revas. You are free.

He frees his heart.

Lets it go.

Twice!

So only once he is relinquished of his regrets, once Mythal does the same for him, only then is there “Nothing left except their love”. Because Lavellan still held his heart there was still something left after. Something beyond despair and regret and loss. He had given his heart to her to safekeep. And she did. Lavellan returns his heart to him when he is freed. What Mythal had to break so Solas could heal right again (like a bone), Lavellan casts a splint around so it can be set and heal properly. This is the difference between Mythal’s love and Lavellan’s. Both Mythal’s love and forgiveness broke him, but Lavellan’s love gives him the strength to Stand Tall one last time.

Solas, before Pride alone, as Wisdom (perhaps Solas always meant both Standing Tall and Wisdom, for Wisdom can grant one pride to stand tall for what they believe in), finds contentment with the rare and marvellous spirit that endured (his Vhenan). Wisdom endured because of humanity, something benevolence is beyond.

Bellanaris

When Lavellan offers to go with him, to continue on the dinanshiral that she already considers herself a part of, Solas is legitimately taken aback. His expression is soft yet full of disbelief and awe. He actually stops walking a few frames before Lavellan says this, as if hoping Lavellan would say something to him!

And then she basically proposes to him! “Bellanaris!” I absolutely adore the fact that Lavellan promises them eternity. A vow as sacred as a death right, as protected as an ancient, elvhen, undisturbed burial ground in the face of Orlesian colonialisation. They endured and now they will have an eternity. For once, we have an elvish tale that is not a curse, it is a love story with reunion at its core, where both elves reclaim something precious that was denied them.

Lastly, i am absolutely frothing at the mouth that Solas and Lavellan primarily speak in elvish! And even more feral at the fact Solas does not try to talk her out of joining him (because this sweet talker very well could!). He simply tells her where he is going is terrible. And she shuts that shit down immediately. No repeat of Trespasser. She's standing beside him, the South has all but fallen, whatever ties yet survive are strained, and she has fought the good fight for 8 years. I think the Inquisitor was about ready to leave Thedas behind.

The last decisions Solas makes are of his own volition. Entering the Fade for atonement. Stepping into the Fade with Lavellan (It was confirmed by Weekes that Lavellan’s presence in the Fade prison would fundamentally change it in a way we haven’t seen!). Thanking Rook for giving him one last shot at getting happiness. All his own!

This is the look of a man finally reunited with his wife! So much emotion in ONE frame. God! There’s never been a character like him. A love story like theirs! I’m so happy I got to see this ending. Full circle!

P.S. If you read this far, woah nelly! That’s crayyzeee, so here are some more great pieces: Why it was important for Lavellan to kneel for Solas as he knelt for her in Trespasser in the Solavellan ending [x], and here’s a great deep-dive on Solas as a spirit of Wisdom [x].

[lion-writer]

I've seen people comment on how Spite is more like a loud dog than a demon, that he's underused, and just generally pretty harmless.

But honestly it makes sense he's like that. What's more spiteful than defying everyone's expectations

Contains spoilers

A demon is described as a spirit whose purpose has been perverted, turning them evil

But it's also been stated that there's less of a difference between the two than most realize, both by Solas and Bellara.

Just as a few more examples

In one of Emmerich's banters with Harding, he mentions that more sophisticated spirits vary in kindness, or “There's the curiosity that leads one over a hill, and the curiosity that kindles a house fire”

Spirits also don’t really have to turn into demons to do harm. Take for example Cole/Compassion in Asunder. He kills a ton of people but he never really stops being a spirit of compassion, it's just that he views killing people as compassion.

In “Regrets of the Dreadwolf”, its implied that Solas was a wisdom spirit who became a pride demon, and while your opinion about him can vary, he’s not particularly demonic"

A spirit’s purpose can shift without them turning into a evil or into a demon, as shown when a spirit of Compassion turns into Eulogy after Docktown’s “In Memoriam” quest

It’s mentioned that before becoming Spite, it was a spirit of determination. Lucanis also states that “Any spirit can become a demon, Zara didn't give them a choice”.  so I think we can safely assume Zara was the one who turned determination into spite

It's also kinda implied that spirits don't always lose their original purpose when they turn into demons, it just usually shifts to a different aspect of it. Wisdom to Pride, Justice to Vengeance, Determination to Spite.

And spite as a concept really is close to determination, I mean how many times do you hear about people who are determined to succeed solely out of spite. 

Who is it that Spite hates most of all? Who is the person Spite wants to Spite the most? Zara

And the thing that Zara wanted most out of Spite is for him to be evil, for him take over Lucanis, to hurt people, ect.

And so when a spirit, created out of the determination to spite a lady who wants it to become evil, is forced into Lucanis’s body, is it really a surprise that it doesn’t go as planned.

I mean Spite can be a jerk, but he mostly just throws temper tantrums when he doesn't get his way, and the worst thing he does is attacking Illario after he kills Zara, which to be honest is kinda deserved. 

In fact, he usually seeks to help Lucanis, I mean he fucking drags Rook into Lucanis mind palace to act as a therapist. And afterwards there's a conversation between Emmrich and Lucanis where it's brought up that Spite literally thought they were still in the Ossuary, which is why he kept trying to escape through the Eluvian.

Overall I feel that he’s closer to a spirit of living in spite of trauma. Of succeeding despite others saying that you can’t, and being kind even though the world is cruel.

[ir-abelas-vhenan]

Something Something Yeah It's Still Solavellan Hours (Mythal is kind of here, too)

I've seen a few very beautifully articulated posts talking about the conflicted responses players are finding themselves having in regards to the decision by writers* to have Solas' atonement route possible because of his conversation with one of the remaining fragments of Mythal.

(*honestly I hesitate to put the weight of bigger game events on their shoulders because of how much I know bigger players in the company were involved, so when you read 'writers' know I just mean whoever had final say on plot)

I love reading where people are at on this, and having now breathed, re-played the scene, cried, read some more theories, and then played the scene again enough times I think I'm now able to figure out where I'm at.

TLDR: in my humble opinion, the conversation Solas has with Mythal doesn't bring him any actual closure at all. It is only the version of the atonement ending that has Lavellan in which he is actually set upon a road to redemption.

This, like everything else where I lose my mind, will be long. I tried to restrain myself and here we are, unhinged as ever.

I was unhappy at first that Mythal's incredibly brief conversation with Solas where she releases him from her service seemed to be what finally allowed him to make a decision based on his wants and not hers. My concern stemmed mostly from the fact that a lot of us are trying to be active participants in a society that recognizes patterns of abuse and seeks to establish channels through which individuals can pursue healing without the approval, consent, or demise of their abuser.

But the more I look at the scene, the more I wonder what would have happened in a world where Veilguard got just a little more time in development. Could we have gotten a scene that more elegantly conveys the theme that we cannot heal every part of our loved ones, much as we might like to?

In an imperfect world it isn't always up to us how someone finds closure, which really sucks when you'd like to ensure a loved one finds it in a way that preserves their dignity and limits exposure to the individuals who have harmed them.

And while it could be left there, I'd like to actually push back on the idea that Mythal is in any way responsible for "healing" Solas in this moment.

I went on a different tirade a few days ago about how at the end of Inquisition, Mythal says words to Solas that on their surface seem well-intentioned or placating, but they actually just serve to further bind him in guilt and a position of servitude. In Veilguard's finale, she still does not take accountability for exactly how much of a role she played in the pain that Solas, a man others have revered and feared as a god, has gone through as he cowers, actually cowers before her.

Mythal's interaction with Solas conveys exactly two things to him as far as I am concerned (I'm going to botch these quotes but my laptop is dying so please accept some paraphrase as I rush to finish this before I go cry about this analysis to my uncaring dog):

"The terrible things we did, we did together." You are forever tied to me.

"I release you from my service." But what am I releasing you to?

Because up until Lavellan joins the fray here, all I take away from the physical and unwilling emotional cues Solas gives in this scene (he is a master in trickery, for goodness' sake, the thought of so many witnesses seeing him unable to hide behind a mask has to leave him feeling anguished on top of everything else) is that Mythal has once again reminded him of everything he did in her name and telling him that all that's left for him is to go back to the fade prison and, as he as always done, endure the crushing weight of his failures alone.

To me, in my interpretation, the Solas that hears this from Mythal with no Lavellan intervention may choose to willingly step down from his original plan (and yeah, that's gonna do some damage) but he is certainly not free of his past. He's going to be reminded of it every time he turns a corner and finds more blight to try and soothe, and even the moments that he rests will be filled with more manifestations of his regret. He says it himself: where he's going? It's terrible.

Enter Lavellan. Yeah, he couldn't bring himself to listen to her at her first plea (but like damn how many times are we going to have to watch her give a heartfelt speech only for him to be like 'something something beautiful elven rejection'). But I know that you know that our clever icon knows better than to take what Solas says at face value. She tells Rook plainly that he's absolute dogshit at lies of the heart, and she says it with her whole chest.

Lavellan sees the way his shoulders slump (in resignation yes, but you can't convince me there's not a little bit of relief there, too), she hears the agony in the "vhenan" that escapes his lips (which, don't even get me started on the fact that it's been like nine years and he has no hesitation at all calling her his heart, it just spills out of him). It is not the sound of a man delighting in the steps he's about to take. They're certainly not steps he does not dislike that lead to a destination he enjoys.

And then she watches Mythal (who I can't imagine she feels any sort of fondness or respect for) pull some weird nonsense on her love one final time, and she knows it's her moment to shine.

Mythal, I would argue, pushes Solas down one more time, shames him into seeking atonement, into once again being alone.

It is the romanced Lavellan that kneels so that he cannot fail to meet her eyes. It is she who invokes their connection, not to remind him of his failures but to reaffirm his greatest strength: their love and their love alone is inevitable. Not the consequences of his past, not the regret he thinks will consume him as he seeks to mend what has been broken. It has only ever been them.

"There is no fate but the love we share". We are forever tied together.

"There is no fate but the love we share." *I* am releasing you from everything else save for this love.

Put colloquially: get absolutely fucking wrecked, Mythal.

Body language comparison to chase up the dialogue one, anyone? The way Solas shrinks before Mythal as opposed to him walking off into the fade with Lavellan at his side and standing tall, and he does not flinch when she lifts a hand to his shoulder?

Ultimately, Mythal is a part of the atonement endings no matter what. But it is only Lavellan that refuses to let him walk alone. It is only Lavellan that guarantees that his dinan'shiral ends not in a prison of regret, but a place of promise.

Mythal bends Solas until he breaks one last time. Lavellan takes each piece, claims it as hers, and uses them to build the beginnings of a future.

[tench]

Veilguard is such a weird game.

It's not a Dragon age game, it's bately a role playing game. It's an ok action. Even though it is the most stable AAA release it is still just a bunch of barely tied together stuff in a trench coat.

The writing (insultingly dumbed down and absolutely incapable of taking itself seriously untill the last 1/6 of the game) is all over the place, the direction is nonexistent judging by the tonal shift from one quest to another. We can have very heart felt monologue about the fear of death sit right next to a conversation where a lot of things are told using one specific phrase (I really hope in a clumsy attempt at emphasis) repeated till these words lose any meaning to you.

There's also a problem of role-playing in this "rpg" and the Rook. None of your dialogue choices matter in terms of defining your character, no matter the option you choose, the general conversation will carry the upbeat silly tone. "Your backstory and class matter more than your race" works untill it doesn't, like when you are a dwarf but you are denied your own journey and realizations tied to the titans, and maybe it is not your journey to take yet you can't even try to be a part of it, even when Harding is actively reaching out to other dwarves to share this connection. It's also weirdly more interested in writing romance between npcs than for the main character (Lucanis comes to mind, it feels like the game is actively punishing you for pursuing him, you have to lose the whole shadow dragon faction, you won't get to hang out with Dorian and still you have bare minimum and he more interested in Neve anyway), that's extremely funny that this game is player-sexual yet completely player-aromantic. (And I miss the dai option where you can come up and kiss your LI whenever you feel like it).

I won't even touch on the weird and unnecessary sanitation of everything, like we can't allow people or factions to have negative traits whatsoever. And it's not "southern propaganda", it's "we are not engaging with complex topics for the sake of clear dichotomy between good us and evil overlords". Speaking of which

The whole plot.. The general idea of it is ok. You come to stop Solas, you make the situation go sideways, you have to work together to fix your mistakes and maybe learn to sympathize with the antagonist haunted by his own transgressions with the main theme being legacy and your relationship with your culture and the baggage it brings. But the journey is a complete disaster. Part of it works solely because the characters absolutely Refuse to make a plan and the other - because the main character has a blunt head trauma. Maybe it's related. Maybe it's all a mass hallucination. I may try to elaborate on how it's absolutely ridiculous how little the inquisition and the politics have any impact in this game yet somehow 8 people squatting in the Fade with no political affiliations are held responsible for providing for every faction they come across. I won't even try to make sense of it. It's the usual case of "the main character does everything".

The direction is not only absent in the writing. Some lines that are ok in text delivered in such a way you may think they were allowed only to use the very first take.

The music is absolutely forgettable. Also the odd riff during the dramatic reveal absolutely took me out because I thought I heard kazoo (but I bet Varric would love it).

The visuals are.. Ok. It's pretty on the first glance but the more you travel the more you realize that the general design of the locations are kinda lacking. They have this weird gradient that makes everything a little bit more unfocused and a bit washed out. There are also too many cases of the horisont just drowning in the fog. Air perspective is great and it suits locations like Necropolis, but I would argue that these establishing shots should be used for environmental storytelling in other places, with some focal points in the background, like during the final mission where you see the world absolutely drowning in the blight, devouring local statue of liberty. Or the dead Titan. Or the first shot of the Veil jumper forest (I forgot how it's called) where you see the ruins going into he sky. But because of the fog (or sometimes darkness) it feels like the game is more interested in cheating the optimisation than to hint on the bigger picture (like the chantry and the gallows buildings that you can see almost from all locations in DA2 or the andrastian/dread wolf imagery of inquisition)

So, in conclusion. Not the worst game I played, yet disappointing, even if we pretend it's not an installment of a beloved franchise that people were waiting for 10 years.

Ps. Also making such a game with nerfing all the lore only to nuke all the legacy locations is a choice I won't ever understand. It's like it is not for the fans and it's not for the new people but a secret third thing.

[alexendria-rose]

Falling apart~

Lucanis Dellamorte X F!Elf!Rook

Spoilers!!!!!!

Summary- After the fight with the gods and losing the people she cared about- the people she became to love. She falls apart- when nobody can see her. Where she doesn’t have to tell people she is alright when she isn’t anymore. She panics- she spirals. Lucanis knows a little something about that…

We won… but at what cost?

The question that swirled through her head- the question that was going to haunt her for all her years. Why did it have to be her? Why did she have to lead? The blood stained her hands- it stained her whole body- her armor. The lighthouse seemed quieter- which she usually prefer the quiet rather than the noise… but at this moment she was awaiting that noise. The squeaks of assan… the arguing back from Darvin. The sweat voice of Harding- the small chuckles from Neve. She missed it. She wanted to hear those noises. She craved it. She walked into Varrics… well what was suppose to be his room. Looking at the bed she imagined him laying on; giving her advice on how to be a leader. Remembering the worries of becoming one and telling him about it.

She was falling apart- and nobody knew it. Nobody could see it. She was used to putting on facade in front of her team. Always helping them with their work instead of her own- her sleeps interrupted by solas, her body covered in blood and bruises from fighting the demons and anyone that came in their way to make the world a brighter place. Away from the blight and away from the Gods.

She placed her hand on the bed kneeling on the side of it. Her head falling onto the sheets. She wanted to cry- she wanted to shout. But how can someone like her be able too? She needed to hold it together for everyone else who lost people as well. She wasn’t the only one who was hurting and she needed to realize that. She stood up from the floor looking at herself in the mirror- she was skinny. Skinnier than usual- her hair was tangled. Her face was bloody and was sure to scar. She lost herself in this mess. She lost her smile- she lost her laugh. She was staring at someone she couldn’t even recognize anymore. She felt numb.

Rook slowly walks over to her room- her legs dragging as she opened up the door. Her legs felt heavy- her armor felt heavy. Her whole body felt heavy. She swore her legs were going to buckle. She thought about the three friends she lost- Harding… Assan… Darvin… and Neve… she was never going to get them back. She was never going to sit in Harding room as she talked about her old adventures- she was never going to drink the most disgusting tea with Darvin. She was never going to hug and pet Assan and Neve… her best friend. She was never ever going to talk to Neve again. Her chest suddenly felt heavy and she needed this armor off of her. She felt her hands shake as she tried to rip off the clothes that were weighing her down. The tears suddenly started rolling down her cheeks as she felt her throat close up and start to shut so much so she was hyperventilating.

“Rook!?” Lucanis voice came into her ears finally- she didn’t even know how long he was there. Lucanis rushed to her side helping her take off the heavy items off her clothes and throwing it to the side. She was clawing at her throat- trying to even her breathing but she couldn’t. She felt her body shake and her legs buckle as she fell onto her knees- Lucanis swiftly moving himself in front of her gripping onto her shoulders.

“Mi amore look at me. Look at me.” Lucanis said sternly but in a loving way he could. Spite was panicking in his mind- and he was trying his best to keep spite at bay.

“ROOK NEEDS HELP. HELP ROOK!”

Lucanis shook away Spite- knowing exactly what rook was going through. He cupped her cheeks gently- her eyes downcast as she continued hyperventilating; the tears rolling down her cheeks. She couldn’t speak- she could barely move.

“Look at me.” Lucanis said calmly- his gaze on her. She slowly moved her eyes to look at him as he cupped her cheeks. His touch calming her down a bit but not nearly enough. “Breathe with me amore.” He gently moved his hand off her cheek grabbing her hand and placing it on his chest. So she could feel his breathing method under his touch. To know he was here. He took a deep breath- her trying to follow along with the way he took an inhale and an exhale out. She felt the choking around her neck slowly star to become lessen. “You’re doing so well amore. Couple more.” He whispered- she continued to follow along with his breathing technique nodding along with him as he complimented her.

“It’s my fault.” She managed to finally gasp out with a raspy voice. Lucanis shook his head- he’s never seen rook fall apart with all this going on- he knew she was going to eventually but he never thought like this.

“No- it’s not.” He whispered softly- using his hand to tuck the loose hair that fell from her hair behind her ear.

“It is- they’re dead because of my decisions. They’re dead because of me. I couldn’t save them.” She sobbed- her hand moving to her chest as she tried to regulate her breathing once again. The tears flowing down her eye socket. “I was their leader- I’m the one that brought them here and now they’re dead.” She couldn’t stop the tears and maker she hated being weak in front of people. Especially in front of Lucanis. Someone who’s been through way worse than her.

“No- I won’t accept that.” Lucanis grabbed her hand that landed on her chest cradling it against his chest. He brought her knuckles to his lips placing a delicate kiss on them. His eyes never leaving hers. “Those people.” He whispered against her knuckles as he placed yet another soft kiss before moving her hand against his chest once again. “They know what they signed up for- they are hero’s rook. You cannot change the past- and you don’t want to because they saved us. They sacrificed themselves for us. So we can live.” She sniffled looking at him wanting to believe his words- wanting to listen to him but she couldn’t shake off this nagging feeling in her chest.

“I could have done more.” She said in hushed tone- that it was barely audible to hear.

“You did- rook. You saved us. You made the difficult decisions. You lead us and I’m so sorry you had all this weight on your shoulders. I cannot even do what you do. Keeping the team together- and showing how much you care.” He saw her body become less tense- he grabbed her quickly holding her shaking body to his chest. “Look at what you did tonight- you fought against a god amore. And won- you helped Solas change even I couldn’t give him that grace. Honestly if it was me I would have stab him.” He earned a little chuckle from her with that line. “The inquisitor may be gone- but you found it in your heart to bring them together. To change solas. And now they have each other. We all do. You saved us all. You did.” Her body starts to shake less at his words- her gaze on the wall as she listened. His hand went to stroke her hair- even if it was dirty and sweaty from their fight with the gods. He still found her beautiful- beautiful then anything he’s ever seen. And spite very much agrees with that thought. Rook slowly moves her head to look up at him- the dried tears stained on her cheeks. Her eyes red and puffy- maker she was beautiful.

“I miss them- I wish I could bring them back.” She said softly- Lucanis smiles sadly his fingertips tracing her cheek.

“Me too mi amore- and we will honor their memory for years to come.” He mumbles lightly- her gaze piercing into his soul. He could almost shiver under her gaze.

“COMFORT ROOK- LOVE ROOK! SHE DESERVES IT ALL!”

He could agree with spite there- she did deserve it all. And he knew from this moment out he was going to protect his Dalish elf from anything- he was going to be by her side as long as she will have him. Even though spite wouldn’t even let Rook walk away from them. She saw her eyes becoming heavy from the lack of sleep she’s barely gotten in months.

“Come on mi amore- let me get you dressed and wiped down before you sleep.” He chuckles lightly at her nodding sleepily. He scoops her up placing her down on her bed- maker he needed to get an actual bed rather then this small one. She leaned back against the cushion watching as he slowly took off her boots- his hands gently massage her side feet. She leans her head back sighing at the contact.

Lucanis finishes changing her into a loose shirt- that was his. He had to admit- it was pretty lovely on her and it made spite go crazy within him. He grabs a wet rag and a brush. He adjusts himself behind her laying her back against his chest as he slowly starts to wipe the blood off her face; her eyes looking anywhere but him. He knew blood would affect her right now and tried to wipe down the blood as fast as he could without hurting her.

He finished wiping the blood off her body- throwing the rag to the slide. “Sit up mi amore.” He whispered into her ear- which made her shiver. She sit up as she sat between his legs- suddenly she felt him brushing her hair with gentle strokes. His fingers running through her hair with every brush. She looked down at her fingers a small smile on her face.

“Didn’t know you knew how to brush hair.” She said in a soft tone- he can hear the faint smile on her face when she said and he just chuckled.

“Caterina taught me- she insisted and you know how that woman is. Can’t tell her no.” He smiled- as he continued to brush her hair making it smooth once again and no longer tangled.

“Don’t tell me you’ve tried saying no to her?” Rook laughed lightly turning her head to look back at him to see a small smirk on his lips.

“Young me was very… what’s the word. Stupid. Once I said no to her and I had to run from her. Hid for 4 hours.” Lucanis chuckled deeply- he placed the brush down before starting to braid her hair. “Caterina taught me everything I know- most importantly how to treat woman. Iilario didn’t listen to that advice.” Rook rolled her eyes playfully and laughed.

“Remind me to never mess with that woman.” She giggled- Lucanis finished braiding her hair. He moved her hair off to the side placing soft gentle kisses on her neck.

“You’ll learn mi amore- especially… since I am hoping you’ll join me by my side as I settle in being first talon.” Lucanis whispered against her neck. Rook turns her head to look at him- Lucanis moving her head a bit to look back at her.

“You want me… with you?” She hesitantly said turning her whole body to face him- he just smiled widely grabbing her hips to place her directly on his lap- making her straddle him.

“I want you in my arms- I want you by my side. I want to listen to your voice as I sleep. I want you only mi amore. So stay with me in Treviso- the crows are your family now.” She grinned- her eyes becoming teary at his words. She finally felt like she belonged somewhere- and being in Lucanis arms… was where she belonged.

“Always Vhenan~” she whispered- Lucanis heart thumped against his chest. He placed his thumb and finger under her chin bringing her head closer placing a delicate kiss on her lips- a soft and passionate kiss to let her know he will always be there by her side no matter where they go. He will always be there.

[brekkie-e]

Thinking about the music room murals, and losing my mind. There's something about the fact he left them unfinished at Skyhold, and seemingly picked up where he left off at the Lighthouse. He not only finished the last panel of the rotunda- he added to the story.

I think this one is meant to depict Trespasser. Which is so interesting on two levels. One, because it shows his investment in the Inquisitor. The codex about the murals at Skyhold quotes Solas saying that, "Skyhold is his/her fortress (meaning of course the Inquisitor). These are his/her actions." His commitment to telling their story didn't end when he left them behind. He finished the tale by adding the wolf to the left of the door and Trespasser.

And two, I'm kind of going insane over how he depicts himself descending on Halamshiral like a storm. And it's true, isn't it? His actions during Trespasser upset the whole chess board. But seeing Solas portray himself so clearly as a villian in the tale is interesting insight. Speaks possibly to his regret surrounding the reality of what he did to the people he befriended during the Inquisition. Or maybe, it's just him trying to accurately tell the tale of the Inquisition through his art form. When you put all the panels next to eachother, it tells the story of what he did just as much as it tells the story of what the Inquisitor did. I seriously could chew on this for hours, these are just my initial thoughts 🤣.

[intpstyle]

Dragon Age: The Veilguard Review Pt. 1 - "How to move on?", The Companions

DA:TV Spoilers ahead!

So what does DA:TV want to say, or rather: to ask?

I think the question at the lyrium-red heart of the game is “How do you move on?”. It does not only make sense narratively, for Solas and his complicated relationship to his own past actions, the companions’ story arcs, and the “good ending”, but also for a game that has been trapped in development hell for 10+ years. How DO you move on?

Specifically, the question seems to be: “How can we move on from guilt/an unjust/imperfect past into an uncertain future?”

We see this theme echoed in all companion quests, to varying degrees.

It is in Bellara literally being faced with a manifest regret from her past (her brother) and having to choose how to honour the legacy of their work for their people.

It is in Davrin taking responsibility for the guilt over and future of the last surviving griffons whose species almost died because of his organisation’s, the Grey Wardens’, abuse.

It is in Emmrich finding the courage to do what Johanna (his more extreme, unethical mirror) could not do: to face the uncertainty and walk across the threshold of death with peace of mind, either in his ritual or later in life, because of Manfred’s sacrifice.

It is in Harding waking up to the injustices towards her and her people that have been buried deep underground and choosing how to unearth them and carry them forward.

It is in Lucanis moving beyond the reality that he was betrayed by one of the very few people he trusted - that he crawled out of a year of torture by the skin of his teeth, forever changed and fuelled by Spite, and choosing to break the cycle by not murdering Illario.

It is in Neve being haunted by (yet another) criminal from her past, grappling with the age-old noir questions of who a detective would be without their murderers, whether the fight with/ against corruption can ever stop and what it means to be “a force for good”, so that she can fully embrace who she is and wants to be for Minrathous in the future.

And it is in Taash, walking the many tightropes of traditional expectations (man or woman? Rivaini or Qunari? Honouring the past and their mother or carving their own path into the future?) only to realise that some choices are not binary, that one can only discover options beyond that which one has been taught by “struggling with oneself” (shokra toh ebra), and that embracing certain parts of oneself does not mean dishonouring others.

All companions must face something that they were afraid to confront in their own lives, made unavoidable through the appearance of Someone Who Is What They Are Not (Cyrian for Bellara, Isseya for Davrin, Johanna for Emmrich, her own unbridled rage for Harding, Illario for Lucanis, Aelia for Neve, and, the Dragon King, but also, surprisingly, I think Neve for Taash?)

What I find most interesting is how this question (“How can we move on from guilt/an unjust/imperfect past into an uncertain future?”) seems to be answered along a sliding scale of personal vs systemic failing and also personal vs systemic responsibility.

The quests that intrigued me the most were the ones in which the personal and the systemic were deeply intertwined and were also acknowledged as such: Davrin’s (his own struggle with individuation vs being shaped (and potentially abused) by a community/ organisation mirroring Assan’s and the griffons as a whole; both he and the system must change), Emmrich’s (his own deep intrinsic fear of death as the driving force behind his a) appreciating and b) being terrified of the Mourn Watchers’ philosophy of going beyond death is beautifully thought out), Harding’s (her own supressed rage as the price for being ever-pleasant, useful, and building others up by mirroring the long-forgotten suffering of the tranquilised Titans who were literal building materials for the elves? *chef’s kiss*) and Neve’s (her constant fear of losing control (which is highlighted in her romance) while still being drawn to the thrill of the chase is mirrored in Minrathous’ constant chaos where just one slip of vigilance can cost you at best a leg, and at worst your life, or your loved ones – but Neve’s quest marries personal and systemic responsibility by asking: would you rather shape the system’s chaos or be shaped by it?).

The quests that fell a bit flat for me had either side of the equation slightly underbaked: Bellara’s (yes, she and Cyrian were deeply invested in Arlathan and Anaris was a Forgotten One, but how does his death directly relate to Bellara keeping or “freeing” (?) the Archive?), Lucanis’ (there is such potential in an assassin re-evaluating whether murder is always the best solution for everything and especially betrayal (and especially-especially because family members assassinating one another seems to be just another Tuesday for the Crows (and especially-especially-especially because it’s heavily implied that Lucanis knew that whole year in the Ossuary who put him there)). But sadly, the game doesn’t really go into Lucanis’ deeper thoughts on the Crows as an organisation, assassination as a moral quandary or the potential culpability of Caterina – which makes his final decision all the more baffling. Him struggling with his “inner demon” would have been a great set-up for struggling with the title of Demon of Vyrantium; what makes him more or less of a demon now than before? But alas), and Taash’s (all the ingredients are there, but the lack of systemic emphasis really dragged down Taash’s story, I felt. Taash explicitly exists between systems, and yet we don’t really see them engaging in either culture and/or going beyond them except for rather shallow markers, like food, clothes, and jewellery – I really would have liked to experience that moment in which Taash talks to Neve, Maevaris and their friends and reflects on their views on gender. I also really would have liked a moment between Isabela, Rowan and perhaps an Antaam defector on what being Rivaini, in-between, or Qunari meant to them, and for Taash to pitch in. In the end, it was not narratively satisfying for me why Taash must now make a choice (or, even weirder, why Rook must now make a choice for them) between being more Rivaini or more Qunari when them thinking through being more man or more woman ended with “neither/both/a third option, actually”.)

Pt. 2 is here, Pt. 3 is here

[baphometsss]

thinking about it, the way solas thinks about/remembers mythal hits really close to home for me

when someone dies, especially if they die prematurely, there's a tendency for those who survive them to kind of... look at them through rose tinted glasses. i had this experience with my brother, who died when he was 22 and very unexpectedly at that. because he died before i really had a chance to spend much time with him (i was 11), i missed out on all sorts of things. both my family and myself have a tendency to ignore all his flaws and the bad things he did because we miss him and wish he was still around to be flawed and do bad things. because then at least he would actually be here.

i think this is what solas is doing with mythal, although it's complicated from their trauma bond and the somewhat abstract way the first elves experienced emotions. it's true what (davrin?) says -- when someone dies before you have a chance to tell them all the things you want to tell them, it stings. mythal and solas had a complicated relationship, and solas really wanted to believe that she would join the rebellion one day. she never did, because of her own pride and refusal to give up godhood, and bc she believed too well in her own ability to control the evanuris from within. to join the rebellion would be like admitting defeat, something she could not do because, as morrigan says, she can't tolerate being wrong. by his own admission, she betrayed him by joining the evanuris. then she died before they had a chance to really iron out their issues, and because solas rebelled against her (in his mind, failing her), it messed with him badly.

so he doesn't allow himself to be angry, because if he really loses it with her (the way he did with the rebel mages in his personal dai quest), what the hell is he supposed to do with that anger? there is no one to direct it at, except the world and himself. he himself is the easiest target, because he already carries so much guilt and shame over the things he's done. but he does direct it outward too. that is at least in part what he's doing when he wants to tear down the veil--not just for mythal, not just to 'repair' his past mistakes, but because he is simply angry and frustrated, too, which blocks his wisdom. and yet, he doesn't feel he has a right to that anger, even though he really does when you think of all the things mythal put him through. he cannot be angry until he has corrected his mistakes he made in failing her.

it's not surprising that he puts her on a pedestal. you do that when you're grieving and hate yourself that much. that's why his perspective is so warped, and why he's an unreliable narrator when it comes to mythal. like i loved my brother, but my recollection of him will always be coloured by his death.

mythal was not the great mother goddess of legend and she was likely not really the person solas portrays her as either. the fragment in morrigan is closest to who the legends portray her as, but it isn't the only part of her either. she was very flawed, and petty, and all the things solas described the evanuris as being. she was a monster in her own way too. but when you're surrounded by far worse monsters, you come out looking okay. that's essentially all mythal had going for her: she wasn't as much of a monster as she could've been.

it speaks volumes about solas's 'grim and fatalistic' outlook when you consider that. the more you learn about solas's past, the more you realise how important the inquisition was to him, how helpless he would've been to have bonded with these mortals who were so free in their goodwill and determination to build a better future--something that was severely lacking in elvhenan.

[zieroses]

I think one major thing missing in Veilguard is elves making the wrong choice.

As far as I know, it’s not accurate to the lore and history that elves would so easily accept (much less already know, i.e. Strife and Irelin) that their gods are evil. I believe it’s even mentioned at one point (hopefully I didn’t make this up or read it in a post?) that Solas awoke after his long rest to find that not only had the world changed, but the elvhen had gotten it all wrong, reducing him to a trickster god and elevating the Evanuris to shining beacons of worship. And as we know in real life, a lot of people who deeply worship their idols dont so easily accept even the most damning evidence that everything they knew was wrong.

These are our gods, after all; they’ve been gone, and they’re back, and they came back for us. That you stand against them is damning for you. Maybe the Veil Jumpers believe you, but we, the Dalish in general, do not. We know our histories. We know our gods. Plus, if the Dread Wolf is aligned against them, we know which side we want to be on.

So, imagine whole encampments of Dalish - maybe even an entire exodus of them from the south - journeying to join Elgar’nan and Ghilain’nain. Imagine that by the time they arrive, it’s too late; there’s no going back, they’re already under Elgar’nan’s insidious control. There’s no chance of them telling the Dalish clans that follow: we were wrong, go back, do not come, flee. Imagine that alongside the un-nuanced evil power-chasers that are the Venatori and the Antaam, we also have to fight Dalish. Imagine, as an elf, having to make a choice the first time you encounter such an enemy. Can they be saved? And you learn: no, they cannot, and if you tried, you lose a friend, or a contingent of Veil Jumpers, because these Dalish are mind-broken, controlled by Elgar’nan.

Imagine a questline, brought to you by the Veil Jumpers (or even a member of the clan): we’ve located a clan en route to join Elgar’nan, if we hurry, we can stop them before it’s too late. So you hurry, and you intercept them. But can you convince them? Bonus points perhaps if you’re a Dalish elf yourself - bonus points perhaps if you have Davrin or Bellara with you. Three outcomes, maybe: you convince them to stop, and they go to the Veil Jumpers instead, increasing your alliance with that faction; you don’t convince them, and their numbers strengthen Elgar’nan’s, and in a later gut wrenching cutscene you encounter faces you recognize and now have to cut down; or perhaps split down the middle, you convince some but not all, and the bonuses and consequences are both present, but lesser.

Maybe also, if the game had some more nuance regarding the historical way Tevinter treats elves, this can potentially go even more poorly if you are a Shadow Dragon, or a mage. Or a Shadow Dragon mage.

This would’ve “solved” a few problems DATV presented or rather flattened out: the lack of nuance in your enemy (think Corypheus’s lieutenants and the things we learn about them that make them potentially sympathetic) and the lack of nuance in the elvhen response to the revelation of their gods’ return.

[jollyinmadness]

Of Canopies and Twines: Chapter 1, Solas | Azriel x OFC

Pairing: Azriel x Original Female Character

Word Count: 8.3k

Warnings: Minor Azriel x Elain. References to sexual thoughts. Very vague references to a genocide. Cursing.

Summary:

When an unknown curse starts spreading through the Night Court's lands, the Inner Circle is forced to seek help in the wisdom of Day's vast libraries. Among the dusty tomes, they are met with a mysterious female who wields magic that may yet be the key to their problem.

Kira, one of the few surviving Purifiers, will have to leave her reclusiveness on the shores of the Continent and learn what her ancestor's vow really means.

Azriel will be forced to reconcile his follies, step out from his shadows and push against his shortcoming with nothing but the scarred skin of his hands.

After years of lucky breaks, will the Inner Circle succeed one last time? Or will their fate rest in the hands of an outsider who has more to lose than gain in helping them?

Then again, the Cauldron is forever being stirred by the Mother and no one escapes the yarn on the embroidery of their lives.

Azriel’s hands were hidden under his armpits as he walked the empty streets of Velaris. The faelights in the Palace of Thread and Jewels still shone brightly, though many of the shops had their doors shut and signs turned to say ‘closed.’ 

He had just left a seamstress’s shop and regretted not accepting a jacket for the suit Rhysand ordered on his behalf. Despite having many in his closet, Rhysand noted that he only owned outdated ones and needed to, quote, freshen up. After a few adjustments, the seamstress had ushered him into the cold street with a smile, saying she was celebrating tonight and needed to get ready too. 

During the longest night of the year, even this part of the town closed down, its habitants retiring to dining rooms with their families. As Azriel passed by houses that hadn’t closed their blinds, he dared to peek in if even for the smallest moment. More often than not, he saw children running around a table while the adults prepared utensils and plates, scolding the little ones for not being careful enough. It caused the corners of his mouth to lift, seeing these people so free of worry that they didn’t even care to draw their curtains. 

His feet moved on their own accord, walking the familiar paths. Something unsettled and grew restless inside his bones as he thought of the estate he was heading to. This year, his own family was meeting in the River House to celebrate the Winter Solstice and the attendance was bound to be plentiful. 

He had already helped Feyre decorate, while Rhysand looked after little Nyx. This year would mark his first Solstice and everyone was eager to make it the most memorable one. Nyx put up the first decoration on the tree but when he was handed a garland from paper, he had torn it in half which elicited a laugh from Azriel and a gentle scolding from both his parents.

Considering he was Rhysand’s son, he was surely going to be a handful once he learned how to talk back and run away.

During it all, Azriel had noted Cassian’s lack of presence, though his brother was most likely hunting down some last-minute gifts before the shops closed for the evening. And last he heard, his mate was up in the House of Wind, preparing with Emerie and Gwyn. Emerie had been spending the last few days with her and Azriel could tell the Illyrian female felt out of place here even after months of daily training. The priestess, on the other hand, had promised Nesta she would spend the dinner with her, before returning to the Library for the evening service. 

Gwyn had shown so much growth since her arrival to Velaris and after the Rite, after she cut the ribbon, Azriel noted how she looked to the sky with a renowned longing. Some of the fear and reluctance had fallen off and in its place had grown courage and curiosity. Perhaps her trip to the River House was a stepping stone.

His mind shifted to the rest that were bound to be present and Azriel wondered what Elain was up to. Whether she was trying on dresses and picking out the ones Azriel would love to see on the ground of his private quarters. 

He hadn’t seen her since a few days ago when he had walked past the kitchen in the River House and beared witness to her gentle chuckles. Her hands were covered in flour and his two trusted shadow wraiths talked in hushed voices to her. Not even his shadows were quick enough to catch onto what was being said because when the three had noticed him, their words died down just like their laughter. 

Cerridwen and Nuala had sketched a quick bow to Azriel, much to his dismay but Elain only stared at him with those wide, doe-like eyes. It had made the air in the kitchen warmer and as she offered him a soft smile. He had disappeared into the shadows after nodding at her. Nodding. 

What a fool he was, pining after a female who was mated to another male, let alone allowing himself such a visceral reaction to simple things like smiles. Foolish, indeed. 

Feyre had mentioned in passing that Lucien was bound to make an appearance during the night. He didn’t let himself feel insulted. The voice inside his head was telling him that Feyre could see right through him and thought him fragile. He didn’t need to be notified of guests, especially Lucien.

Azriel sighed, blowing a white cloud into the biting air and hoped Rhysand had enough chairs for everyone. 

A shiver ran through him when, at last, the front gate to the River House appeared at the far end of the street. He quickened his pace, hands pushing the gate open. His dress shoes clicked against the stone walkway leading to the front door and before he reached for the knob, he pulled at his suit. His scarred hand ran through his hair, fixing and making sure he looked presentable before tackling the entirety of the Inner Circle. 

The shadows curled around his ear, telling him that everyone was already somewhere in the house except for Amren and Varian, who were Mother-knew where and doing Mother-knew what. Azriel didn’t care enough to know. 

With one last inhale, he braced himself for an eventful evening and opened the door. He followed the sound of chatter and bottles clinging to the decorated family room where everyone was gathered. 

The first person to notice his entrance was Cassian. “Az, brother, there you are!”

He came up to Azriel, stuffing a crystal glass full of aged rum into his hand and wrapping a shoulder around him. Cassian was already inebriated, Azriel could tell as their wings brushed on accident. Nesta sent subtle stares their way from the corner of the room while nursing a cup of grape juice and making sure he was still standing upright. She made some comment to the two Valkyries near her, making them giggle while watching.

Cassian and Nesta were still considered to be newly mated and Azriel avoided the House of Wind with fervor. Especially after Feyre and Rhysand had given it to them as a mating gift. He had been planning on vacating his room and moving to the Townhouse way before that but he dreaded packing all of the trinkets decorating his shelves. He would have missed the silence too hadn’t it been replaced by sounds of rabid fucking. Even the dining table wasn’t safe from their ministrations and a small part of Azriel grew jealous at it.

“You should stop with the drinks if you plan on participating tomorrow,” muttered Azriel, still cheering his glass with Cassian’s.

Cassian laughed, the sound joyous and open. “I will end your winning streak this year, spymaster.”

“No, I think it will mark my two hundredth win,” Azriel remarks absentmindedly, elbow shoving itself into Cassian’s ribs. Cassian didn’t take to that lightly and while balancing his almost empty glass, he put Azriel into a chokehold with a boom of laughter. He ruffled his hair while promising utter devastation come tomorrow morning. 

Cassian’s technique wasn’t sloppy despite being drunk but it took one smooth move for Azriel to free himself and knock back the contents of his glass.

“I would save the energy, Cass,” he told him, unfastening the button on his jacket.

Cassian grinned. “Or I can beat you now and eliminate the competition.” 

Before they could begin to play-wrestle, Feyre cleared her throat, staring them down. “No fighting in front of Nyx,” she reminded them. “Besides, Az just arrived and you’re already wrinkling his suit! Get off of him, Cassian.”

“A suit I paid good money for,” whispered Rhys from beside his mate, his ankle resting atop his knee. The tips of Azriel’s ears went red and once he pushed Cassian off, he heard a soft, female chuckle behind him. 

Without a thought, he turned his head, his shadows scattering at the sight in the doorway. Words escaped him like they always did in Elain’s presence and instead, he stared down at her. 

Her hair was done half-up half-down, decorated with little white flowers she was sure were grown by her own gentle hands. Baby breaths, he recalled her saying. As his face traveled from those brown eyes looking at him with mirth, his breath caught somewhere on its way from his lungs and to his mouth. A light pink dress made of the softest fabric adorned her curves, pooling and shimmering around her feet like a waterfall. The color and the design reminded him of that one time he stayed in the Day Court. Sun had just risen and painted the entire sky a brilliant pink and small puffy white clouds dusted the horizon.

At once, he willed his shadows to enshroud him again and stepped from the doorway, his eyes never leaving hers. His only thought was on that necklace in his breast pocket, still undecided on whether he should give it to her or not. Seeing her, he couldn’t help but notice that the little rose pendant would go perfectly with the dress. There and then, his mind was made. He would put the petite box on the pile later once everyone had gone to sleep. 

Somebody behind her cleared their throat and it was the only reason Azriel noticed the fire-haired male. 

Lucien’s stare softened considerably as the golden eye shifted from Azriel the moment their eyes met. The emissary chose to ignore him, instead put a gentle hand on Elain’s upper back that Azriel traced with his eyes. As they crossed over the threshold, it was all he could do once the scent of their unaccepted mating bond filled the room. 

Sometimes, Azriel thought to himself, the Mother had a cruel sense of humor. 

Azriel leaned against the wall, letting the murmur of his shadows take the attention from Elain and Lucien. He listened, ignoring questioning stares from Rhysand and focusing on the sauntering female making her way to the family room. 

He turned his head just in time to be met with Mor’s profile appearing in the doorway. She was holding a bottle of wine and smiling, love filling her eyes as they went over everyone present. The familiar faces and the new. Azriel noticed how she took a while to look at the Illyrian female next to Nesta and he noticed Emerie staring right back. He bit back the small smirk fighting to be shown. Though once she had her fill, the last person whom she graced with her glance was Azriel. 

They shared a knowing look and at last, it was void of any tension or anxiety. “Hey, Az,” she said, a gentle smile on her lips. 

He dipped his chin. “Mor.”

He saw a flurry of brown hair before a muffled “Mor!” was exclaimed into the female’s chest. Mor recoiled due to the impact and suddenly, Feyre was hugging the Morrigan, not caring for propriety in front of guests. 

Rhysand’s cousin had been spending more time in Vallahan than in the Night Court, forging alliances and still not succeeding in convincing the Queen to sign the peace treaty. She tried to visit as much as she could and sent many letters through Azriel’s spies concerning the foreign kingdom. He worried for her, hearing just how proud the people in Vallahan were and the schemes the court was prone to. 

“Feyre, please, don’t crush me before I can make it through the doorway.”

“I’m so glad you could make it for the dinner,” she murmurs into her chest before pulling away and taking in the red gown Mor had put on. It earned a hum of approval from her High Lady and Mor wiggled her eyebrows, whispering something into Feyre’s ear and making her laugh. 

Azriel stepped away, moving further inside the room though the wall was his preferred place. Feyre had handed off Nyx to Elain, who was rocking the baby on her hip while conversing with the Valkyries. Gwyn was wearing her usual priestess robes and cooed at the small Illyrian. The middle Archeron sister was smiling unabashedly, sending something warm trickling down Azriel’s chest. 

“Brother,” Rhysand greeted, breaking him out of the reverie and lifting a bottle to fill his glass. With a cocked brow, Rhysand poured the liquor and walked away from Azriel without another word, leaving the shadowsinger hanging in the air.

Rhysand stopped in front of his mate, kissing her temple without sparing Azriel another second of his attention after filling his glass. It left an unsure feeling behind but he brushed it off, convincing himself to have misread the slippage of his brother’s mask. 

— ✾ —

It was only after an hour filled with Mor’s complaining about being hungry and Cassian’s grunts of approval that Varian and Amren arrived. Azriel knew the moment Rhysand’s second had walked through the front door of the River House and his shadows notified him that Amren’s lipstick was smudged, and Varian was rubbing a handkerchief along his face.

It made Azriel swear up the Cauldron as he began rethinking his decision to come to this particular family dinner. It wasn’t often that he chose to, rather opting for eating by his lonesome in the House of Wind. The smell of people’s scents mixed in the aftermath of sex was something akin to strangulation and Azriel liked to enjoy his meals without the sensation.

Rhysand turned away from Amren and Varian, clasping his hands together and announcing, “It’s time we feast!”

Cassian whooped alongside of Mor, and they were the first ones on Rhysand’s heels. At the left-hand side of the family room were double doors, too, decorated with garlands and ribbons. Rhysand pushed down on each handle, leading the grand entrance to a refurbished dining room. 

Azriel’s shadows skittered around him as they watched everyone enter. In hushed voices, they began counting those walking through the threshold and Azriel fought the urge to roll his eyes. 

As much as everyone assumed he had complete control over his little shadows, they were sentient creatures fascinated by the simplest things. It wasn’t a coincidence that shadowsingers were oftentimes spies, because while the shadows liked talking, they adored observing and reporting everything to their master whose job was to pick out the important information. 

And so, Azriel had to ignore his shadows gushing about a new table that could now fit not ten people but twelve! Once they were sure their master knew of the fact his shadows returned to counting. 

There’s four, five, six. Seven. Eight, nine, ten and eleven, and twelve. 

Amren had taken the head of the table, leading Varian to sit next to her with their intertwined hands.

Mor chose to be the mediator between Lucien and Elain and ignored all the sideways glances the emissary sent her way as she laid a hand on the back of the chair. The little smile she sent Elain did not escape Azriel either. While everyone had chosen their seats, Azriel entered last, closing the door behind him with his back to the group. 

There’s the thirteenth. Such a lucky number. 

In all his years spent in Velaris, Azriel failed to remember a time when a dining room was this full. The new table added two extra seats and dwarfed the room in comparison to how it used to be. Everyone made themselves comfortable, shucking off jackets and laying them across the backs of their chairs. 

Azriel hadn’t had the chance to pick where he wanted to sit and as he turned to the room, he had come to realize with an odd mix of relief and disdain that his seat was between Nesta and Varian. Pick of the litter, then. 

The seats have been specially altered to accommodate winged individuals and while Azriel settled into his chair, he was at least grateful that his closest companions lacked any membranous monstrosities protruding from their backs. Were he sat next to inebriated Cassian, he’d have to focus his attention there and leave his shadows with filling up the blanks. 

As food started appearing one plate after another, Azriel took in where the rest of the people were sat. He was facing Feyre and Rhysand, Nyx placed into a tiny chair between theirs. Cassian was occupying the other head of the table and already spoke to Elain in hushed tones to the best of his abilities. To the General’s other side was Gwyn, then Emerie and Nesta. One of his newer shadows notified him that Emerie couldn’t take her eyes from Rhysand’s cousin and that she blushed when their eyes met. 

A table of this size offered a lot of variety and where there was space between statement pieces, candelabras and flowers, there was food or drink. Once the sound of cutlery filled the room, the conversation fell off and comments about the food were exchanged. The feast, as Rhysand called it, was truly one for the books. 

Oh, the beef. It’s delicious. 

Could you hand me more of the potatoes, Lucien? 

Is there any more wine on your end of the table?

We should do this more often. 

The exchanges appeared awkward to Azriel and the small talk he had to endure from Varian made him want to retreat further into his shadows. All throughout the main course he felt Rhysand’s eyes on him but when he went to meet his High Lord’s stare, he had already turned away. 

As the food dwindled and the fae lights dimmed down to a comfortable glow, many different conversations were going on. Feyre talked to Lucien while letting Rhysand feed their son and the Valkyries were explaining their training to Mor, who had been unaware of all the progress the priestesses had made. 

Gwyn was in the middle of explaining the new technique that she discovered while helping Merill with her research when she offhandedly mentioned a thing that elicited a groan from Nesta and Emerie.

Cassian, dragged out from his conversation with Elain, drew back. “What? What happened?” he questioned, brows drawn together in confusion. 

“It’s the long-lost kingdom again,” explained Nesta and Cassian ah’d with some recognition, nodding along.

Gwyn blushed a deep crimson. "I promised Nesta not to talk about it," she sent a glare to the mentioned female over Emerie's head. "So I won't."

Nesta rolled her eyes but it couldn't be taken seriously because as she looked down, one corner of her mouth was lifted up.

"To talk about what?" asked Feyre from the other end of the table, cutting her conversation with Lucien short. The male was already tilting his body towards the priestess, eyes straying to his mate before focusing wholeheartedly back on Gwyn. 

Gwyn met Feyre's kind gaze. "I've finally started my own research and these three hear too much about it."

Something struck Azriel's chest on the left-hand side as he realized he was not included in the explanation. His shadows stilled and watched Gwyn. 

"Oh?" mused Feyre back. She settled her chin on the heel of her palm, smiling gently at the priestess. “What is it about?"

Almost taken aback by the attention she was getting from her High Lady, it had taken her a moment to get the words out. "It's this extinct nation– or at least many think it's extinct. They just about fell off the face of this world five hundred years ago."

There were more blank faces around the table as even Amren drew her unsettling gaze to Gwyn. Now, everyone was listening to her and even Elain let her gentle and encouraging eyes rest on her small form.

What a kindness she thinks she’s offering, one shadow hissed and coiled around his ear. 

Gwyn’s hand reached up to play with a strand of coppery hair, continuing, "Truly, there are barely any records on its fall, some books on its existence and even less on their emergence."

"You do love a challenge, Gwyn," muttered Nesta, earning a gleaming smile from Gwyn. 

"That I do," she responded, almost sheepish. "The last scriptures go back to a few decades before the War. It's unheard of that a kingdom from the continent is not mentioned in writing."

Mor shuffled in her seat, holding the glass of wine in front of her with both hands and offering an inquisitive look to Gwyn. "Is it Severín, by any chance?" 

"Yes," she breathed out, the realization that many of them are as old as five hundred dawning over her. "You fought in the War, didn't you?" she asked, this time with more gentleness. She looked to Cassian who was pushing his food around and nodding lightly, the tone of the conversation still easygoing, edging on clinical.

"We all did," stated Mor, her mood growing more serious with each sip she took. "I went there once but decades after it had fallen to aid an old friend."

"You were there for the liberation of Black Land?" she inquired, earning a nod and a small smile from Mor. She had connected the dots fast enough that it pleased her. 

"I offered my help to Drakon and Myriam, yes. I would not be wrong to suggest you know who they were." 

The use of past tense didn’t escape Azriel.

"Could I—" she started but faltered before she got too ahead of herself. But before she could find better words or consider a better timing, Mor lifted a gentle hand. 

"You can ask any questions you want. I'll come to the library tomorrow for a few hours and I'll make sure to find you."

For a moment, Gwyn was left speechless before she stammered out a quick, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," she uttered, before looking around the table. "We wouldn't want to bore these people with the recounting of ancient history."

"I, for one," said Feyre pointedly while fixing Nyx's clothes, "would love to hear more about this fallen kingdom. I don't get to read as much anymore."

Nesta bit back a grin, turning to her sister with a goodhearted smile. "Anymore? You were illiterate a few years ago."

A few reluctant giggles escaped the present and even Azriel had to hide his smile. Feyre gasped, resting her palms on the table and looking in feigned disbelief at her oldest sister. Rhysand looked to his wife, a smile splitting his face in half. "And whose fault is that?"

This broke the hesitance, light laughter echoing around the room and even Amren cracked a smirk.

Feyre hummed, letting her chin rest against her palm again. "But about the Black Land... Is it not the same as what Mor said? Severing, or something?"

"Severín, my lady," corrected gently Gwyn, letting Feyre copy the hard r's in her own time. She gave her an encouraging smile once she got it right. "But they're not the same, though they existed in the same place within Rask."

“I think I've seen it on one of the older maps, near where the Wall would be," wondered aloud Feyre and her mate gave her a nod, confirming her guess. "Is it close to that mountain range with a river? The northern one."

"Yes, the Vistula River,” she nodded at Feyre. “There’s a legend involving the Severínians and the river delta. Supposedly, before they ever settled in Rask’s territory, the region was surrounded by a desert and there was no vegetation unless you were close to the seashore. And even then it was only rocky ridges, not fit for cultivating crops.”

“But something changed,” muttered Feyre playfully, enchanted by the story Gwyn was gladly unraveling for her. 

“Something did change. ‘When the Severínians finally decided to settle, rivers sprang from the mountains and created a cradle for a new kingdom to rise from.’ It’s a quote from a diary of a Raskan traveler. The name ‘Vistula’ actually means to flow slowly and its roots are in the Severínian language.”

Feyre smiled at the little tidbit of information. “Do we know what urged them to settle there? If there was no life there, it must have been a hard decision to make.”

“I asked myself the same thing! We do know that they were a nomadic people, that their archetypal features were feathered wings. Individuals with pale hair were denoted to have powers. That actually created a new branching in the classification of magic. I saw some scholars give them the title of ‘purifiers.’”

Mor nodded along with the explanation as if everything that came out of Gwyn’s mouth was just confirmation of something she had already known.

“They had a so-called affinity for ‘life’ and it was sought after by many rulers at that time. They could grow crops within a few hours which would otherwise take months under normal circumstances. They made for very good healers and menders and no one had ever described them as violent. Actually, they were quite a docile people. One of their saying was something along the lines of ‘to live is to be gifted and to serve is to protect.’”

“Do you think they had never settled before because someone would have come to take their freedom away—simply because of what they possessed?” asked Feyre again with a thoughtful expression. 

“Perhaps,” agreed Gwyn calmly and judging by her change of expression, the silence around the table came to her with a force of a thousand bricks. Alarmed, she looked around at the present and realized that everyone, including Amren, was fully focused on what she was saying. Shadows notified Azriel that Varian on his right had sent Gwyn a smile before saying that he had never known anything about this kingdom. 

“Rask had never taken lightly to someone encroaching on their territory.  They might be the reason why this kingdom has been ‘wiped’ from the collective memory,” offered Rhysand. 

Mor scoffed, agreeing with her cousin. “Especially if they offered refuge to humans who could have been a workforce in their salt mines instead.”

“Refuge?” Feyre turned her attention to Mor, brows furrowed. “What do you mean by refuge?”

The blonde female looked to her High Lady, skillfully avoiding Lucien’s whirring gold eye. “Before their fall and before Rask had turned it into Black Land, they allowed humans to live side by side with them and even earn their keep. It was unheard of at that time since most of the Courts even in Prythian considered humans slaves.”

“The talks of human rights were nothing but murmurs within chosen circles,” concluded Rhysand, swirling the wine in his cup. “Shame, Severín could have made for good allies during the War.”

“They would not have fought,” spoke up Amren all of a sudden, surprising even Rhysand into stumped silence. 

He frowned, facing his second and declared, “You are right. They wouldn’t have but they were the only example of Fae and mortals living in peace together. That could have made a difference.”

“The fools were so in love with peace, they wouldn’t have sided with foreigners even if it cost them their lives. Which it did anyway.”

Azriel thought to himself that it was perhaps the biggest reaction Amren had given in the past year and since the day she crawled out of the Cauldron. It wasn’t often that this ancient female chose to speak her mind but something had grated against her at the mention of this long-lost kingdom. 

“Rask is a nation of conquerors,” said Amren, her hand playing with a ruby necklace adorning her collarbone. It twinkled in the candlelight of the table and the danger of her eyes. “They wouldn’t have given in where they didn’t have to.”

Mor sucked on the inside of her cheek before responding, “So they chose to sack a peaceful people?”

“Their feud wasn’t just some baseless thing, dusted over by centuries of anger. Those Severínians,” she had spat out the name like spoiled food, “had settled in Raskan territory, knowing damn well where they were.”

“They were the ones who created life there, not Rask,” argued Mor.

Amren’s ageless gaze moved sideways. “So the legend goes.”

“And what do you mean by that?”

She sat up, leaning on her elbows and zeroing in on Mor with a poise of a predator. “What I mean, Morrigan, is that not everything written in those books and scriptures is fact. It takes one desperate generation to rewrite what has truly happened.”

“Are you insinuating that those people deserved getting slaughtered?”

Amren bared her teeth. “All I’m saying is that I wouldn’t let someone with that magic anywhere near me. It’s not of this world and trust my word, I would know.”

Azriel’s shadows had stilled with the exchange, murmurs of questions and curiosity filling his ears. He just watched on as Mor and Amren exchanged heated glances, bared their teeth. Between them, Feyre massaged the space between her brows and when Rhysand laid a comforting hand on her shoulder, she had shook it off. 

“Please,” said Feyre, gaze still downturned. “Don’t argue. Not tonight and not over something meaningless.” 

Within the plead was hiding something more. It wasn’t often that Feyre could just sit down and dine with all of her close friends. She had a child to take care of, she taught children in the city how to paint and see the beauty of the world through the medium of the brush and when she came home, she was still a mother and a High Lady with obligations. The last thing she wished for was an argument—on her birthday, nonetheless.

On her other side, even Lucien had sent worrying glances her way. 

“I’m sorry, Feyre,” murmured Mor, though Amren remained silent. Azriel supposed that it was the biggest apology they would get from her, considering she had never once explained herself to anyone. All she deigned herself to do was meet Feyre’s eyes and nod as if she was heeding a command from her High Lady.

The Inner Circles and the rest had grown quiet, their eyes as if stuck to their plates. Only Azriel was still looking up and around, noticing how awkward it had gotten and wishing it was socially acceptable to winnow from this room. 

From the other end of the table, Cassian cleared his throat and said, “Varian, do you think I could visit this summer? I swear not to shatter another building.”

The laugh from Varian was a little choked and aware of the diversion Cassian had tried to make. “I don’t know if my cousin has lifted your ban.”

“Not even after everything?”

“I’m afraid not,” he sighed. “But Cresseida and I will put in good word for you.”

With a wink from Varian, Cassian laughed, exclaiming, “Atta boy!”

Elain, from Cassian’s side, leaned in and asked with a small voice meant for him only, “How did you get banned from the Summer Court?”

Those who already knew laughed along as Cassian dived into a dramatized retelling of that fateful day in Adriata. 

— ✾ —

The River House had finally fallen quiet after the eventful Winter Solstice dinner and the following party. The faelights had been dimmed to cast little pools of gold amid the deep shadows of the longest night of the year. 

Amren, Mor and Varian had finally gone to bed but Azriel found himself still lingering downstairs. 

He knew he should get some sleep. He would need it come dawn for the snowball battle at the cabin. After everyone had retired back to the family room, Cassian had mentioned no less than six times that he had a secret plan regarding his so-called impending victory. Azriel had let his brother boast, especially since he had been planning his own win for a year now.

Cassian wouldn’t know what was coming for him. And Azriel planned on capitalizing on the fact that Nesta likely wouldn’t let Cassian sleep much tonight. 

Azriel snickered to himself and the ever-restless shadows around him stirred, gazing out to the family room. 

Sleep, they had whispered in his ear and a sense of deep-set exhaustion crawled over his bones again. 

I wish I could, he comforted them silently. But sleep rarely found him these days. 

Too many razor-sharp thoughts sliced any time he grew still long enough for them to strike. Too many wants and needs left his skin overheated as it pulled taut over his muscles. And so he chose to sleep only when his body gave out, and even then only for a few hours.

Azriel surveyed the empty room from the hallway, the presents under the tree and the ribbons littering the furniture. There were two dirty glasses on the mantel of the fireplace, smeared lipstick on one and nothing on the other. 

Nesta and Cassian hadn’t reappeared in the house, though that came as no surprise. They were among the first ones to leave and Azriel’s shadows had notified him of his brother carrying Nesta to the House of Wind mere minutes after Rhysand had winnowed her friends out. 

He was elated for him and yet Azriel was never able to stop it—the green envy in his chest of Cassian, of Rhys. Cauldron, even of Amren. He knew he would be swallowed by that never-ending despair if he went to his bedroom, and so he chose to remain down here by the dying light in the fireplace. 

The room lacked the bustle and laughter it had enshrined for the last couple of hours. Now the silence grew heavy and the stillness of his bedroom began crawling between the walls and into the family room. He clutched his fingers around the jacket on his forearm, letting it dissolve into shadows.

Azriel removed himself from the doorway, entering the hall and walking soundlessly to the foyer. 

Soft steps padded from the stair archway and there she was.

The faelights gilded across Elain’s unbound hair, making her glow like the sun at dawn. Again, the image from the Day Court had appeared before his eyes and as she halted, her breath caught in her throat.

“I…” He watched her swallow. She clutched her fingers around a small box. “I was coming to leave this on your pile of presents. I forgot to put it there earlier.”

A lie. At least the second part was a lie. He didn’t need his shadows to read her tone, the slight tightening of her face. She had waited until everyone was asleep before venturing back down, where she would leave her gift among his other, unopened presents. Subtle and unnoticed, she wanted him to find it in the morning and after the snowball battle. Perhaps she had hoped he would pocket the little box, open it in the privacy of his room and away from the prying eyes of his family.

Elain closed the distance and her breathing quickened as she paused a scant foot away. “No trouble in giving it to you now, I guess. Here.” She extended the wrapped gift, her hand trembling. 

Azriel fought hard not to look at his scarred fingers as they took the gift. She hadn’t bought her mate a present, he recalled. When his shadows went over the gifts, they had divulged this precious detail to him. He hadn’t gotten one this year nor last but she went through the trouble of buying something for him. She had given Azriel a headache powder a year ago which he kept on his nightstand at the House of Wind. Not to use but just to look at. Something he had done every night he had slept there—or rather attempted to sleep there. 

Azriel unwrapped the box, glancing at the card that merely said, You might find these useful at the House these days. -Elain, and then opened the lid. 

Two small, bean-shaped fabric blobs lay within. Elain murmured, "You put them in your ears, and they block any sound. With Nesta and Cassian living there with you..." 

He hadn’t had the heart to tell he was going to move from the House soon and so unable to suppress his impulse, he just chuckled. “You wouldn’t want me to open this in front of everyone.”

Elain’s mouth twitched into a smile. “Nesta wouldn’t appreciate the joke.”

As he closed the box and stuffed it into the pocket of his trousers, he returned her smile. “I wasn’t sure if I should give you your present…” 

He had left the rest unspoken as he reached into his shadows. Her mate was here, sleeping only a level above them and he had been present all throughout the evening, not once leaving the room before Elain had retired for the night. The scent of their mating bond had filled Azriel’s lungs and even if he had positioned himself to a far corner, it would still reach his nostrils, tickling something wicked that called for unfairness. 

Though tonight, here in the dark and silence, there was only the two of them and he supposed it was fair at last to give her this one thing. Despite wanting to give much more.

He pulled the velvet box out, letting his shadows open it for her. Once revealed, they scattered to the back of his neck in a moment’s time. 

Elain sucked in a soft breath that whispered over his skin and his shadow retreated even further, almost completely disappearing. They and their murmurs had always been prone to vanish when she was around and so did his voice of reason. 

The golden chain was unremarkable and the amulet tiny enough to be dismissed as an everyday charm. Weeks ago, he had escaped the House of Wind and found himself walking through the Palace of Thread and Jewel. A vendor had waved him over from the crowd, choosing Azriel to present his newest invention. When he told him to hold it up to the sun, Azriel was rendered speechless once the true depth of colors became visible and it reminded him of her. It was a thing of secret, lovely beauty, just like the female before him. 

“It’s beautiful,” she whispered.

Azriel watched her face tentatively as she lifted the necklace from the box. The fae lights shone through the little glass facets, setting the charm aglow with hues of red, pink, white and green. 

Azriel let his shadow swallow the box as she said softly, “Put it on me?”

The everlasting murmurs in his head slowed to a still. But he took the necklace, opening the clasp as she exposed her back, sweeping her hair up in one hand to bare her neck. 

He knew it was wrong but there he was, sliding the necklace around her. He let his scarred fingers touch her unmarred skin, letting them brush the side of her throat, savoring the velvet-soft texture. Elain shivered, and he took his sweet time fastening the clasp.

Azriel's hand lingered at her nape, atop the first knob of her spine. Slowly, Elain pivoted into his touch, until his palm lay flat against her neck. 

It had never gone this far. They'd exchanged looks, the occasional brush of their fingers but never this. Never blatant, unrestricted touching. 

Wrong—it was so wrong. The murmurs returned with fervor but he didn’t care. 

He needed to know what the skin of her neck felt like. What those lips tasted like, her breasts, her sex. He needed her coming on his tongue—

The fabric of Azriel’s pants began straining against his will. It ached so fiercely he could only pray she didn’t peer down. Pray she didn’t understand the shift in his scent. 

He would only allow himself these thoughts in the dead of night, when everyone had fallen asleep and when no one, not even his shadows, could bear witness to his selfishness. 

Elain bit her lower lip and it took every ounce of Azriel’s restraint not to free it with his own. 

“I should go,” Elain said but made no move to leave. She was still peering up at him with those big eyes.

“Yes,” he said, his thumb sweeping long strokes along the side of her neck. The gentle brush sent a shiver down Elain’s spine and as her arousal drifted up to him, his eyes nearly fell shut. If he could, he would drop to his knees in front of her, asking her to let him worship her body. But Azriel settled for stroking her neck. For now. 

She shuddered, drifting closer. So close, one deep breath would brush up her chest again his upper stomach. She was looking up at him, face so open and unafraid as if he could deliver her to the lands of milk and honey. Azriel wouldn’t put it past himself to try. 

Still, her naivety hadn’t escaped those incessant murmurs of his own. They scratched their talons against his reserve, reminding him that the hand brushing her neck had done unspeakable things. Who was he to touch her like this?

It should be a sacrilege for his rough, scarred fingers to rest on her skin, to taint her with his presence. 

He could have this, right?

Azriel wouldn’t admit it to anyone ever but he was a selfish bastard and he would allow himself to have this one moment of reverie. If only to drive away his curiosity. But afterward, he promised himself to keep a hold on himself, he would go back to restraint. This single occasion would be it for him. Something to keep, something to remember during those long, dark and lonesome hours.

“Yes," Elain breathed like she read the decision. Just this taste in the dead of the longest night of the year, where only the Mother might witness them. 

Azriel's hand slid up her neck, burying in her thick hair. Tilting her face the way he wanted it. Elain's mouth parted slightly, her eyes scanning his before fluttering shut. 

Offer and permission. He nearly sighed in relief as he lowered his head toward hers. 

Azriel.

Rhysand’s voice thundered through him, halting him mere inches from Elain’s sweet and awaiting mouth.

Azriel.

The unrelenting command was an undercurrent to his name and Azriel looked up. Atop the staircase, Rhysand stood with a clenched jaw and a glower pointed at him and only him. 

My office. Now.

Rhysand vanished into thin air and Azriel was left standing there, the prickle of being watched and observed still skipping along his skin. Elain who stood before him was still awaiting his lips on hers. His stomach twisted as he pulled his hand from her hair and stepped back so their breaths would mix no longer. 

He forced himself to say, “This was a mistake.”

Something had his throat in a vice, whether it was a need or the shame at being called on like a dog, he didn’t know. He was only aware of the strained sentence coming out and Elain opening her eyes. They widened, filling with hurt and confusion before she whispered a single, “I’m sorry.”

“You don’t– Don’t apologize,” he managed to say. “Never apologize, it’s I who should…” He shook his head, unable to stand the bleakness in her face that he was the reason for. “Goodnight.”

Azriel winnowed himself into shadows before he could hear what she had to say if anything. He appeared only a heartbeat later in front of Rhysand’s study. His shadows whispered in his ear that Elain was already retreating upstairs. Shame washed over him and he ran a hand over his face. 

He pushed the dark, heavy door to reveal Rhysand at his desk, fury a moonless night across his face. 

He asked softly and only once, “Are you out of your mind?”

Azriel let the door shut behind him and didn’t even think of sitting down in the chair facing the monstrous desk littered with papers and memos. Azriel thinned his mouth at the question. He was always sparse with words and wasn’t going to stop the habit now. 

His brother looked at him in exasperation, as if not believing what he was seeing. Upon closer inspection, the lines on Rhysand’s face were longer and shadows lingered in the space below his eyes. But even despite the tired appearance, his power rolled around him like a dark cloud in an ominous reminder. 

“I asked you something, Azriel.”

Azriel joined his hands behind his back, saying, “What do you want me to say?”

Rhysand’s frown should have been an answer enough. “I want you to explain why I saw you about to kiss Elain in the middle of a hall where anyone could see you,” he snarled, pointing an accusing finger his way. “Including her mate.”

Azriel scoffed. Of course, he would mention Lucien. It wasn’t often that Azriel’s hackles rose and he allowed them to. But when he met his brother’s eyes with rage, he knew Rhysand could match him a thousand times over. His glare had crossed with its violet twin as the air grew heavier and heavier. The siphon on his chest that he kept glamoured vibrated in answer to the challenge.

Rhysand blinked. “What of Mor, Az?”

“Don’t talk to me about Mor,” he bit out.

“I’m going to talk to you about whatever I damn wish. Especially if you go about your delusions like that.”

Azriel chose to ignore that last bit if only to keep some of his sanity. This male before him had been his friend for over five centuries. They have bled, cried and laughed beside each other. He would never lie to him and never spare his feelings. And Rhysand was right, after all. The little voice in the back of his mind had always been right too and the way Rhysand was scowling at him was all the confirmation he needed.

He glared at his shadowsinger. “If Lucien finds out you’re pursuing her, he has every right to defend the bond as he sees fit. Including the Blood Duel.”

“That’s an Autumn Court tradition.” 

The duel had historically been enacted in rare cases and ended only when the other person was dead. There was no yielding, no three taps and out. There were only two fighters and no titles could help once the Blood Duel had been invoked. Despite being an outsider, Azriel had wanted to invoke it when he had found Mor all those years ago. He had been ready to challenge both Beron and Eris, prepared to kill them or die with them. But it was Mor’s right to claim their heads that had stopped him and he would never do her the dishonor of taking that choice away. 

“Lucien, as Beron’s son, has the right to demand it of you,” reminded him Rhysand. 

“I would win,” he stated, pure conviction lacing every word. 

“I know.” It was a bitter sense of acceptance that dawned on Rhysand’s face. “Your doing so would rip apart any fragile peace and alliances we have, not only with the Autumn Court but also the Spring Court. Jurian and Vassa, too.” Rhys looked up from where his hands were joined in front of his face. “You will leave Elain alone.”

Azriel neared one step closer to Rhysand’s desk. “You can’t order me to do that.”

The High Lord took in that step and thinned his lips. “I can and I will. If not to protect you three from a world of hurt, then to protect this Court. I watched you tonight and half the evening you had your eyes glued to Elain and the other half, you were lost in your thoughts. And if I caught onto it, then Lucien did too. You better mind yourself, brother. You’re losing focus.”

Azriel snarled softly against his best judgment. 

“Snarl all you want.” Rhysand leaned back in his chair. “But if I see you panting after her again, I’ll make you regret it.”

Rhysand had rarely considered punishment, let alone threatened it. It stunned Azriel enough to knock him out of his rage and into incredulity. His brother avoided his gaze, grabbing a pen and focusing on the papers on his desk. Even as he looked down, his eyes weren’t scanning the words written there. His hand with the wedding ring shook slightly when he ran it through his hair.

“Get out, Az,” he said, more gently under his breath but Azriel heard it all right. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

With no further words from Rhysand or himself, Azriel walked out of the study, pushing himself to keep a calm pace, though he wanted to storm out. He tucked in his wings, walked down the stairs and past the spot where his and Elain’s mouth had almost met. His eyes were focused forward, shadows swirling around him and sensing the distress of their master. Once he pushed through the front door and into the frigid air, he let it consume him. 

The white clouds escaping his mouth were the only sign he was alive because as he passed the gate, he stood still. Too still. The River House towered behind him and the light in Rhysand’s study went out. 

How his brothers used to fear being chained down by the ankles. They had joked with Azriel, saying he would be the first to settle and that their fleeing nature would never allow them to stay still for one female. 

But they had grown, changed over time while Azriel stayed behind, hoping that the relationship they shared would remain unchanged. 

As Azriel kept standing in the cold, he let it permeate past his suit. Down through his skin and to the marrow of his bones. There was no jacket to ward off the chill—all by his choice. There was no one to run to and Azriel wondered if that was his choice too.

Taglist:

this is being crossposted to ao3 so make sure to show some love there too, if you feel so inclined!

omg hi to whomever is reading this work ⸜(｡˃ ᵕ ˂ )⸝♡

thank you for taking the time out of your day to sit down with this, be it on your commute, after a long day at school or whatever other downtime you have!! i am very honored and i hope i can entertain.

i'm very pumped to get this out and into the world. this oc has been stuck in my head for like over a year, i swear. maybe even perhaps when the bonus chapter of acosf with azriel first dropped ! the ideas of the plot and scenes just kept coming to me in random moments throughout these last 12 or so months. it felt like i was being shaken by my shoulder and someone was screaming into my face to, "write this one, goddammit!!!!!"

so here i am, appeasing some azriel-obsessed part of me.

since his character is very… open to interpretation due to the utter lack of anything (looking at you, SJM), i'm going to take certain liberties with his personality and motivations. so this might be slightly OOC, but i'll make sure that this is tagged on my ao3.

enjoy, my lovelies. i'll be grateful for any comments, tips or questions. if you think something could have been done differently, don't ever be afraid to comment on it. i am very open to criticism as bettering my craft is one of my biggest goals with this. my inbox is open (i think).

[thatapostateboy]

just for one day

Pairing: Eva 'Rook' Mercar x Davrin, background mention of Solas x F!Lavellan

Word Count: 2957

Synopsis: Rook steals some time away with Davrin

Warnings: Brief description of battle and suggestive sexual comments, written pre-release so may be OOC, does contain some spoilers but they are very mild and only stuff from the first mentions/trailers so read at your own peril

Crossposted: Here on AO3

“Why are we hiking up a mountain fully armed and armoured, but without any backup?” Davrin asked.

Rook glanced around at him from where she was leading the way, “Well that would ruin the whole point of it being a surprise, now wouldn’t it? Besides, we’re not fully without backup.”

She nodded upwards to where Assan was soaring overhead, having followed the pair of them as they headed through the eluvian out of the Lighthouse, and into what looked like remote Orlesian wilderness.

“You must be expecting trouble, else you wouldn’t have insisted on the armour,” he pointed out.

“The whole world’s in trouble,” she reminded him, “I just figured we could do with blowing off a little steam.”

“If you wanted somewhere more public to blow off some steam, I am sure there are places in the Lighthouse we could-”

“Not like that!” she snorted, pausing in her steps to look at him, “Though, keep that thought in mind, I’m interested where it’s going, and I appreciate you going along with what you thought was an exhibitionist kink. My actual plan was for us to go on a monster hunt.”

“Really?”

“You’re a monster hunter who’s had to fight some stuff well beyond your pay grade recently, and I thought we could go back to basics. You get to show me all your fancy moves, Assan will get some practice in, I get to swoon over how hot you look, and we get to fight something that isn’t world-ending together.”

He chuckled softly then met her eyes. The last mission, well, every mission since they had met, had meant losing more than winning. And even when they won, it had come at a cost. He knew how hard she took every loss, even if she hid it behind sharp wit and unending sarcasm, there was no doubting the toll it took on her. He suspected that this was as much a distraction for her as it was intended for him.

“Okay then, monster hunting it is,” he smiled, receiving one in return, the true unmeasured smile that she reserved specifically for him… and Assan, though he’d never point that out, “What are we hunting?”

“A wyvern.”

“Have you ever faced a wyvern before?” he asked as he continued to follow her up the mountain path.

“No, but how hard can it be to kill one?” she shrugged, throwing a smirk back at him, “Orlesians do it for fun.”

~*~*~

As it would turn out, it was much harder to kill a wyvern than she had originally planned. The beast had been twice the size of what she had been in one of Davrin’s books, which had led to this idea, and its venom had stung like an absolute bitch when she dodged one of its attacks too slowly. The next blow, however, had been blocked expertly by Davrin’s shield, effortlessly holding off the creature’s maw and he’d had to shout at her to stop staring and stab the damn thing.

She’d shot him a grin and a wink and slid under his legs to slice at the wyvern’s throat. It had thrashed and roared in pain, knocking both Warden and Shadow Dragon flying with its flailing body. It began to charge towards Eva, but all it took was a decisive whistle from Davrin and a bolt of feathers and sharp claws came tearing down from the sky, finishing the beast with a deadly strike.

Assan looked up and chirped at Davrin, wide eyes seeking praise for the kill.

“Good boy,” he said, giving him a well-earned scratch behind the ears.

The griffon preened then began to tuck into the tough flesh of the wyvern after Davrin gave him an approving nod.

The Warden wiped the beads of sweat away from his forehead as he looked for his companion, spotting her propped against a rock, not far from where the wyvern had tossed her, staring away from the scene of the battle, into the valley below.

“Eva,” he called to her, “Are you alright?”

She leapt to her feet, spinning to look at him with a wide grin across her face, her hair a complete mess, face and armour splattered with blood. She all but threw herself into his embrace, wrapping her arms around his broad shoulders and pressing a hard kiss to his mouth.

He hummed in surprise, but kissed her back nonetheless, enjoying the warmth of her form against his. She was still a little breathless, the tremble of adrenaline coursing through her body. He felt her starting to tug on the buckles of his armour, loosening it just enough to slip her hands inside, desperate to feel the heat of his skin.

He knew this dance far too well. He had roughly thirty seconds before she used those quick roguish fingers to get him down to his breeches.

“How quickly do you think we can get back to the Lighthouse?” he asked, words barely out of his mouth as she kissed him hungrily again, and again.

She paused, looking up at him, “What happened to indulging my exhibition streak?”

“I have no qualms about getting you naked in a field,” he admitted, before he reached a hand up to rub some grime away from her face, “But we are both covered in blood, and guts, and gods knows what else… So perhaps we park this, and reconvene in the bathhouse?”

She met his eyes, a little scrunch to her nose as she conceded that he was being sensible, “Counteroffer… we go wash off in the lake and you can still have me naked in a field.”

“What lake?”

“The one about five minutes that one down the path,” she hooked a thumb over her shoulder.

He cocked a brow at her, “Is that what you were looking at after the fight?”

“Perhaps.”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head to himself, “Counteroffer accepted.”

She grabbed hold of his hand and yanked him towards the path, giving him just enough time to shout at Assan to stay put and enjoy the wyvern carcass.

~*~*~

He had to admit, the lake had been an excellent idea.

The lake itself sat in a beautiful clearing, surrounded by trees on one side, part of the mountainside on the other, giving them complete privacy and serene surroundings… until Rook had gone barelling past him, clothes abandoned in her wake, leaping into the water before loudly yelling that it was Maker fucking blasting bastard cold.

He had chuckled as he watched her splash around, before stripping off himself, her eyes immediately on him as he bared himself to her, wading calmly into the lake to join her.

She latched herself onto him instantly, seeking his natural warmth, and steadier form as he quickly realised that she was not a confident swimmer. Not that he minded of course, it meant being able to hold her against him, feel every inch of her as she clung to him, giddy and breathless as they lazily kissed, the adrenaline from the fight melting away as they enjoyed the peace to simply be together.

It had, of course, still ended with the pair of them twisted together beneath the boughs of a willow tree, laying atop his discarded cloak so that she didn’t get grass in her hair.

“I could get used to this,” she said softly as she rested her against his chest, idly tracing old scars on his skin.

“You once told me you’d rather eat halla shit than willingly camp outside. I think this evening might be a one off,” he pointed out with a chuckle.

“Hey, that was months ago,” she protested with a laugh of her own, “I feel like I’ve grown as a person since then. Besides, my partner is a Dalish monster hunting Grey Warden. I think some camping may come with the territory. I’m not saying that I’m going to be getting vallaslin or reaching for the Joining cup again time soon, but if we live through this, if we actually save the world and get our lives back… I think I could get used to more days like this.”

He glanced down at her, taking in the look in her eyes.

It wasn’t often that she was emotionally vulnerable with him, even less that she spoke of the future. She focused on the present, on the dangers directly in front of them. She wasn’t one to hope for anything past surviving day to day. Even when they had begun their love affair, it had started as something borne from mutual attraction and seeking some company. It was meant to be one night, and then back to being colleagues in the morning. And yet, it had kept happening. They would seek each other out for physical comfort, a distraction, and soon it had become more than that; spending hours talking about their pasts, getting to know the different sides of elven culture from each other, laughing and joking about the most ridiculous things, tucking her in as she fell asleep in the chair in front of his fire.

He would be lying if he said he hadn’t begun to think of a future, what it would look like if they truly made it through this. He would still be a Grey Warden, there would always be monsters to fight, but there wouldn’t always be a reason for Eva to be at his side… not unless she chose to be.

She had a life of her own outside of the Veilguard. She was a Shadow Dragon, she had fought for years against corruption in Tevinter, giving everything she had in the fight for freedom for every slave. And beyond that, she had a home that she some day wished to return to.

And now, here she was, looking at him with an almost pleading expression, seeing if he wanted the same thing; a future that they could decide on together.

He leaned down and kissed her, gently at first before he deepened it, pulling her flush against him.

“Evanura,” he whispered against her mouth, “Ar lath ma.”

~*~*~

The next morning

“Solas, can I ask you something?”

She was drawn into their shared pocket of the Fade, the one he existed in physically that she could see into in her mind’s eye to allow them to communicate.

He stepped before her, and she watched a small, familiar smirk cross his face, as it often did when she said something that entertained him, “You rarely ask permission before bombarding me with questions.”

She rolled her eyes, “Don’t be a smart ass, I just need your help translating something.”

“Very well,” he nodded, a hint of curiosity in his eyes, “I will assist where I am able.”

“It was a phrase I heard, I mean- came across when… reading.”

“Go on.”

“I believe it to be elven, but I have never heard it before, not even in the long tirades where you are chiding me for something.”

He chuckled a little at that, “It may be colloquial to the more modern Dalish elves, but I am sure I can trace it back to its root.”

“It was… ar lath ma.”

And for the first time in more years than he could fathom, the Dread Wolf was struck silent.

He remembers the first time he’d said it to her, unable to control himself as he finally gave in to her for the first time. Not in the Fade, but in physical flesh, the taste of her mouth still lingering on his lips, the warmth of her skin still palpable even as he pulled away, murmuring the words as he did, a confession that he hoped she had never heard.

She had been kind, had not chased after him, had given him the time to say it again when he was ready.

Until that night at the Winter Palace, when he had danced with her under the stars, and she had invited him back to her chambers. He had tried to stay away, but she proved to be his weakness. She had said it herself then, declared so boldly that he wondered if the lingering servants and spies in the hall had heard her. She had kissed him, whispering the words sweetly against his skin as they both gave in to temptation 

It was always in elven, their pet names, the soft ‘ma’lath’ and ‘vhenan’ they would call each other, the declarations of love… until that night in Crestwood. She had said it to him then, a hitch in her breath as she held back tears, telling him that she loved him.

Don’t do this, not now… I love you.

And when he had seen her again, the day she discovered the truth, and she had questioned it any of it had been real. If only she could have known that it was the only real thing he knew anymore.

He snapped back to himself when he realised that Rook was still in front of him, looking at him concerned.

“Da’len…” he said quietly, “You know what it means.”

“This isn’t the time for one of your ‘Eva doesn’t listen to me’ lectures. I have never heard those words before.”

“Evanura,” he sighed her name, “Listen to your instincts. You know what your Warden feels.”

“How did you know that’s where I heard it? Besides, he’s not my-“ she began to protest in her usual fashion until the realisation hit her, “Wait! That’s… it means…?”

“Yes.”

“Holy shit! But that’s…” a look of dawning horror crossed her face, “Oh I’ve fucked up.”

He frowned, “What did you do?”

“He may have said that… and I may have walked away from him.”

His eyebrows shot up in surprise, “You didn’t ask what it meant?”

“I was embarrassed. I’m starting to learn the language from you, and from him, and Bellara, but I didn’t know that one so I just, kinda… laughed it off.”

“Go find him.”

“But-”

“It is a rare thing, to find someone who holds your heart. He knows you well enough to know you are not cruel… Go to him.”

~*~*~

Across the Lighthouse, sat with a frown on her face, Harding levelled a look at Davrin.

“So what exactly did you say?”

“Well, we were both covered in wyvern blood, and-”

“Yeah, I don’t need to hear the details of how you guys had sex in the woods.”

“How did you know?”

“Neither of you are subtle, and I helped Rook scout the place out,” she admitted, “Get to the part where you confessed your undying love and she ignored you.”

“It was… after,” he said, “We were laying together under this willow tree, watching the sun set over the lake, it was beautiful, and peaceful, it was the most perfect moment. So I kissed her, and then I looked into her eyes and said ar lath ma. And she stared at me for a second before she just smiled, got up and declared that she was going swimming. She jumped right into the lake. It’s not even that she didn’t say it back, or if she told me it was too soon, but she just ignored that I said it.”

Harding raised an eyebrow at him, “You’re an idiot.”

“Wait- why?”

“Just think about it. For a minute. Think about why she might have ignored you saying ar lath ma.”

She watched him intently before he let out a gasp and put his face in his hands, “I’m an idiot.”

“Yeah, you are.”

~*~*~

She burst out of the doorway at the base of one of the towers, heading quickly across the courtyard towards Davrin’s quarters when she saw a familiar figure leaving from the other building, striding purposefully towards her.

“Eva!” he called to her, “I’ve been looking everywhere for you. There’s something I need to tell you.”

She reached for him as they met, grasping at his hands like she was scared he was going to disappear in front of her, “I know. I need to talk to you too.”

“Eva, I love-”

“Davrin, ar lath-”

“You.”

“Ma.”

They looked at each other with giddy smiles, still clutching to each other’s hands.

“Wait… you know what that means?” he asked.

“I didn’t, until about three minutes ago,” she admitted.

“How did you… Oh gods, you asked Solas, didn’t you?”

She chewed her lip, “Maybe.”

“Well, the Dread Wolf knows far too much about my love life as it is already. What’s one more thing?”

She giggled, reaching up to cup his cheek, “Do you mean it? What you said, did you really mean it?”

“Of course. I love you, Eva, ma lath, ma vhenan, and whatever the future brings, I want to be at your side.”

“I love you too. You make me want something after this, a life together, something to fight for.”

“Can you two just suck face already?” Taash called from one of the nearby balconies where they turned to realise that all of the other members of the Veilguard had gathered outside of their prospective rooms to see this confession come to fruition.

“Well, I’d hate to disappoint our audience,” Rook grinned, leaning up and kissing him.

He wrapped his arms tight around her, dipping her back a little like he had seen described in those terrible romance novels Varric wrote, earning shouts and applause from their friends.

Whatever happened, whatever tragedies they would face tomorrow or the day after, they were both willing to fight for something more, a life beyond, and even if it would never come to pass, they had today, this moment, and nothing, no ancient elven god or even his Calling, would take that from them.

[semi-imaginary-place]

I'm probably going to outrage a large part of tumblr for saying this because like 95% of this website is subby bottoms who want a daddy dom, but The Iron Bull isn't a pure dom he's a switch. He enjoys the physicality of enduring getting hit with a stick, it grounds and cleanses him, he'd take punishment well. Look at how he acts around Cassandra and Vivian, it's deliberate on Bull's part to disarm them and appeal to Vivian's ego but he also is truly attracted to authoritative women and I suspect he finds stability in acting out a role. But more than that Iron Bull lives to serve. In standard Dragon Age writing fashion his character has layers. At the front is the friendly big guy who loves hitting things and indulging in vices and this is real but it's also deliberate. Underneath that is the clever spy the one who loves tricks and puzzles, mind games and power play. And at heart, The Iron Bull is a giant mother hen. He can't help collecting ugly ducklings to take under his wing. His entire being revolves around taking care of people, even as a child he tried to take care of the other children. As Cole says, "You act like you're in charge, The Iron Bull, but it's really him/her. S/he decides when, and you measure it carefully, enough to enjoy, to energize, but never to anger. ... S/he submits, but you serve." Don't get me wrong Bull loves domming conquest and control, but it's more about service and giving people what they need. That's also why he bullies Dorian. Dorian is denying his forbidden and salacious (in Dorian's head) attraction to Iron Bull, Iron Bull picks up on the repression and and can't help but pick at it like the natural troll he is (loop-holing his way out of eating vegetables). He just tends to troll people in incredibly subtle ways or redirect that energy elsewhere, like BDSM.

All sexual dynamics exist in spectrum. What's holding Iron Bull back from subbing is that he's really bad at vulnerability. He also thinks like a Qunari so he's assigned himself a role, thinks that's how it's meant to be, and doesn't realize he can step outside of the role. Well it's complicated, part of it is probably his personality but much of it would also be his Ben-Hassrath training, he feels like he needs to be the one in control of a situation, he needs the grounding of a role. In party banter with Cole he mentions choosing "the Iron Bull" because it's way of confronting his fear of being just a mindless thing. I wonder if that gave him structure while living outside of Qunari society. This is especially interesting with the major fork in his story. The Qun is all consuming for Qunari, it is the structure from which all in interpreted through, it is their lives. Choosing to save the Charges ripes Bull's whole life from him, the structure, the purpose, his place in the world. (Even if like the other characters I think on some level he'd already left and just wouldn't admit it. Which is also why him potentially doubling down on the Qun and killing his heart is extremely interesting because the Qun then is all he has left). As Tal-Vashoth especially he would benefit from something grounding, would revel at the relief (if only temporary) of not having to make decisions and decide his place in the world, to be secure and know his role and purpose, to be able to serve and care for without burden. He could use some praise and assurance that he's doing good at his assigned role in a world where he is otherwise adrift. He wants to be a good boy. The Iron Bull's greatest fear is madness. Though his dialogue post Adamant (there were multiple, Solas I think is one), he is eased when the companions say that they would stop him from hurting anyone should he lose control. He'd do well with someone that can reassure him, who can restain him. I can see him both eager to serve and being an absolute brat who wants to be punished. Submissive in the way a mabari is submissive, a war hound smarter than most people. Probably power play in particular, the type the blurs the line of dom and sub, that's all about the mind games, submitting in a dominant way, dominated in a submissive way, etc. etc..

[internalloops]

I sort of feel like I'm the only one who doesn't want Solas to lose his power/ "god" hood in his redemption ending (if he survives it ).

Solas the fade-loving apostate, before we discovered who he really was never interested me in my first playthrough of DA:I (which we now know was intended and done beautifully) I didn't dislike him, and my first inquisitor was on good terms with him, but he didn't draw me in like Dorian, The iron bull , and the other companions did. He kind of was just there and I didn't really use him cause of it so I missed all the hints about his identity. It was only when it was revealed that he was fen'harel did he become interesting to me. (the elven/dwarven lore is my bread and butter when it comes to dragon age) And that's when I started to get into his story and jumped on the solavellan train.

So for him to lose that part of himself (magic and all) is to take away the part of him that makes him interesting as a character for me. As I saw a post say, it only keeps half of himself not him as a whole. And while some would see that as a fair punishment for the damage he's done/tried to do, as I see it with everything he's been through and the sacrifices he had to make: in order to save the elven people from mad gods, he had to literally create the veil and destroy their empire so that the world didn't fall to the blight... and that is killing him on the inside, to strip him of his power and a core part of who he is, feels like a low blow and a low hanging fruit solution to how to deal with him.

And those who are of the mind that no one in the world should hold his type of power, I'm gonna have to disagree with you there. That's not really how the world works, in reality or in fantasy. there will always be people who have more than others (power, resources, influence.. etc), and there will always be people who will do anything to the point of destroying people's lives in order to keep what they have/get more of it. And in regards to this fantasy world, you need powerful people to combat them. Had solas never gained the power he now wields, theads would not exist. If the inquisitor never gained the power of HIS orb, they would never have been able to defeat corypheus. If rook never got the lyrim dager that solas needed to be a full magical strength to purify, rook would have no way to fight/kill the elven gods.

Solas being a god/extremely powerful mage is what let our heroes become heroes in the first place.

I want Solas to accept his past and lose his guilt over making the veil (go to therapy you stupid egg) I want him to realize that he is not beholden to the stories that paint him in a negative light and that he can use his power for good (like he intended it) instead of destruction. That when his plans are not born from guilt and desperation (and they work), they are world-saving. I want this freaking man to finally learn the decades-long lesson that he refuses to accept, that no one, no matter how powerful they are can save the world alone.

But that's just me....

[ir-abelas-vhenan]

Did Someone Say Running Back to Fiction to Cope??

It's probably safe to call this Me Losing My Mind over Veilguard 5/??

One of the things upsetting me the absolute most is no mention from the Inquisitor about Varric's death. Perhaps the most integral storytelling mechanism and all around champion of reluctant heroes has been taken away from us, and one of the people he was closest to doesn't feel even a little compelled to discuss him with his apprentice?

I'm still a little dumbfounded, clearly.

Even if we as fans didn't deserve better, Varric deserved better. I've always believed that the better the character, the better a death they deserve when it's their time to go.

So anyways. In my smooth pea brain, I can't reconcile a world in which Lavellan shows up with her unconditional love blazing without first confronting and resolving the fact that her love has led to the death of one of her closest friends. So it's back to the drawing (writing?) board to soothe my disappointed soul.

I saw a version of Varric's letter to a Solas-mancing Lavellan that was datamined and ran with it.

One: All the Words Unwritten

Charter,

Yes, the trail went cold, but we haven’t entirely lost it. Solas left us a little farewell note. So I’m not giving up just yet. Maybe it’s gullible of me, but I know the Inquisitor feels the same: Solas isn’t too far gone to save. And she’d never forgive me if I didn’t try. But I don’t think I’m wrong here. Solas didn’t have to warn me and Harding off the chase when he could’ve killed us like the others who came after him. I don’t think he wants to do this. So, I’m taking the chance. Tell the Inquisitor…tell her I’ll bring him back.

—Varric

Her first tear spatters onto the parchment. The final sentence becomes an ink-stained massacre, and she throws it far away before she can lose any more of the handwriting she’ll never again see waiting for her above the seal representing his best friend’s house. Her palms bite into the unsanded wood, welcoming the bite of pain as she shoves back from the recovered tree stump she’s been using as a desk.

“Inquisitor.”

Morrigan’s voice doesn’t register, hardly rises over the sound of blood rushing through her ears like an open wound. Gods, wrong comparison . But there it is, playing out against the darkness of her eyelids every time she blinks to try and stem the flow of more tears. The wound in Varric’s chest, gushing with no one to hold pressure over it, to ensure the rise and fall of his sternum until help could arrive, no one to watch his back because the woman who did it best is no longer able to. This too, is her fault, and there has hardly been a conversation in the years that followed where she hasn’t looked into Varric’s quieter, sadder eyes and wanted to beg him for a forgiveness she knows he’d have frowned at her for needing. 

It had been her job to keep him safe now, her promise to Hawke that the choice to become another martyred hero in Ferelden’s bloody history wasn’t in vain. And here was the proof at last that she was every inch the fantasy-addled fool bards wrote about when inspiration ran dry. Here was the proof that her hope was a mantle, weighing down everyone around her until there was nothing left but blurred ink and bloodstained pages in the famed Inquisitor Lavellan’s wake.