#lavellan fic

[cosmiccrushes]

Kindness

Solavellan reunion (ish) fic || 1.1k

I originally meant for this to be a reunion fic but then oops got lost in Lavellan's head

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“Tell me, Solas,” she threw her voice like a dagger at his heart. “When you said it would be kinder in the long run, for whom did you mean?”

The elf slowly turned to face her where she stood in the doorway, hands clasped behind his back. His face, impassive. The first time she had looked upon him in eight years. She knew her own visage was splashed across Thedas. The Herald of Andraste. Perhaps he had stood before her image on occasion. Perhaps, he too, had imagined what this conversation might be like. She’d chewed over her first words to him like a piece of straw. Rolling them over her tongue late at night. Trying to decide if she liked the way they felt, the way they tasted.

Would she want to rage at him? Scream accusations, louder than clashing swords. Would she want to beg him to stop this? Plead with him that it wasn’t too late, that there could be another way. 

Var lath vir suledin. Would she want to repeat her words from their last parting? Praying to whatever gods would listen that his answer had changed, grown into something heartier than the broken stalk of an unbloomed promise. Eight years since Solas took her heart and her arm, leaving her with more than she could bear to carry some days. 

She would never admit it aloud to a single soul, but she ached for a truth she wasn’t sure she’d ever receive, couldn’t be sure even existed. But an absurd conviction had gripped her. Wrapped itself around her with bone-crushing strength. Solas hid himself in omissions and mysterious half-truths. She’d had endless moons to mull over that day when he’d spoken of a kindness in him leaving, in them going no further. She’d thought he’d meant only to protect her from some unknown future hurt. But then, unraveling his knot of riddles left behind, she’d understood that he was wary of being swayed away from his goals. That he feared what it might mean if he were to love, to belong here.

Did Solas resist giving her his heart for so long because it would be kinder to her when he eventually betrayed her? Or because it was kinder to himself? To not love so as to not lose when he ultimately chose to walk the same path he had always been on. The Din'anshiral. A path of death and destruction. A path so far diverged from the one they could have walked together- dreaming, imagining, fighting side by side for a different world. 

The thoughts that kept her lying awake at night weren’t for her own heartbreak. They weren’t even for the fate of the Veil. They were for Solas. Vhenan on his lips and his lips on hers, even as he walked away. The Dread Wolf had fallen in love. Knowing it would be kinder to them both if he had not. Knowing what it would cost him to love her and still maintain that it wasn’t enough to change anything. For Solas to not believe that their love was strong enough to hold the burden he carried together? That wasn’t just heartbreaking, that was centuries of tragedy endlessly unfolding itself. 

Millenia Fen’Harel had spent with his grief, his remorse, his pride. She resolved that when she saw him again, she would demand that he face what loving her meant. Perhaps she was also too prideful for her own good. But how could he think that their love enduring was so easily dismissed into a whisper of a wish instead of a cacophonous certainty? He who has been enduring for centuries. He who has lost, failed and endured over and over again. If anyone understood what it meant to endure, it was the Dread Wolf. 

No, Solas did not let things go. He had not let her go when he’d claimed it would be kinder if he did. He had not let her go when his last words had been a vow that he would always remember her.

Solas. Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf. They did not let go, they endured.

Which meant his words were empty. Spoken to stop her, but changing nothing. A final attempt at kindness, perhaps, to end things with her there. But it had not been kind to her and it had only been a ghost of kindness to him. Allowing him more sharp edges to shatter himself against so he could become the broken parts he thought he had to be to keep moving forward. 

She refused to let him fracture himself into these easily contained pieces. The piece that loved her. The piece that made friends at Skyhold. The piece that thought he knew what was best for the world. The piece that, if even for a moment, had contemplated what it meant that she was real, that this world was real. 

All these pieces, impossible to fit together into the shape of what Solas thought needed to exist. Had he thought he could carve her out of him? The wolf that watched her from afar as she dreamed told her differently. He had not been kind to either of them, no. But she couldn’t help the sadness in her heart at the thought that he had been more than unkind to himself. He had been cruel- and called it kindness. And then the anger had come to her. He had been unaccountable. He had made decisions for them both and then fled, hidden himself away to avoid her reckoning. To avoid the mirror she could hold up against him to reflect the possibilities he was determined to ignore.       

He wanted to tear down the Veil, doom them all? He wanted to restore what he had destroyed, no matter the cost? Fine. So be it. But he would have to do it while looking into her eyes and enduring her. Enduring that he had not acted with kindness and that she had never asked him to.  

He could go right ahead and try to remake this world as he saw fit. But she would make damn sure he had to face all the pieces of himself to do it. It was her turn to be unkind in the name of love. This was the long run he’d spoken of, where it would’ve been kinder if he’d let go. But he hadn’t and she wouldn’t. She would make him face the omissions and half-truths he told himself. She would make him solve his own riddles. She would show him that they could create a new shape together- one where all the fragmented parts of himself fit. 

It would not be kind, but it would be true. 

And after, if he still thought the best he could do was destroy this world…well, he’d have to do it while looking into her eyes and enduring her love for him.   

“Tell me, Solas. When you said it would be kinder in the long run, for whom did you mean?”

[bishicat]

I think he actually really wanted to go :(

[rosieofcorona]

Fellchaser

Hi my sweets, I bring to you some freshly baked Solavellan yearning. Also posted on Ao3, if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading. 💕

This is how he remembers it, the first night Solas knew that he loved her. 

He cannot say with any certainty, after all these lonely years, what had happened directly before or directly after, cannot make out the finer details in the grand tapestry of things. But he knows by heart the shape of that hour, the way she had come to him after a victory, flushed with wine and the chill of the evening, her hair curling up in the damp autumn air.

*****

He declines, as he always does, their invitations for a celebratory drink, preferring the relative quiet and solitude of his own quarters.

For many hours, he can hear them– Bull and Sera and the rest– their cheerful noises bouncing off the castle walls like skipping stones. It annoys him for a time, disturbs his solitude, his study, until he hears (or thinks he hears) her voice among them. 

Solas can picture her then, in the tavern. Bright mind, bright eyes, bright laughter. Vibrant even in the dimness of the room. And there’s a flicker of a thought he can’t keep smothered– that he should’ve gone down there with her, despite his judgment. 

It makes no matter how he tries to keep his distance. She seeks him out, as she always does, as he knows she will. When he doesn’t stop her, he tells himself that it’s because she’s their Inquisitor. He tells himself she can go where she likes, that duty alone compels his counsel. 

He knows a lie when he hears one. 

He’s nearly talked himself into making an appearance when she shows up in his doorway, hazy and loose with the aura of drink, the tips of her ears and her cheeks turned rosy. 

He does nothing to discourage her entering. He says nothing to send her away. 

“Hello,” she says simply, when he sees her. Her head tilts against the frame, her gaze fond and unfocused.

“Hello.”

“You never joined us.” An accusation. Lightly leveled, lightly slurred. The syllables tumble in her mouth like stones in a river.

He wants to say, I could not bear you being so close and sweet and real. He wants to say, You are a distraction I cannot afford.  Instead he says, “I was preoccupied,” knowing that answer is insufficient.

She makes her way into the chamber, weaving an unsteady path to the table where he has laid out all his books, his quills, his ink. 

“With what?” she murmurs, curious even in her state.

Solas knows he should excuse himself, conjure a reason to stay at a distance. But he finds himself wanting to– what? Talk to her, tell her, keep her close?

“Translating a record,” he says at last. “Of ancient practices in Arlathan. Ritual offerings to the gods in exchange for their…favor.”

Solas stumbles on the last word, something bitter in its taste, and where she would normally probe him further she takes no notice. She’s busy poring over the largest book, its contents all in Elvhen, the ink and vellum faded by the centuries. “I can’t make out any of this,” she frowns. “Perhaps I’m worse off than I thought.” “Perhaps,” Solas huffs out a laugh. “Although the language has shifted with time. Some words may yet be familiar, if not–”

“Oh, here!” She gasps delightedly when she finds a phrase she knows, though she says the syllables slowly, as if they are new. “Sa-lath. One’s love, one’s only love. Something like that.” 

“In the modern parlance, yes. But here,” he says– and he leans over her to tap the page for emphasis– “Here it means something like ‘beloved.’ The words come together, see. Salath.”

It’s the wine he smells first, that rich, warm scent that floats from her up close, but there’s something different, something distinctive hiding beneath. He wants to taste it and find out, to slip his tongue into her mouth, and– 

“They would offer something beloved, then?”

Solas clears his throat.

“Or someone,” he nods, breathing deeply. “A high price for favor.”

She goes quiet for a moment, tracing the small shapes of the letters with her finger. Such a fine movement is made imprecise by the drink, but she repeats it as if she is carving it into her memory. “Salath,” she whispers, tasting the word. “Salath, ‘beloved.’ I will remember that.”

He very much doubts that she will, come morning. But it stirs something inside him all the same. Beloved, beloved.  

“What would you demand?” She says, sweeping the thought from his mind. “If you were a god.”

If, he thinks, that one word louder than all the rest. 

“I suppose it would depend what was being asked of me.”

“Your favor,” she tells him. “Your love.”

“Ah.” There’s a twist in his chest, like an arrow wrenched free, pain and relief all at once. “The heart of a god is not easily won. I would require yours in return.”

She laughs a little, as if he’s jesting. “That hardly seems equal. A mortal heart for a god’s?”

“Your heart,” Solas says, in a gentle correction. “For mine.” He does not kiss her, like he wants to. He does not stop her kissing him. 

The press of her mouth is a summer fruit, warm and sweet and bruising lightly beneath their wanting, their mutual hunger grown apparent. 

Only once has he kissed her before this. A dream, an impulse, he’d told himself then. A mistake that he wouldn’t repeat, no matter how tempting. 

So he’s grateful, now, that she’s been drinking, that she’s given him an out. He can call this her impulse, even as he takes more, tastes more. He can call this next part chivalry. He knows a lie when he hears one. 

“We can’t,” he says, when they come apart. “You are not yourself, and the hour is late. You should get some sleep.”

She’s disappointed, he thinks– and is it cruel to hope she is? To hope she still wants him as he wants her, even as he turns her away? 

Best not to dwell on it.  

“I will help you upstairs,” he tries again, and she brightens a little. “Can you manage the walk?”

There’s a part of him that wishes she’ll say no, give him an excuse to lift and carry her to her quarters, to feel the weight of her pressed against him. But she says, “Yes,” and, “I’m not so far gone,” and Solas breathes out another laugh. 

He knows a lie when he hears one.

All the same, he takes her hand in his, lets her lean on him as they make the long walk to her quarters, each step its own little feat. She stumbles more than once; more than once, he catches her gently. 

It is worth being gentle for her. 

In her room he removes her boots, knelt at the floor as if an altar. He hardly knows the last time he knelt, only knows that now he wants to.

When he rises she says, “Thank you,” and the following word may be his name, or another entirely. Solas tries to ignore it, tries to let the sound be lost in the lingering silence but he needs to know, as he always does, needs to be certain. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘thank you,’” she hums, laying back on the bed, and this time he leans in close to hear the rest. 

“Salath.” *****

The walk back to his quarters is longer, somehow. 

He thinks of her all the way, her hair in a dark spill across the pillows, the way she rolled the old sounds of his language around in her mouth. He thinks of her when he undresses, when he slips into his own bed, when he indulges in the fantasy of feeling her under and around him. Just this once, he thinks, as his hand begins to move beneath the covers, slow at first and then more desperate. Just this once won’t hurt, won’t hurt, won’t– 

Ah.  

He is in love, he knows it now, as he shudders and gasps out her name. How tragic it is, and how lovely. How foolish, how sweet. His love for her could level cities. It could grow flowers.

A mortal heart for a god’s. Beloved, beloved. 

He imagines what he would sacrifice for her, if he has to, when he has to. The answer surfaces in his mind like something dredged up from unfathomable depths, some unknown factor which demands to be accounted for, and which fills him with dread.

“I would give everything,” he says aloud, to himself, to no one. 

The words hang in the air like ghosts, the same lament in all their mouths.  Beloved, beloved. Tags by request (thank you, angels!): @meg-does-art, @lavellanart

[an-established-butt-dent]

Meet my current Inquisitor: Yrja Lavellan.

This is my Second solavellan playthrough, and because I tried to postpone the crestwood scene as much as possible i’m literally a level 28 during ‘what pride has wrought’ Lollll. Coryphasswhatshisname is getting ended in one punch once I finish the final quests before Trespasser .

I’m making (some) opposite choices compared to my first playthough. Aka I used the American voice, sided with the Templars, didn’t drink from the well of Sorrows, Solas removed her vallaslin and she’s going to hunt her ex husband down. Solas ya bettter be prepared. This girl is gonna age like a fine wine, with notes of bitterness, heartbreak and revenge.

Sidenote, I’m seriously loving the lighting in the Decent DLC. The screenshot I used as a reference is [shefs’ kiss].

[lillotte17]

I've only got one this time, but it's been rattling around in the ol' brain box for days without spawning anything to go with it so...*slides more Veilguard banter across the table until it falls into your lap*

~

Rook: “So…the Inquisitor, huh? The Herald of Andraste. Chosen of the Maker’s Chosen. The Big Hat. The Savior of the South.”

Solas: “Was that meant to be a question?”

R: “What’s she like?”

S: “You are asking me instead of Varric? He is the one who still has ties to the Inquisition. I have not spoken with the Inquisitor in…quite some time.”

R: “Varric didn’t know her the way you did.”

Varric: “Hmph, for better or for worse.”

R: “Also, Varric lies. He’d probably tell me that she was ten feet tall, shot lightning from her eyes, and killed high dragons with a single punch.”

V: “Hey! That’s not even a good lie. If you’re going to disparage me, at least make it plausible.”

S: “And you think that I, the Dread Wolf, fabled god of chaos and trickery from Dalish lore, am a more reliable narrator?”

R: “Probably not. But I’m interested in hearing your answer anyway.”

S: “She was…a person. Vivid. And real.”

R: “Well, that isn’t saying much.”

S: “It changed everything. It changed the way I saw this world. It made me wish…that things could be other than they are. That I could be other than I am.”

V: *scoffs* “You sound like you can’t tell if that’s a good thing.”

S: “She was also tweleve feet tall, and could breathe fire at will.”

V: “Ha!”

[pinacoladamatata]

please i am manifesting it

[hellafluff]

Finished playing Jaws of Hakkon with my Elf Mage Inquisitor...

After Dealing with the dragon and gathering the memories she absolutely finds a dark quiet place and ugly cries. She's inconsolable. How close her people had come to having a home, the knowledge that she was not the first Mage or Elf to go through this, the fear that she'll end up like Ameridan- forced to die for the Inquisition instead of be with her family and loved ones and on top of that be rewritten, all the parts that make her Her, erased and forgotten?

It's like all her fears made manifest, it's worse then anything the Fear Demon could have shown her.

[plasticfreckles]

Lavellan musing about what ancient elven ruins (Suledin Keep, Cradle of Sulevin, Din'an Hanin, Lost Temple of Dirthamen, ..) might have looked like in ancient times and imagining the bustle in these ruins.

Solas trailing after her like a lost puppy, picturing her in restored elven buildings of old and finding she's the most glorious elvhen to ever walk these lands, Veiled or not.

file under: fics i would write if i were more eloquent lmao

[thechildofbhaalhasawoken]

Cullen: *in his office in the morning, attaching his armor piece by piece*

Josephine, Dorian, Vivienne and Leliana: *enter*

Cullen: Uh, good morning? Have you heard of knocking?

Vivienne: Deepest apologies, my dear Commander, but we need to talk about the Orlesian dignitaries who are visiting later today.

Cullen: Can we talk about it a little later? I haven’t had breakfast yet. *fidgets nervously*

Josephine: It won’t take long, Commander.

Leliana: And besides we know you don’t eat breakfast. *eyes suspiciously*

Cullen: *furiously trying to think of something*

Vivienne: The good ambassador has told me that you have refused the dinner invitation and the request to show our guests the barracks.

Cullen: I honestly have work to do, and have no time to be parading around nobles.

Dorian: Do you hear something weird?

Cullen: All I hear is the open door behind you.

Vivienne: But these nobles have deep interest in warfare and you made quite the impact on them at the Winter Palace!

Josephine: And they could be persuaded into sponsoring - I hear something too. Is there a bird upstairs? We really should renovate your roof, Commander.

Leliana: No that is the sound of water. Is someone using your privy upstairs, Commander? *eyebrow lift*

Dorian: *smug grin*

Cullen: *blush* I, uh, I’m sure you’re just hearing noise from outside.

Upstairs: *sound of door opening, steps on the floor, rummaging*

Cullen: *urgently* You know we could continue this discussion at your office, Josephine?

Upstairs: Did you say something, vhenan?

Josephine, Dorian, Vivienne and Leliana: *look at each other and then at Cullen*

Cullen: *covers his face with his hand* No.

Upstairs: No? Well I know you’re not much of a morning person, so fine. Have you seen my trousers?

Vivienne: *about to say something*

Leliana: *stabs Vivienne with her elbow to shut her up*

Dorian: *delighted grin*

Josephine: *having the time of her life*

Cullen: *kicks said trousers from the floor to behind his desk* I don’t know but I definitely think you should stay upstairs for a bit longer.

Upstairs: Oh are you coming back up here? Did you change your mind, Mr. ”I can’t possibly go again yet?”

Cullen: No, no!

Upstairs: Well I suppose twice last night and once this morning is quite a lot.

Dorian: *silent applaud at Cullen*

The ladies: *looking at Cullen from head to toe with very approving nods*

Cullen: Maker’s breath, you’ll be the death of me.

Inquisitor: *slides down the ladder in a flurry of bare legs, wearing no trousers*

Vivienne: Good morning, your worship.

Josephine: I hope you had an invigorating night.

Leliana: And an energising morning.

Dorian: How many times was it for you?

Cullen: Never you mind. *throws the Inquisitor her trousers*

Inquisitor: Six. *catches trousers*

Cullen: *groans and facepalms*

Leliana: Nothing to be embarrassed about, Commander!

Josephine: Six? And three? That’s… amazing.

Dorian: Hell yes it is. *offer to high five with Cullen, switches to the Inquisitor when he doesn’t*

Inquisitor: *high fives Dorian and pulls on trousers* You know you could have said there was someone here.

Cullen: I tried to tell you not to come downstairs.

Inquisitor: Oh I did come downstairs, that was the first one of six, remember?

Cullen: *mortified*

Dorian: *absolutely pissing his pants*

Inquisitor: Anyway, I’ll let you talk about whatever you’re here for.

Vivienne: Oh we wanted to talk to you about the visiting dignitaries too-

Inquisitor: See you in the evening, Cullen, byeee *flees through the open door*

Cullen: I knew everything was going too well for me.

Josephine and Vivienne: *proceed to bombard Cullen with boring questions and duties*

Leliana and Dorian: *continue to insert a lot of double entendres*

[sweetmage]

Click for full res!!☀️

Tarot card of Viera, favorite lady!! 🥰 Thank you to @vivispec (who she belongs to) for letting me draw her 💖

Symbolism breakdown below the cut!

So! Of course this takes a lot of inspiration from the strength tarot card :)

She points to Skyhold, aiding them even as she looks away towards home, the aravels in the the mountains just beyond her reach.

She is the sun in a night sky and her eyes remain there, a near halo to those who know and appreciate her.

Solas stands beside, a barrier between herself and her home, her people. He also inhibits her movement on the path forward, but she carries on no less.

The aravels in the background move parallel to her, sure to surpass her quickly.

The purple flowers actually come from this ficlet Vivi wrote, give it a read 💜

[rosieofcorona]

(more solavellan) WIP whenever

(p.s. you can find my other solavellan fics here, if you like)

[pocket-solas]

"May I...." Lavellan reached for the curled parchment in Josephine's hand. "I'd like to keep that one."

Her advisor hesitated, mid cleaning out old letters from her desk, she glanced down at what she held, her confusion turning to understanding and sympathy. "Ah, yes of course Inquisitor." Josephine hands over the letter written in tidy scrawl. "If there's anything else you wish to keep you have but to ask."

Lavellan smiled faintly, her heart aching with every beat though she masked it well. "Thank you."

The request to study and activate elven orbs around the territory had faded somewhat since Solas had penned it.

She traced the rough yellow paper, imagining where his hand had pressed against it so long ago. She could almost imagine the scent of him, old books, cedarwood, his paints, clinging to the weathered page.

Josephine rested a tentative hand on Lavellan's arm, startling her out of the reverie.

Josephine's dark eyes were tender with empathy. "Inquisitor...I am sorry."

Lavellan cleared her throat thickly, rolling up the missive gently and stowing it into the breast pocket over her heart. She remained silent a moment, unable to trust her voice with speech. "As am I."

[roguelioness]

Pharos

When Neria agreed to serve as Rook's advisor, she never thought she would meet Solas outside of a battlefield.

Pairing: Solas x Neria Lavellan Rating: G Words: 1540 dragon age: the veilguard spoilers ahead.

Read on AO3

Sleep does not come easy, her heart frantically drumming its excitement. Neria stares at the roof, lets her eyes trace the many beams that criss-cross and support the structure. It has been so long since she saw him, so many years spent with barely any news of his existence. How often she has worried about him, even as she fretted over his plans. 

Would he have forgotten her? Had he thought of her at all?

Did he miss her?

Well, she thinks, I will have all the answers I need once I fall asleep.

It is no easier, but sheer exhaustion soon consumes here. When her eyes open, she is in the Fade, familiarly green in an unfamiliar location. She glances around, waiting for her guide to show up; a few moments later a figure strides towards her, her silhouette familiar, and Neria’s shoulders relax.

“I thought you would never turn up,” Rook remarks.

“I could not fall asleep,” she confesses with a faint smile.

Rook nods abstractedly, her mind still clearly occupied by the disastrous turn of events. “Come,” she says as she starts to walk away, “the Lighthouse is this way.”

“How can you tell?” Neria asks. “The Fade is so vast…”

Rook’s expression is grim. “Interrupting the ritual had a price,” she says, voice and body stiff. “I do not know the specifics, but I am bound to Solas, and the Fade. I will always know where he is, and he will know where I am.”

She stumbles, emotion catching in her chest and clogging up her lungs. Bound to Solas? Tied so close to him that she would know his location at any time? It is what she has wanted the most the past years, and that this new hero, her successor, has been granted it while she, the one who had loved him and who still loves him, has not… The sense of being discarded, as illogical as it is, has tears prickling at her eyes, and her fingers curl into her palms, nails digging into the skin, to steady herself. I was his enemy, she reminds herself. Why would he want to let me know where he wanders when he knew I wished to stop him?

Still, the rejection stings, hot and angry, and she has to remind herself to calm those wayward emotions lest she attract the attention of demons.

“Is he-” Neria hesitates, then starts again. “Is he well?”

Rook throws her a sympathetic look over her shoulder. “You’ll see for yourself soon enough.”

Soon enough comes quicker than she expected, and it is with a near-overwhelming sense of awe that she glances at what Rook has called The Lighthouse. So this is Solas’ real base, his personal home. Once again that feeling of bitterness that she’s not the first to experience this, that for all he claimed to love her, he did not truly trust her enough to-

He gave you Skyhold, she reminds herself. 

He gave the fortress to the Inquisition, she rebuts. He gave the fortress to the Inquisitor. Not to me. 

He did not invite them, her mind patiently counters. It is Rook’s interruption of his ritual that has resulted in her presence here. He did not prioritize them over you.

For an indeterminate length of time she merely gazes up at the grand building, at the hues of gold and purple that adorn it. That it is his is impeccably clear; she has intimate knowledge of how his magic feels, and it is so thick here it is a physical touch against her non-corporeal skin. Large, gilded windows allow golden light to stream in; the stone that make up the walls gleam with a kind of mother-of-pearl sheen. The Fade here is warm, comforting, a balm to her riot of emotions – it is unsurprising that his space in the Fade is so heartening.

And yet, for all its majesty, there is something heart-wrenchingly lonely about The Lighthouse.

Rook huffs impatiently. Neria rouses herself out of her thoughts at the sound, and follows the other woman into the mansion. There is opulence everywhere, though it is not garish; wherever she looks are touches of that same purple and gold – on the border of the carpet, the edge of the drapes, the pattern on the cushions adorning the plush couches.

So much space, she thinks, for one person.

When they pass the dining hall – twice as long as it is wide, and it is so very wide – she spies a great table with more chairs than she can count, and it is empty, so, so empty save a single plate and knife and fork, with a solitary goblet to match, and it slams into her then just what a terribly isolated, lonesome existence he must have led. How many times had he been betrayed to be instilled with the belief that he could trust no one? How many friends, how many lovers had cast him aside, had turned away from him because of the rumors that accompanied his name?

“Why are you crying?” Rook asks. 

Neria wipes at her face, mildly surprised to feel the tears. “It’s nothing,” she shakes her head. “Let’s keep going.”

The library is their destination, Rook’s unofficial war room as Solas has barred entry into other places in his home. She can understand that; it must be hard enough for him to handle this intrusion into his fiercely-guarded privacy, he would not want to let these new interlopers into every little bit of this deeply personal space.

They pass what she thinks to be the library. It is- she has no words for it. A row of towering bookshelves line two walls, filled with tomes and tchotchkes and trinkets. Sofas carved from rich, warm wood and covered in soft, shimmering velvet rest next to mosaic-covered tables, atop which rest intricately sculpted lights that glow with a bright, cozy light. There are books everywhere – stacked on top of tables, scattered across the floor, spread open on the seats. This, Neria realizes, this is where he spends the most time, the true heart of his home. The urge to enter and give everything within a closer look is almost irresistible; were it not for Rook taking their arm and giving a gentle tug, she would have succumbed.

“Not that one,” she says simply as she guides away from that oh-so-compelling room.

They encounter one of Rook’s companions on the way to their destination; Neria thinks the russet-skinned woman exuding such confidence is the one Rook said was called Neve. 

“Rook, a moment if you would?” Neve says.

Rook turns to her. “The library is right around the corner,” she says. “Give me a few minutes, and we’ll catch up.”

Slightly insulted over her exclusion – did Neve not think she could be trusted? – Neria makes her way to the library, coming to an abrupt standstill at the doorway.

Standing by a window, gloriously warm amber light caressing his face, is Solas. His back is to her, and she takes advantage of his ignorance of her presence to take his in. He is dressed in dark leather armor – beautifully made with materials she doesn’t recognize – as though despite this being a safe place, he does not entirely trust the people wandering his halls. Shoulders and back stiff, his chin jutted forwards, he reminds her of a cornered wild creature that is ready to lash out and strike at any moment.

And then he turns, and she sees his face for the first time in almost a decade, and her heart skips a beat before beginning a galloping rhythm–

A deep furrow sits between his brows, but the scar she has kissed so many hundreds of times is still there. There are heavy bags beneath his eyes, but his irises are the same shade of blue-grey-violet she remembers. His face wears a touch more color but his freckles are still visible, and she wants to count them to ensure each and every one of them are yet there. He– he is thinner than she remembers, his cheeks more gaunt; he appears like a man who has been well-plagued by stress.

He looks worried and frustrated and anxious, though it soon gives way; first into an expression of shock and surprise, then muted sorrow and dulled regret, before going blank entirely. But his eyes, oh, his eyes – they are ravenously, desperately hungry, and she shivers under the weight of that rapacious gaze, her skin flushing and warming beneath the force of it.

“Oh, vhenan,” she murmurs, taking a step towards him, trying not to take it personally as he takes a step back in response, “you have not been taking care of yourself.”

Whatever he had expected her to say, it had not been that, and the tension bleeds from him. “Neria,” he says, so quietly and reverentially it pulls tears to her eyes, “ir abelas, vhenan.”

Unable to help herself, unable – and unwilling – to resist, she bridges the space between them with long, rapid strides, flinging her arms around his neck and rejoicing in the form and feel of him. “I’m here,” she whispers, making a soft, choked laugh as his fingers tighten their grip on her, “I’m here.”

[pinacoladamatata]

little character sheet for my lavellan, mostly to figure out her prosthetic. (ages might all be retconned depending on the actual year veilguard starts but whatever)

[blarfkey]

THE LAST CHAPTER BABYYYYY. I'm so excited!!!

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas/Ellana Lavellan, background Krem/Jospehine, Varric/Cassandra, Bull/Dorian

Rating: E (for one chapter) and T for all other chapters

Tags: Solavellan, College AU, Dear Daddy Long Legs AU

Description: It sounds way too good to be true.

A fellow library patron– and total stranger – just happens to notice her pathetic attempts of self-education in between the three jobs it takes to afford rent in Orlais? And then just so happens to be both kind and disgustingly rich enough to offer to pay for her entire ride to any university she wants? And the only thing he wants in return is total anonymity and a pen-pal?It sounds like something straight out of a hidden camera show.

What kind of desperate idiot would fall for a scam like that?

Ellana. Ellana Lavellan is that desperate idiot

[teamdilf]

Elgar'nan - WIP

Decided to try my hand at the "Lavellan is kidnapped by Elgar'nan" idea. 👀

“I was no servant to Magister Pavus,” she growls.  “My apologies,” Elgar’nan says, pushing his plate aside and turning to his own gold goblet, taking a long drink out of it. She ignores her own, focusing on the silver cup of water that had been placed inconspicuously to the side of her. “He is your dearest friend, yes? I did not wish to threaten him, but I do require your cooperation. I am sure you understand the necessity of unfortunate actions in the pursuit of greatness.” She does, but not in the pursuit of greatness. People died, on her orders, because the alternative could not come to pass. As soon as it became clear the Inquisition was a liability, she disbanded it, walking away from power she had never wanted.  “You will be relieved to know that he is safe; my commander escorted him back to his home in Minrathous. Quite the sharp tongue on him, I’m told. I do have someone keeping watch - the Magisterium is a pit of vipers, and I would hate for something to happen to him while his dear friend is away.” She bristles at the implied threat, glaring at her jailor. “I am sure it will be unnecessary for my man to act.” Elgar’nan takes another drink from his goblet and gestures for an attendant to refill it, as well as her own half-empty cup of water. “Now, the Dread Wolf. You had been detailing your relationship with him.” She thinks, pondering whether it’s worth trying to lie about the nature of their relationship, given that the man clearly already knows and has someone in place who could harm Dorian if she does not cooperate. “We had been lovers once,” she says, defeated.  Elgar’nan brightens, going so far as to clap his hands. “He always was skilled at crafting a compelling story around himself. This may be his best one yet: the drama of a god seducing a mortal offered apotheosis by the people who picked at the remnants of her ancestors’ civilization? Beautiful. Do you truly think he loved you?” “Does it matter?” she mutters, staring down at her now-abandoned silverware.  “I find people are most defiant when there is truth spoken, don’t you?” His tone is pleasant and he gives her another one of his creepily kind smiles. “I believe we can come to an agreement, Inquisitor Lavellan. I will not disrespect your station by spinning half truths as your lover is known to do, so I will be blunt: the people of this world know no peace and I will give it to them. I will rule, but do not wish to spill more blood than necessary, and if the… what do they call you? The ‘Herald of Andraste’?” She nods, numb. “If the Herald of Andraste asks the south to bend the knee, the people will. You can save lives with one,” he taps his finger on the table, “single,” another tap, “order,” a third tap, harder than the previous two. She opens her mouth to speak but he holds his hand up, shaking his head and tutting. “I’ll not hear your answer now. You are my guest and I will see that you are cared for, as a woman of your station deserves. Take time to consider your options, and know that I can be reasonable. I am sure we could even come to some form of… arrangement, concerning your former lover. I hear you still believe him to be the pretty picture he painted of himself.” Elgar’nan stands up, but when she tries to follow, he gestures for her to remain sitting. “It would be rude of me to expect a guest to stand at attention for me, yes? Relax and enjoy my fortress freely. It is, after all, your home now too.” He walks away from the table, his steps heavy on the stone floor and it is only now that she notices the racing of her panicked heart.