#on the other hand solas is seeing himself a bit too clearly. does this make him fonder of ilan? we'll see

[gnawednoble]

ilan: there had to have been a better way of removing the anchor. or at least a less dramatic way - losing a limb is already a traumatic enough experience

solas: you speak as if you know anything about what happened

ilan: yeah? my father told me??

solas: (knows mahvir'hanin was the only one there, discounting whatever he told the others later) your what.

ilan: the inquisitor took me in for a while, borderline adopted me. that never came up in all of the things you learned about me?

solas, now dealing with the fact that he's doing all this to one of his dearest friend's child on top of Everything Else: i cannot say that it did.

playing a rook that's already met the inquisitor means that a lot of conversations are a little ???. but honestly i think it would be funny if ilan had just kind of assumed everyone already knew abt him knowing at least half of the inner circle bc harding had mentioned it or that he'd been clear enough for them to have figured it out based on one of his comments. but no one has bc its not the conclusion they'd jump to first

and then they all get the scare (maybe at different times?) of ilan going 'oh my aunt, divine victoria' or god forbid him actually saying 'uncle varric'

[yes-these-obsessions-are-healthy]

DAI x BG3 matchups I need to see. I’m not good at writing crossovers nor am I clever at all. This is very much non-exhaustive and very much not the end point of these characters’ potential interactions with each other.

Karlach + Sera + Iron Bull

The absolute chaos. The absolute CHAOS. A powerhouse. Putting aside Karlach’s demon heritage aside, she and Iron Bull tossing back tankards and swapping war stories as vets that have been dealt shitty hands but continue to chug along despite it. Karlach and Sera connecting over growing up mainly on the streets and having soft spots for little ragamuffins. Plus they all talk about women’s tits a lot. I feel Sera would find Karlach sexy and funny.

Wyll + Cole

Like Solas and Varric, Wyll would take to Cole because he recognizes Cole’s desire to help others, even if his methods are a bit unorthodox. He would recognize Cole’s soul as gentle and kind, and his efforts to atone for the murders he committed in the Tower as proof of his humanity. He will join the Uncle-Dad Duo and complete the Uncle-Dad Trio. Cole would gravitate toward Wyll’s goodness in turn, and probably tell Wyll that him making a contract wasn’t foolish because in the end he saved a city, and if that was his desire, then he committed no sin in doing so.

Solas + Astarion

The messiest shit can only occur, and my messy bitch self wants to see it. Watch as Solas’s upright and stiff demeanor utterly bores Astarion. Watch as Astarion’s selfishness, penchant for violence, and casual disregard for the well-being of others utterly pisses Solas the fuck off. Watch as Astarion yawns or interrupts Solas’s lectures with a “yes, yes, we get it” or the most dramatic eyeroll and overwrought “ugh”. Watch as Solas and Astarion immediately sniff each other out as liars and schemers from first jump and hold each other at a distance, the tension spiking at random moments early in them knowing each other where the other prods at their falsehoods. Watch as Astarion is dumbfounded by Solas expressing his condolences to Astarion upon learning of Astarion’s enslavement to his master, because how could a man who holds such reproach for him still manage to feel pity? ‘It is not pity, but compassion, which you are at liberty to reject. That is your right as a free man, just as it is my right to feel it.’

In the best case scenario, Astarion calms down eventually, teasing Solas but still treating him like that friend of a friend that you grudgingly admit is useful. I think a part of Astarion would find Solas’s penchant dislike of him funny.

Vivienne + Astarion + Dorian

We are all doomed. The haughtiness will be scarcely contained. Dorian and Astarion are definitely flirting. Fucking? Not sure. But definitely flirting and enjoying killing bad guys, playfully arguing over wine, snickering over Solas’s shabby dress.

Shadowheart + Leliana

Tools forged to serve a religious order? Check. Crisis of faith? Check. Subterfuge preferred? Check.

Lae’zel + Cassandra

Soldiers recognizing soldiers. 🫡 ‘Why are the men around me so annoying.’

Minsc & Boo + Cole

Cole might be able to understand Boo! If not his speech, then his little hamster feelings. Minsc might be wary of Cole for the information that he manages to glean from Minsc’s head, but his unquestioned understanding of Boo would probably smooth that bump in the road, right?

Solas + Gale

A friend remarked that Gale would remind Solas too much of himself (prideful, ambitious) and thus they would not get along. There is that. I think that Gale would get a small smile out of Solas every now and then with his quips, because Solas himself is clearly a fan of banter; Gale would provide more of the energy in the same way Dorian does with his and Solas’s more civil banters. Gale and Solas also both hold a great measure of respect and adoration for magic as a force, an element, a piece of entirety that is beautiful for its own existence. Not simply just what magic can do for them as wielders of magic, but what it is and how it does so much to enhance a person’s understanding and interaction with the world, as precious as sight or sound.

Minthara + Iron Bull

Oh she will have him cowed in a goddamn minute. Oh man. Oh no. ‘Yes ma’am’, ‘no ma’am’.

Minthara + Cassandra

Oh this would be so interesting. Disciplined, serious bulwarks with little time for silly little men—Minthara would share Cassandra’s frustration and lack of amusement with Varric, though Cassandra would consider her suggestions to maim him.

Solas + Halsin + Iron Bull

I see potential here. Iron Bull and Solas already have a dynamic of Iron Bull’s “I have a pretty good idea of who you are, and it’s a liar” toward Solas, while Solas grudgingly respects Iron Bull’s strength and mental acumen in the same way you would respect a very intelligent bear—do not draw attention more than necessary, but stand tall lest it smell fear. Halsin feels like a softer Iron Bull, a mediation between the two. Like Iron Bull, his stature and build belies a thoughtful and sharp mind. Like Solas, he sees everything as connected, feeding into the other as part of a system, and would too feel a sense of loss at magic and mundane being so dramatically split as it is in Thedas—an aberration against what is natural. Also like Iron Bull, he’s frank with his sexuality. I’m certain the two would swap stories over booze. The trio would be arguably the three most mature and experienced in a room in any given situation. Not only that, but Halsin is far more actively in touch with his heart and honest with his feelings than Solas or Iron Bull. The latter two very much care about their loved ones, but with Solas it is under the surface and with Iron Bull it’s mixed up in cultural trappings of romance not being a “thing” in his culture, and thus both struggle with their feelings. Halsin however is very much in touch. There is next to nothing obstructing what his head and heart wants. He listens to his heart and he follows it. Solas and Iron Bull could learn a thing or two from him, tbh

Also I feel like Iron Bull, Halsin, and even Solas have a bit of a brat tamer streak in them so there’s that

Also Astarion would outright reject the notion of drinking Cullen’s blood cuz it smells like battery acid.

[testudoaubrei-blog]

Content note for discussions of eternal damnation, and all sorts of other shit that will trigger a lot of folks with religious trauma.

Before I get started I might as well explain where I’m coming from - unlike a lot of She-Ra fans, and a lot of queer people, I don’t have much religious trauma, or any, maybe (okay there were a number of years I was convinced I was going to hell, but that happens to everyone, right?). I was raised a liberal Christian by liberal Christian parents in the Episcopal Church, where most of my memories are overwhelmingly positive. Fuck, growing up in the 90’s, Chuch was probably the only place outside my home I didn’t have homophobia spewed at me. Because it was the 90’s and it was a fucking hellscape of bigotry where 5 year olds knew enough to taunt each other with homophobic slurs and the adults didn’t know enough to realize how fucked up that was. Anyway. This is my experience, but it is an atypical one, and I know it. Quite frankly I know that my experience of Christianity has very little at all to do with what most people experienced, or what people generally mean when they talk about Christianity as a cultural force in America today. So if you were raised Christian and you don’t recognize your theology here, congrats, neither do I, but these ideas and cultural forces are huge and powerful and dominant. And it’s this dominant Christian narrative that I’m referring to in this post. As well as, you know, a children’s cartoon about lesbian rainbow princesses. So here it goes. This is going to get batshit.

"All events whatsoever are governed by the secret counsel of God." - John Calvin

“We’re all just a bunch of wooly guys” - Noelle Stevenson

This is a post triggered by a single scene, and a single line. It’s one of the most fucked-up scenes in She-Ra, toward the end of Save the Cat. Catra, turned into a puppet by Prime, struggles with her chip, desperately trying to gain control of herself, so lost and scared and vulnerable that she flings aside her own death wish and her pride and tearfully begs Adora to rescue her. Adora reaches out , about to grab her, and then Prime takes control back, pronounces ‘disappointing’ and activates the kill switch that pitches Catra off the platform and to her death (and seriously, she dies here, guys - also Adora breaks both her legs in the fall). But before he does, he dismisses Catra with one of his most chilling lines. “Some creatures are meant only for destruction.”

And that’s when everyone watching probably had their heart broken a little bit, but some of the viewers raised in or around Christianity watching the same scene probably whispered ‘holy shit’ to themselves. Because Prime’s line - which works as a chilling and callous dismissal of Catra - is also an allusion to a passage from the Bible. In fact, it’s from one of the most fucked up passages in a book with more than its share of fucked up passages. It’s from Romans 9:22, and I’m going to quote several previous verses to give the context of the passage (if not the entire Epistle, which is more about who needs to abide by Jewish dietary restrictions but was used to construct a systematic theology in the centuries afterwards because people decided it was Eternal Truth).

19 Thou wilt say then unto me, Why doth he yet find fault? For who hath resisted his will?

20 Nay but, O man, who art thou that repliest against God? Shall the thing formed say to him that formed it, Why hast thou made me thus?

21 Hath not the potter power over the clay, of the same lump to make one vessel unto honour, and another unto dishonour?

22 What if God, willing to shew his wrath, and to make his power known, endured with much longsuffering the vessels of wrath fitted to destruction:

The context of the allusion supports the context in the show. Prime is dismissing Catra - serial betrayer, liar, failed conqueror, former bloody-handed warlord - as worthless, as having always been worthless and fit only to be destroyed. He is speaking from a divine and authoritative perspective (because he really does think he’s God, more of this in my TL/DR Horde Prime thing). Prime is echoing not only his own haughty dismissal of Catra, and Shadow Weaver’s view of her, but also perhaps the viewer’s harshest assessment of her, and her own worst fears about herself. Catra was bad from the start, doomed to destroy and to be destroyed. A malformed pot, cracked in firing, destined to be shattered against a wall and have her shards classified by some future archaeologist 2,000 years later. And all that’s bad enough.

But the full historical and theological context of this passage shows the real depth of Noelle Stevenson’s passion and thought and care when writing this show. Noelle was raised in Evangelical or Fundamentalist Christianity. To my knowledge, he has never specified what sect or denomination, but in interviews and her memoir Noelle has shown a particular concern for questions that this passage raises, and a particular loathing for the strains of Protestant theology that take this passage and run with it - that is to say, Calvinism. So while I’m not sure if Noelle was raised as a conservative, Calvinist Presbyterian, his preoccupation with these questions mean that it’s time to talk about Calvinism.

It would be unfair, perhaps, to say that Calvinism is a systematic theology built entirely upon the Epistles of Romans and Galatians, but only -just- (and here my Catholic readers in particular will chuckle to themselves and lovingly stroke their favorite passage of the Epistle of James). The core of Calvinist Doctrine is often expressed by the very Dutch acronym TULIP:

Total Depravity - people are wholly evil, and incapable of good action or even willing good thoughts or deeds

Unconditional Election - God chooses some people to save because ¯\_(ツ)_/¯, not because they did anything to deserve, trigger or accept it

Limited Atonement - Jesus died only to save the people God chose to save, not the rest of us bastards

Irresistible Grace - God chooses some people to be saved - if you didn’t want to be saved, too bad, God said so.

Perseverance of the Saints - People often forget this one and assume it’s ‘predestination’ but it’s actually this - basically, once saved by God, always saved, and if it looks like someone falls out of grace, they were never saved to begin with. Well that’s all sealed up tight I guess.

Reading through these, predestination isn’t a single doctrine in Calvinism but the entire theological underpinnings of it together with humanity’s utter powerlessness before sin. Basically God has all agency, humanity has none. Calvinism (and a lot of early modern Protestantism) is obsessed with questions of how God saves people (grace alone, AKA Sola Fides) and who God saves (the people god elects and only the people God elects, and fuck everyone else).

It’s apparent that Noelle was really taken by these questions, and repelled by the answers he heard. He’s alluded to having a tattoo refuting the Gospel passage about Sheep and Goats being sorted at the end times, affirming instead that ‘we’re all just a bunch of wooly guys’ (you can see this goat tattoo in some of his self-portraits in comics, etc). He’s also mentioned that rejecting and subverting destiny is a huge part of everything he writes as a particular rejection of the idea that some individual people are 'chosen' by God or that God has a plan for any of us. You can see that -so clearly- in Adora’s arc, where Adora embraces and then rejects destiny time and again and finally learns to live life for herself.

But for Catra, we’re much more concerned about the most negative aspect of this - the idea that some people are vessels meant for destruction. And that’s something else that Noelle is preoccupied with. In her memoir in the section about leaving the church and becoming a humanistic atheist, there is a drawing of a pot and the question ‘Am I a vessel prepared for destruction?’ Obviously this was on Noelle’s mind (And this is before he came out to himself as queer!).

To look at how this question plays out in Catra’s entire arc, let’s first talk about how ideas of damnation and salvation actually play out in society. And for that I’m going to plug one of my favorite books, Gin Lun’s Damned Nation: Hell in America from the Revolution to Reconstruction (if you can tell by now, I am a fucking blast at parties). Lun tells the long and very interesting story about, how ideas of hell and who went there changed during the Early American Republic. One of the interesting developments that she talks about is how while at first people who were repelled by Calvinism started moving toward a doctrine of universal salvation (no on goes to hell, at least not forever*), eventually they decided that hell was fine as long as only the right kind of people went there. Mostly The Other - non-Christian foreigners, Catholics, Atheists, people who were sinners in ways that were not just bad but weird and violated Victorian ideas of respectability. Really, Hell became a way of othering people, and arguably that’s how it survives today, especially as a way to other queer people (but expanding this is slated for my Montero rant). Now while a lot of people were consciously rejecting Calvinist predestination, they were still drawing the distinction between the Elect (good, saved, worthwhile) and the everyone else (bad, damned, worthless). I would argue that secularized ideas of this survive to this day even among non-Christian spaces in our society - we like to draw lines between those who Elect, and those who aren’t.

And that’s what brings us back to Catra. Because Catra’s entire arc is a refutation of the idea that some people are worthless and irredeemable, either by nature, nurture or their own actions. Catra’s actions strain the conventions of who is sympathetic in a Kid’s cartoon - I’ve half joked that she’s Walter White as a cat girl, and it’s only half a joke. She’s cruel, self-deluded, she spends 4 seasons refusing to take responsibility for anything she does and until Season 5 she just about always chooses the thing that does the most damage to herself and others. As I mentioned in my Catra rant, the show goes out of its way to demonstrate that Catra is morally culpable in every step of her descent into evil (except maybe her break with reality just before she pulls the lever). The way that Catra personally betrays everyone around her, the way she strips herself of all of her better qualities and most of what makes her human, hell even her costume changes would signal in any other show that she’s irredeemable.

It’s tempting to see this as Noelle’s version of being edgy - pushing the boundaries of what a sympathetic character is, throwing out antiheroics in favor of just making the villain a protagonist. Noelle isn’t quite Alex ‘I am in the business of traumatizing children’ Hirsch, who seems to have viewed his job as pushing the bounds of what you could show on the Disney Channel (I saw Gravity Falls as an adult and a bunch of that shit lives rent free in my nightmares forever), but Noelle has his own dark side, mostly thematically. The show’s willingness to deal with abuse, and messed up religious themes, and volatile, passionate, not particularly healthy relationships feels pretty daring. I’m not joking when I gleefully recommend this show to friends as ‘a couple from a Mountain Goats Song fights for four seasons in a cartoon intended for 9 year olds’. Noelle is in his own way pushing the boundaries of what a kids show can do. If you read Noelle’s other works like Nimona, you see an argument for Noelle being at least a bit edgy. Nimona is also angry, gleefully destructive, violent and spiteful - not unlike Catra. Given that it was a 2010s webcomic and not a kids show, Nimona is a good deal worse than Catra in some ways - Catra doesn’t kill people on screen, while Nimona laughs about it (that was just like, a webcomic thing - one of the fan favorite characters in my personal favorite, Narbonic, was a fucking sociopath, and the heroes were all amoral mad scientists, except for the superintelligent gerbil**). But unlike Nimona, whose fate is left open ended, Catra is redeemed.

And that is weird. We’ve had redemption arcs, but generally not of characters with -so- much vile stuff in their history. Going back to the comparison between her and Azula, many other shows, like Avatar, would have made Catra a semi-sympathetic villain who has a sob-story in their origin but who is beyond redemption, and in so doing would articulate a kind of psychologized Calvinism where some people are too traumatized to ever be fully and truly human. I��d argue this is the problem with Azula as a character - she’s a fun villain, but she doesn’t have moral agency, and the ultimate message of her arc - that she’s a broken person destined only to hurt people - is actually pretty fucked up. And that’s the origin story of so many serial killers and psycopaths that populate so many TV shows and movies. Beyond ‘hurt people hurt people’ they have nothing to teach us except perhaps that trauma makes you a monster and that the only possible response to people doing bad things is to cut them out of your life and out of our society (and that’s why we have prisons, right?)

And so Catra’s redemption and the depths from which she claws herself back goes back to Noelle’s desire to prove that no person is a vessel ‘fitted for destruction.’ Catra goes about as far down the path of evil as we’ve ever seen a protagonist in a kids show go, and she still has the capacity for good. Importantly, she is not subject to total depravity - she is capable of a good act, if only one at first. Catra is the one who begins her own redemption (unlike in Calvinism, where grace is unearned and even unwelcomed) - because she wants something better than what she has, even if its too late, because she realizes that she never wanted any of this anyway, because she wants to do one good thing once in her life even if it kills her.

The very extremity of Catra’s descent into villainy serves to underline the point that Noelle is trying to make - that no one can be written off completely, that everyone is capable of change, and that no human being is garbage, no matter how twisted they’ve become. Meanwhile her ability to set her own redemption in motion is a powerful statement of human agency, and healing, and a refutation of Calvinism’s idea that we are powerless before sin or pop cultural tropes about us being powerful before the traumas of our upbringing. Catra’s arc, then, is a kind of anti-Calvinist theological statement - about the nature of people and the nature of goodness.

Now, there is a darker side to this that Noelle has only hinted at, but which is suggested by other characters on the show. Because while Catra’s redemption shows that people are capable of change, even when they’ve done horrible things, been fucked up and fucked themselves up, it also illustrates the things people do to themselves that make change hard. As I mentioned in my Catra rant, two of the most sinister parts of her descent into villainy are her self-dehumanization (crushing her own compassion and desire to do good) and her rewriting of her own history in her speech and memory to make her own actions seem justified (which we see with her insistence that Adora left her, eliding Adora’s offers to have Catra join her, or her even more clearly false insistence that Entrapta had betrayed them). In Catra, these processes keep her going down the path of evil, and allow her to nearly destroy herself and everyone else. But we can see the same processes at work in two much darker figures - Shadow Weaver and Horde Prime. These are both rants for another day, but the completeness of Shadow Weaver’s narcissistic self-justification and cultivated callousness and the even more complete narcissism of Prime’s god complex cut both characters off from everyone around them. Perhaps, in a theoretical sense, they are still redeemable, but for narrative purposes they might as well be damned.

This willingness to show a case where someone -isn’t- redeemed actually serves to make Catra’s redemption more believable, especially since Noelle and the writers draw the distinction between how Catra and SW/Prime can relate to reality and other people, not how broken they are by their trauma (unlike Zuko and Azula, who are differentiated by How Fucked Uolp They Are). Redemption is there, it’s an option, we can always do what is right, but someone people will choose not to, in part because doing the right thing involves opening ourselves to the world and others, and thus being vulnerable. Noelle mentions this offhandedly in an interview after Season 1 with the She-Ra Progressive of Power podcast - “I sometimes think that shades of grey, sympathetic villains are part of the escapist fantasy of shows like this.” Because in the real world, some people are just bastards, a point that was particularly clear in 2017. Prime and Shadow Weaver admit this reality, while Catra makes a philosophical point that even the bastards can change their ways (at least in theory).

*An idea first proposed in the second century by Origen, who’s a trip and a fucking half by himself, and an idea that becomes the Catholic doctrine of purgatory, which protestants vehemently denied!

**Speaking of favorite Noelle tropes

[notkirstinetheartist]

“Mel em su tarasyl, vhenan...”

I told you all I would flesh (heh) this out, and here we are.

Check below the cut for details shots and me being an art history nerd, because I put way too much thought into a pin-up of an elf.

Commission Info

First, wanna get this out of the way right away, because I am a Grade A Weenie:

You’re goddamn right she’s covering her junk with a copy of Hard in Hightown, I’m a man of culture goddammit.

Besides the fact that angling Solas’ necklace just right to make sure the shadow of it cupped Mellan’s breast (we love a visual metaphor in this house, folks), it might look a little funky with the leather straps at first, and that would be the point! It is actually a reference to cultural practices I grew up with (which I love putting into art, and I really love seeing other people do it, too. Its actively my favorite thing in the community.) as well as a practice from across the globe that became especially popular in the houses of well-to-do people in the Victorian Era.

What Mellan has done is taken one of her own leather straps and intertwined it with Solas’ in a sudo handfasting band. I had it not fully tied to show a few things:

Obviously its not around anyone’s hands, lol. But, it is still an offering. We can reach that step in our relationship someday, if you would be open to it as I am.

This would be the first canonical time we’ve seen Solas’ necklace untied. This was done with purpose to show a willingness to let go and be himself around Mellan. She knows he is Fen’Harel, but she only sees Solas. He is able to let his guard down without fear of her judging him; there’s a safety there.

Mellan has a phobia of things being tied around her neck, to the point wear she could not even wear a turtleneck shirt. By dangling the necklace like this, she too is showing her trust in Solas, because he is well aware of this phobia and she knows he will not use it against her. In a way, the laying of the necklace/handfasting band is exposing Mellan a lot more than her nudity is.

Now, for the Victorian Nerdry! 

Across the globe, over the course of... well, forever, flowers have meant different things. But, in the Victorian Era, this became a huge fad. I mean, people were obsessed. Think passing along memes that contained notes for your friends, extreme mode.

Different flowers meant different things. And the colors of those flowers changed the coding entirely, too! And if you paired one flower with another? Oh, my god, the things you could imply.

Take for example, you just had a lovely evening with a suitor. You want to send them a flower to tell them what a great time you had! So, you pick a carnation. Better pick the right one, though! If you pick white, that’s great; you’re expressing the pure, innocent love you feel budding for them. But, you pick yellow? Congrats, you loath them.

And if you pair either with pink? Well, pink on its own means “I’ll never forget you!” Pink with white? “My heart will never forget this innocent love that I feel for you, hopefully it will continue to blossom.” Pink with yellow? “I will never forget how much I fucking hate your guts you absolute piece of shi--”

So, yeah. There’s a lot you can say with flowers! On @little-lightning-lavellan there plans to be more writing about flower politics in Dueteragony, because the possibilities for Orlesian politics, don’t get me started... but I digress.

The flowers on Mellan’s band are red tulips. Tulips are generally associated with budding (HA) passion, and red ones specifically refer to a declaration of love. Well, at this point, Solas already knows she loves him, but it never hurts for your sweetheart to remind you, does it? 🌷❤️

And then just a last close-up of my baby girl, because I’m really pleased with her smirk (and her little hair wisps. She clearly tried to get a little bit more put together... but, come on. Its Melly.)

Big thanks to @fenxshiral​ for the Elvhen translation, which means: “Take my to the sky, my heart.” Which I had to use for the obvious Mel pun. ❤️

[fairfaxleasee]

"how much have you had?" For Solas and Trevelyan!

For @dadrunkwriting

Pairing: Solas/f!Trevelyan

Characters: Ayala Trevelyan, Solas, Dorian

CW: Alcohol use

------------------------------

“Lethallan, just how much have you had?”  Solas raised an eyebrow at Ayala Trevelyan as she giggled while she was slumped across the library table.

“Uh... not much I don’t think?” Ayala managed to say between fits of laughter.

Solas wouldn’t believe the statement from anyone else.  In addition to the laughter (which was what first alerted him to come up the stairs from his usual haunt in Skyhold) and the fact that Ayala didn’t seem to be able to sit up straight, her face was flushed.  She was obviously drunk, but given that whatever alcohol was in her glass had been poured from a bottle covered in Tevene that Dorian must have provided and how rarely she drank anything, it was entirely possible that she had only had a few sips.

“Has anyone ever told you, Solas - you’re a positively dreadful worrywart.  I’m keeping an eye on her, she’s perfectly safe.  Besides, you had plenty of time to corrupt our dear Herald before I got here, mysterious elven apostate that you are - I think it’s only sporting that you let the evil agent of the Black Divine have a fair shake at it.”  Dorian poured himself another full glass from the bottle.

Solas couldn’t decide whether he wanted to narrow his eyes or roll them at the man.  He settled for closing them and shaking his head, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Oh, come now - all the ‘private training sessions’ you two get up to?  It’s all over Skyhold you know.”

“...are you referring to the glyphs I instruct her about?”

“My dear man!  I am insulted you think you need to lie to me!” Dorian pressed a hand to his chest in mock affront.

“Oh, but he does teach me glyphs though!  Why do you think that’s a lie?” Ayala gave up trying to sit up and put her elbow on the table so she could use a hand to prop her head up.

“Ye gods, you poor, little Southern Circle mage!  Don’t tell me you actually study with the man!”

“What else would we do?”

Dorian took a gulp of his drink, “Study each other, for a start.”

“I don’t -”

Solas cut Ayala off, “That’s enough, Dorian!  And she’s obviously had more than enough.  Come, lethallan, I’ll see you to your quarters.”

“That’s quite unnecessary, Solas!  She’s perfectly fine.  And capable of making her own decisions.”

“Not when she’s too drunk to even sit up!”

“...are you mad at me?” Ayala turned to Solas.  She’d stopped laughing and he could see tears in the corner of her eyes.

“No, lethallan.  I am however rather annoyed at your companion, whose idiotic idea I can only assume this was.”

“I - well - that’s...” Dorian sputtered.

“Entirely accurate?” Solas offered.

“...I just wanted to be able to be normal and talk with you.  Dorian said it’d be easier if I loosened up a little...”

Dorian leaned across the table, “I thought we agreed that you weren’t going to tell him that part!”

“..but if he’s mad it doesn’t matter ‘cause he won’t talk to me anyway.”

“We can discuss matters in private at another time, lethallan,” he tried to keep his voice neutral but either he didn’t succeed or she interpreted his neutrality as anger.

“...okay,” she pushed the chair back and tried to stand.  She stumbled almost immediately and Solas rushed over to catch her.  Fortunately Dorian was either too drunk or too ashamed of himself to question how Solas could easily carry the human woman out of the library towards her chambers (even if both eventualities seemed equally unlikely to Solas).

She was silent the entire way there.  He had thought she was asleep but she grabbed his necklace when he laid her down on her bed.  “It’s later and private, so we can talk now?”

He could hear the hope in her words.  He should quash it now.  For both their sakes.  “You’re still clearly inebriated, lethallan.  Now is not the time for any discussion.”

“But if I’m not, I can’t...  I don’t...” 

He watched her ransack her mind for an explanation.  If he could be firm here, now, he could end things before they truly began.  “Perhaps you would be more equipped to discuss things in the Fade?”

...that was not what he intended to have said.

“But how?”

“It is possible for two mages to communicate with each other directly in the Fade.  There is a bit of a trick to it, however I am confident you will catch on.”

Why was he offering to get closer to her?  She already trusted him - saw him as an advisor, a mentor.  He didn’t need anything more from her.  He shouldn’t even be considering anything more with her.  Let alone all but begging for it.

“Do you promise?”

No.  Say ‘NO!’

“Yes, lethallan.”

“Do you need to show me?”

“No, the trick involves finding each other.  But don’t worry, I have it on good authority where to look for you.”

“How?”

“Several of my friends speak very highly of you,” she looked at him quizzically.  “You would not know them out here,” he explained.

“Oh.  Those friends.”

“Yes, those friends.”

“So...” she ran a finger along the halla jawbone.

“I will follow you in a bit, lethallan.”

She let go of the necklace and sank back against the mattress.  Solas left her chambers and walked back to his own to do the least advisable thing he could think of.  Find Ayala Trevelyan in the Fade.

[commie-eschatology]

Return to Redcliffe

particularly proud of this Solas + Trevelyan scene from “Return to Redcliffe” so gonna do some shameless self-promotion. Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

When all her companions are asleep, Trevelyan leaves the Inquisition camp. She isn’t sure if she’ll come back. Someone is clearly following her, but she ignores that for now. The road back to Redcliffe stretches in front of her, but she hesitates. This is an extraordinary bad idea, she tells herself, but when has that ever stopped her? Lydia used to complain about her tendency to just act on desire alone. But Lydia is dead, she tells herself, you broke her head open with your staff until her brains spilled all over the floor. You killed the woman who raised you, only for the rebellion to sell themselves into slavery. ` In the woods, she stumbles upon a templar caravan. Very fortunate for her, very unfortunate for them. Their screams echo through the Ferelden forest; she imagines getting incinerated from inferno magic would hurt quite a bit, but it’s certainly not her problem. Trevelyan leaps onto the, now empty, wagon, and finds a crate of apples. She takes a few bites of one and monologues, “I rebel, therefore I am,” to the half eaten piece of fruit.

There’s groaning from underneath the wheels, and a jumble of words that vaguely sound like “what the fuck?” so she asks, “Sorry, are you still alive down there?” There’s no response, so in the interest of being thorough, she throws a fireball at the voice. The smell of burnt flesh follows, so she assumes it got the job done, but then again, Ferelden usually smells like that. Really not a terrible scent, she considers. Or perhaps she’s just gone mad.

Trevelyan looks at the Mark on her hand- staying with the Inquisition is the clever choice, she tells herself. Only she can close the rifts, after all. The rebels have been utterly defeated, the movement badly needs allies if it’s to survive. Still, her logic feels cold and hollow. The Venatori ships are already in Redcliffe harbor. She asks herself, how many will be shipped up to the Imperium in chains, in just the time it takes to travel between the Hinterlands and Haven?

Fire burns underneath the wagon. It’s always been fire for Trevelyan- burning the family manor during a childhood nightmare, cremating Lydia’s mangled corpse with her own spells, and, most recently, incinerating more templars than she can count. It’s the same fire that she could use to burn those Tevinter slave ships tonight- despite Fiona and Linnea’s betrayal, she has no doubt that at least a few of her people would join her.  

“Do you want to keep staring at me from the woods then?” she asks the person shadowing her. Solas steps out from the shadows, clearly surprised at being discovered, but he tries not to let it show. He’s usually far more subtle, she doesn't doubt she could be more stealthy if he wanted, but he clearly believes everyone around him is an utter idiot. Fair enough, she supposes. He gives a slight smile, the kind that might say “well done.”

As with everyone, Solas projects emotions into the Fade- but his are more tightly moderated than any other mage she’s ever seen. Now though, Trevelyan sees a wave of complex feelings she can barely sort through, radiating from him: rage at the Tevinters, intense all-consuming fear of something she can’t sense, great sadness for something lost, but all controlled, and directed by conscious purpose.

“These woods are dangerous,” he says, characteristically naming the obvious, “and you have the only means of closing the rifts.” He regards her for a moment. “I apologize if I intruded. You have proven yourself a capable fighter, but I have found it is far too easy to make rash mistakes when one is alone.” His actual meaning is not lost on her: don’t be an idiot and run, is what he wants to say.

He adds, “And in my defense, you did just eviscerate an entire troop of men.” She expects him to ask her why, but he doesn’t; apparently needing no explanation for her small act of rebellion.

“They were templars,” she explains anyways, “most are awful. The others just look away when the Circle rapes happen. Honestly, I’ve always preferred the former.”

“I can’t disagree with you,” Solas says, “my few interactions with templars have been... unpleasant. Either they are accustomed to following the worst orders, as you have said, or they just enjoy inflicting pain, especially upon those without recourse.” There is clear contempt and disgust in his voice, it’s as if he’s speaking from experience.

“That’s why we rebelled,” she says, taking another bite of the apple, “also,  I was hungry. Inquisition rations weren’t doing it.” Solas actually laughs. Trevelyan idly wonders when murder became so casual for her. Kill the woman who raised you, and everyone else becomes easy, she supposes.

There’s a short, but not awkward, silence between them. She knows exactly why he is here, to prevent her from defecting back to the rebels, but his presence is, surprisingly, not unwelcome. They haven’t had much time to talk like this; the conversations they’ve had have so far been in either the shadow of Haven’s Chantry, or on the road with Cassandra.

She motions to the adjacent seat on the wagon. To her surprise, he nods, and walks, or more accurately, struts over, butt wiggle and all. Like most mages, he usually makes himself seem as small as possible, scuttling rather than walking, but unlike the rest, it’s almost as if he has to consciously remind himself to do so.

Solas likes questions, she reminds herself, so ask one. He jumps up on the wagon, and she says, “do you like apples?”

Solas doesn’t even blink. “Apples were first domesticated in this part of the world.” How the fuck does he even know that, she wonders. “I saw a memory once, of a horde of human barbarians, desperately defending a part of these woods they held sacred, from the legions of the Imperium. When the barbarians were slain, the Tevinters marched forward, only to find a simple apple orchard, one which hundreds gave their lives to protect.” He takes one out of the crate, and takes a bite. “However, if you were asking about the taste- no, I detest apples.” He takes another bite. “This one in particular tastes sort of like burnt human flesh.”

“Dying for a lost cause. You really never miss an opportunity to make a point, do you?” she says, “also, how do you even know what burnt human flesh tastes like?”

Solas smiles mischievously. “I don’t like to waste words,” he says. The other point he is suspiciously quiet on. I don’t judge, Trevelyan thinks, you go eat as much flesh as you like, Solas.

His words are somewhat slurred, and she smells something in the air, besides the burning templars of course. She recognizes it as the unmistakable stench of peach whiskey, suspiciously similar to the bottle she had nicked from Dennet yesterday. Solas seems to notice and says, “Master Dennet had many such bottles wasting away on the shelf. He will not miss one, or two, I suppose.” He shrugs.

On the topic, she notices a small bottle of ale in one of the templar crates; the cork is stuck when she pulls on it, so she simply uses a bit of force magic to smash the top of the bottle off. It smells absolutely wretched, and tastes even worse, but she drinks it anyway. Solas watches her, possibly judging her, but he’s always hard to read. “Been a shit day,” she explains. Linnea said, go back to your templars. Fuck her. Tevinter apologist. Shockingly flat ass. Terrible kisser.

“Was today your first time in Redcliffe?” she asks. Solas chuckles softly to himself, apparently a joke only he understands.

“A long time ago, before your rebellion,” he says, “it’s changed since, of course. But I assume you’re asking my opinion on the rebel mages, rather than the settlement itself.” He’s quiet for a moment. “Despair sticks to most of the mages like gnats.” He’s right, during the retreat from the Free Marches, every morning some mages wouldn’t wake up, taken by Despair demons in their sleep. And the war has only gotten worse. She can’t even imagine. “Still, they endure. Their fight against oppression is admirable, and utterly hopeless.” , “Hopeless?” Trevelyan raises an eyebrow. She should be angry, but more than anything she feels exhausted. “You seem rather certain.”

“Of course I am.” he says, matter of fact. Trevelyan picked up some dalish during the rebellion; she’s not ignorant as to the meaning of his name. “In my journeys through the Fade, I have seen countless rebellions rise up, confident in the just nature of their cause, only to be crushed mercilessly. Righteousness, unfortunately, is no match against steel.” Good poetry. She’ll give him that.

“And, yet, Recliffe is still standing,” she says, “for the first time in a thousand years, in this part of the world, mages govern ourselves. No templars. No Chantry. We built that. Isn’t that freedom worth defending?” Trevelyan spent most of her life in the Circle. No price can be too great, she thinks.

“You forget you aren’t speaking to Cassandra or Varric. We do not disagree on the necessity of rebellion,” he smiles, just a bit, mostly to himself, “but, in order for a rebellion to win its immediate demands, as well has change what it is possible in the long term, something you once told me that you seek to do, they must do one thing.” He pauses for dramatic effect, and honestly it works. “They must win.”  

“Even failed revolutions can teach lessons,” she says, the only dogma she’s ever needed to believe in, “no matter what Varric says, the mage rebellion didn’t manifest spontaneously.” She thinks of the thousand year struggle for freedom, and what feels like generations of the dead on her shoulders. In the distance, Trevelyan can just make out the flag of the Venatori, waving from the ramparts of Redcliffe. The ships are not far behind.

“No,” Solas says, suddenly melancholy, “or if they do, it is always the wrong lessons.” He’s silent for a long moment, staring into the ground. “I saw a memory once in the Fade. A man who sought to overthrow a tyrant. Then, a half-hearted assassination attempt, tailored for drama, instead of results. It of course failed. The man himself was burned alive, defiant at first, but when the flames reached his body, when his skin began to melt off, he screamed for mercy that never came.”

Trevelyan takes a long drink. Solas adds, eerily calm, “In the end, martyrdom is just melted flesh upon a wooden stake, and a name utterly forgotten.”  She drains the rest of the bottle.

“I killed my mother,” she says, suddenly, without really meaning to, “when the Circle was annulled, I tried to give her the courtesy of a quick spell, but the tower wards blocked magic so…” she makes a motion with her staff “I, well, had improvise.”

“Your first murder?” he asks. She shakes her head. Definitely not. “If you want absolution, I’m not the person to give it.”

“Oh fuck no, I’m not Andrastian,” Trevelyan scoffs, and Solas chuckles softly. The Andrastians think they can solve all the world’s evils, all their many personal failings, through a song. It’s childish. Besides, Trevelyan would rather hold onto her sins for now- keep them close like a badge of honor. She looks down at the dead templars, corpses bathed in green light from her Mark.

“I don’t regret it,” she says, and she thinks she means it, “not if it served a purpose.” Trevelyan looks again towards Redcliffe, and thinks, everything I am, I owe to them. “In just the time it takes to travel back to Haven, how many will already be on the ships?”

“Likely a few dozen,” Solas answers, “there will be far more, thousands, if these Venatori are not defeated, which is a battle only the Inquisition has the resources to win. It is fortunate, then, that you have a position where you can speak on behalf of the rebel mages.”

The sun begins to rise, bathing the forest in dim orange light. “We should get back then ,” she forces herself to say, though every word is like a block of lead. Solas exhales in relief.

“One final thing,” she says as Solas moves to get up. She looks at her counterpart, studying him best she can, sensing his projections into the Fade. He’s unlike any other apostate she’s ever met, and there’s something about him she can’t quite put her finger on, much less vocalize. “You know quite a bit about rebellions,” she says.

“I have seen much in my travels,” he says, pausing as he considers his next words, “and you could say I had a dramatic youth.”

“One I’d be interested in hearing about,” she says, genuinely. “Especially if it involves more surprisingly melancholy stories about apple domestication.” Solas seems taken aback for a moment, but recovers quickly, chucking politely at her joke. He then smiles quietly to himself.

The two apostates return to the Inquisition camp, though Trevelyan keeps Redcliffe in her sight for as long as she can.

Ao3:https://archiveofourown.org/works/33444538

[maleficar-writes]

Of Unicorns, Virgins, and Other Such Things

Pairing: Female Lavellan/Solas

Fandom: Dragon Age: Inquisition

Rating: Explicit

Additional Tags: Only partially crack

Summary: A noble attempting to curry favor with the Inquisition gives Inquisitor Lavellan a unicorn. It gets in the way. A lot.

On AO3: Link

“But what is it?” the Inquisitor asked, ears flicking with annoyance as she peered at the massive white beast stomping around her courtyard, nickering nastily at everyone who wasn’t Cole. It was quite pretty, with a flowing mane and tail that shimmered like starlight. Its hooves and horn glimmered gold in the brilliant light of early afternoon.

“A gift,” Josephine said, a bit too cheerfully. “From a noble who seeks to curry your favor. It is a rare, almost mythical unicorn.”

The Inquisitor peered at it. “It doesn’t have a sword through its face like the other one.”

“Because this is a natural unicorn,” Josephine said with infinite patience.

The Inquisitor’s right ear twitched, her expression flattening. “You said mythical.”

“I said almost mythical.”

“And this from you,” Varric interjected, leaning against a wooden post and giving the Inquisitor one of those shit-eating grins. Her ears twitched again. “The woman who does at least ten impossible things before breakfast.”

She pulled her lips back and gave him a snarl. Any normal person would have seen that expression and pissed themselves, but Varric just laughed like this was all good fun. It was infuriating how she was supposed to be the most deadly person in Thedas – though, probably, the Hero of Ferelden was more so – but none of her companions seemed to treat her with the respect deadly people deserved. Actually, now that she thought about it, no one did. It was always Inquisitor, fetch this thing or Inquisitor, take this other thing to the place with the people or even Inquisitor, my wife is dying and my son knows how to cure her so please go to him but, oh, no, he won’t come back with the potion or even given you the recipe he’ll just give you the potion to bring back to me necessitating you making future trips to bolster the Inquisition’s reputation. Not that she had strong feelings about this.

“Also this unicorn is not dead.”

“Fluffy,” the Inquisitor said with sharp enunciating, “is not dead. She is respirationally challenged. More importantly, why doesn’t this one like anyone except Cole?”

Solas, who had been hovering at the edge of the courtyard with a studious expression on his face, swung toward her at the question. “Lore surrounding unicorns posits they prefer the company of virgins and will defend a virgin quite violently.”

The Inquisitor went still. Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again. “Oh,” she finally managed.

“Indeed.” Solas slipped closer to her. “Given the unicorn’s nature, it might be best to have—”

He broke off as the unicorn, with a whiny loud enough to burst eardrums, rounded on them and charged. He threw himself to the side, snapping a barrier into place around himself, Josie, the Inquisitor, and Varric, and stumbled. He righted himself only with Josie’s help.

“Oh,” the Inquisitor said as the unicorn paced in a circle around her. She felt heat rising to her cheeks. It wasn’t that she was ashamed of being a virgin. That didn’t bother her at all. It was just that a four-legged beast with a spike growing out its head was telling everyone in Skyhold that she’d never gotten laid.

Twenty-four years old, leading one of the most powerful political forces in the world, surrounded by men and women who pretty much oozed sex appeal, and she’d never had sex.

This was her life.

She dragged a hand down her face as Varric made a noise of pure delight. “Inquisitor, he seems to like you.”

“I’m going to kill you,” she muttered.

The unicorn’s muzzle rubbed against her face. It lipped her ear. With a shriek, she bolted away from it.

“He really seems to like you!” Varric called after her as she tore across the courtyard, the unicorn prancing happily after her.

She tried hiding in the great hall. She tried hiding in the tavern. She climbed the ladder to Cullen’s Blighted bedroom and crawled under his bed – much to his sputtering horror – and the damn thing somehow managed to follow her everywhere. When she decided to go out on missions, it was waiting in the stables, somehow saddled, looking at her with huge, watery eyes that seemed to say Ride me, beautiful virgin, and she’d go red to her ears.

Passing judgments was next to impossible. The Tevinter shem who had led the Wardens astray had taken one look at the unicorn standing proudly beside her throne and dissolved into giggles. Ser Ruth, who had turned herself in around the same time the Tevinter mage was brought before her, took one look at the unicorn and started choking. Ostensibly on laughter, but the Inquisitor hoped the woman swallowed her tongue.

“You can’t follow me everywhere,” she told the damn beast as it followed her across one of the ramparts. She and Cole kept putting him in the stables. He kept escaping. Somehow.

Vivienne thought he was possessed, and Bull tended to agree, but everything was demons and despair with those two anyway.

“You need to let me do my job.” He stared at her with watery eyes. She attempted to remain unmoved. “You need a name, too.”

He pranced, hopping from hoof to hoof as if he understood. In the back of her head, she heard Solas intoning, Unicorns are widely believed to be incredibly intelligent creatures. Do your best to be polite. That horn isn’t for show.

“Pokey?” she suggested.

The unicorn gave her a look that pretty clearly said, You’re shitting me.

“Fine, fair, I agree, it was a bad idea.” She was bad at naming things, though. The other day, she’d scraped together enough lambswool to make a new set of robes for Solas, and when asked by Dagna and Harritt to give the coat some kind of identifier, she’d just said, “Sheep’s Clothing.” They’d looked at her like she’d grown two heads before declaring it Resisting Magical Something or Another.

She had told Solas about the incident. He hadn’t approved, though she couldn’t fathom why.

Tugging on one of her braids, she gave the unicorn an assessing look. “You kind of look like a Bob to me.”

He blinked at her and that blink somehow managed to convey his dripping disdain.

“Not Pokey. Not Bob.” She chewed on her lower lip, and the unicorn made a sound that might have been horsey delight. It disturbed her. Deeply. She stopped chewing on her lip. “We could go with something noble. Charger?” He shook his head. Or ruffled his mane. Or something. She took it to be a no. “Dasher? Dancer? Prancer?” She paused. “Now that’s just ridiculous. You’re not making this easy, you know.”

He shuffled up to her and rubbed his nose against her shoulder. She, meanwhile, eyed the exceptionally sharp tip of his horn as it bobbed next to her face. Tentatively, she stroked the unicorn’s neck. “What about Hanal’ghilan? You’re not a halla, but it’s a noble name.”

He whickered and caught her ear with his lips. With an indignant shriek, she tore across the parapets.

In a rare moment of unicorn-free time later that afternoon, she slipped into Solas’s room to study the murals he was painting. And possibly to snuggle up to him and make him incredibly uncomfortable. There was something to be said for flustering him, and it was so delightfully easy that even a virgin could do it.

In her defense, she wasn’t much of a virgin. The unicorn might count her as one, but she’d done more than her fair share of playing poke and tickle with some of the other youths in her clan. She’d just never gone far enough to jeopardize her position.

“Solas,” she greeted cheerfully.

His head snapped up, his eyes darting all around her. Then he relaxed. “I see you’re without your stalwart protector.”

She slipped up to him. He wasn’t painting, was standing beside his table with a book in one hand. His fingers, long and lithe and delightfully wicked, were splayed across the pages of a book that lay open on the table before him.

Dancing her fingers up his tunic, she drew closer to him. “Stolen moments are so rare,” she purred, watching with delight as his eyes widened slightly.

“Inquisitor, I—”

“You?” she asked, rising onto her toes to brush her lips against his. It wasn’t even close to a kiss, but it was enough to get her a little tingly and a lot interested in actual kissing. She wanted real kisses, the fiery, passionate, he-shoves-his-hands-in-her-hair kinds of kisses. Kisses that involved tongue, but not Fade tongue. Fade tongue only got a girl so far.

He swallowed and made a strangled sort of noise in the back of his throat. “I don’t think…”

“Oh, but you do,” she murmured. “Entirely too much.” She canted her head to the side, sliding one arm about his neck. His book tumbled to the ground as his arm went around her waist, tugging her flush against him.

Their mouths were so close, his eyes so intent and filled with burning, desperate wanting.

From above them came a mighty crash.

“Confounded creature!” Dorian shouted. He followed that shout with many more, none of them understandable, all of them Tevene.

Solas all but shoved her away from him, throwing himself at the scaffolding to the side of the room as she heaved a heavy, beleaguered sigh and Hanal’ghilan tore into the room looking like a demon. He snorted, chest heaving, head lowered, and charged straight at Solas.

His horn missed Solas’s butt – and what a tight, sexy butt it was, she thought as he scrambled up the ladder – by inches.

Hanal’ghilan skidded to a stop between her and Solas, scratching the stone floor fiercely with his hooves. He huffed, dragging one hoof over the stone as if readying to charge, and she sighed heavily. “We need to discuss personal boundaries,” she said to him, patting him on the back.

It took her and Cole promising Hana’ghilan the best oats and a stupid amount of sugar cubes to get him to leave Solas’s rotunda. It took even longer to get the unicorn back to the stables, where the Inquisitor assured him up and down that she wouldn’t go anywhere near Solas ever again and he needn’t worry about her losing her virginity in the near to immediate future. He snorted, clearly not believing her, which was pretty much the right response because that night, Solas barged into her dreams with all the subtly of a charging druffalo.

He caught her face in his hands and kissed her, and she threw her arms around his neck, wrapping her legs around his waist and forcing him to hold her. They stumbled until her back pressed against a wall, and his tongue was in her mouth, tasting her, and it was so good.

Except for the part where it wasn’t real.

“I’m going to kill that creature,” Solas growled against her mouth, working his hands under her tunic to cup her breasts. That was also good. It was better than good. Heat lanced through her, and she dragged his mouth back to hers for more kisses.

She’d done a lot of kissing in twenty four years. Well, to be fair, it wasn’t as though she’d popped out of the womb and started kissing people. Maybe it was more like twelve years, unless she counted that time she kissed Theron when she was six. It hadn’t been a good kiss. She decided not to count it.

“I’m going to kill you,” she growled back, tugging at his clothes, wondering why he bothered with them in the Fade at all.

Probably because they never got much further than kissing shirtless. He always balked at that point.

“What have I done?” he asked as he caught her lower lip in his teeth, tugging gently.

She responded by grinding her hips against his, making him gasp with pleasure and shock and, really, he should be used to her doing this like this by now. “Nothing, hahren,” she replied in a throaty murmur, and he pressed closer to her, his eyes flickering with lust. “And that’s the problem.”

She heard something crash. It was a splintery sound. Rather like what wood might sound like when it shattered. She went stiff in his arms, and he noticed immediately. “Vhenan?” he asked, drawing his hands down her sides.

“Oh, by the Dread Wolf’s hairy ball—” The Fade dream fractured as a very large something pounded up her stairs and neighed loud enough to wake the dead. She bolted upright from her nest on the floor – she still wasn’t used to the concept of shem beds – and hurled her pillow at Hanal’ghilan’s face.

It hit his horn and stuck.

As he shook his head wildly, trying to dislodge the pillow, she threw another one. “It was a dream!” she shouted, hurling a third pillow. “It was just a dream, I was dreaming, and how did you even get in here?”

In the end, her pillow went flying off Hanal’ghilan’s horn and straight out her open window. It soared over her balcony and disappeared into the snowy mountains. Hanal’ghilan had the good sense to bow his head and give her those sad, watery eyes that were almost as guilt-inducing as puppy eyes.

“I’m still mad at you,” she groused as she patted a spot next to her pile of blankets. Hanal’ghilan happily settled there, and, after a moment, she dropped a pillow on his side and curled up against him. It wasn’t so different from sleeping with a halla.

The next morning, she stumbled into the tavern for breakfast with Hanal’ghilan on her heels, and Varric, who was always obscenely cheerful at all hours, saluted her with a mug of that wonderfully bitter, disgustingly perfect drink the shems called coffee. She made grabby hands at it and he surrendered it to her. “Looks like you’ve still got your unicorn chastity belt,” he said and she dragged her hands down her face, pushing the coffee aside and leaning across the table.

“All I want,” she hissed, “is to kiss him.”

“Who, the unicorn or Chuckles?” Varric asked, waving a serving girl over for another cup of coffee.

She pinned Varric with a glare that could probably melt silverite. At the very least, it should have seared the flesh off his bones.

Varric, however, was immune to such looks. She knew this. She still tried to employ them. They always failed. “My hahren—”

“That’s what the kids are calling it these days?” He rubbed his chin. “I’ll have to remember that.”

“That,” she sputtered, “is a term of respect for an elder and not some – some—” She broke off, still sputtering.

“Some salacious pet name?” he supplied.

Dorian dropped into the seat next to her. Aside from Cole, Dorian was the only man Hanal’ghilan let touch her. “Who are we giving salacious pet names to? Can I be next?”

She dropped her head to the table with an audible thunk. “It’s bad enough everyone knows I’ve never had sex with anyone,” she complained into the wood.

“And all you want is for Solas to throw you down and have his wicked way with you, but you have one very large, very white, very horny problem,” Dorian said with far too much cheer for the time of morning.

There was a beat of silence. Then he and Varric broke into laughter so loud it probably reached the Creator’s in the Beyond. She wanted to claw their faces off, but that wasn’t what civilized Inquisitors did.

The door to the tavern banged open, and she turned her head to see a very surly Solas in the doorway. He stopped there. Saw Hanal’ghilan. Hanal’ghilan saw him.

Some kind of energy snapped between the two of them, Hanal’ghilan pawing at the hardwood floor as she hissed at him to behave. Solas spun about on his heel and left. With a cheerful whicker of pleasure, Hanal’ghilan nuzzled against her shoulder.

“I’m going to die a virgin,” she groaned.

“Was this even an issue before our friend showed up?” Dorian asked. He had tried to pronounce Hanal’ghilan’s name once. She had told him if he ever tried again, she would burn all his silky robes and force him to wear cotton. The horror on his face had been priceless.

“No,” she moaned, reaching blindly for her coffee.

One of them, Creators bless them, pushed the mug into her hands. She picked her face off the table and hunkered over the steaming mug, taking small sips of the still too hot drink. It was black and bitter – as bleak as her sex life. She pointed to the mug. “This coffee is my sex life.”

“Hot and steamy?” Varric asked.

“Bitter and black and awful.”

“I thought you liked coffee,” Varric said.

“I don’t. I hate it.” She drank it anyway. “It’s just a good kick in the ass in the morning so I’m awake enough to wrangle all of you. Like whiny little halla who don’t want to go in their pens.”

“We have pens now?” Dorian asked. “That’s rather deviant, Inquisitor.”

“I hate you,” she muttered, throwing back the rest of the coffee in a single gulp.

She began to plan. She went to Cole, because Cole was the only one in Skyhold other than her, apparently, who was a virgin. It was awful. It was terrible. Because of Hanal’ghilan, she knew more about the sex lives of everyone in the Inquisition that she ever wanted or needed to know. The reverse, of course, was also true, and the only one who didn’t seem to care was Cole. Everyone else teased her mercilessly.

“Still have your white shadow,” Leliana had said idly in the War Room two days ago while Hanal’ghilan had lowered his horn at Cullen and proceeded to push the Commander around the room – the Inquisitor had not wanted to consider why.

Just yesterday, Sera had gone on at some length to Blackwall about being elbow deep in circumstances. And had asked the Inquisitor how her circumstances were. They’d both howled with laughter. The Inquisitor had wanted to die.

Or to stick them with something pointy.

Hanal’ghilan was off harassing someone else, so she was planning. With Cole. Planning with Cole was more like trying to herd cats than halla. He kept wandering off in his mind, and she kept having to refocus him. She understood the drifting; they were in the tavern, and there were lots of thoughts constantly brushing up on him. “We should have gone to one of the empty towers,” she said after two hours of getting nothing done.

“I can lead him away for a while,” Cole said abruptly. “We can make crowns of flowers and give them to you when it’s done.”

Her head hit the table with an audible thunk. “Couldn’t we have come to this conclusion at least an hour and a half ago, Cole?”

“Maybe,” he said. He tilted his head to the side. “But you weren’t ready then. You are now. Don’t worry, Solas burns, too. Heated, hot, heavy hands on his—”

Squeaking, she flailed, shushing him. “That’s private, Cole!”

“But he thinks it so loud.” Cole blinked at her with those huge eyes of his. “So do you. You think about him pushing, pressing, pinning. Holding you down and—”

She sputtered, pressing her face into her hands. “Private,” she groaned. When her face stopped flaming, she lowered her hands. “Let’s do it, then. You lead him away. Do the flower thing. And I…”

“Will have and be had,” Cole supplied.

“Yes, that,” she agreed.

So Cole left, and she watched him go to the stables. She watched him lead Hanal’ghilan to the gates. She watched him lead the unicorn out. And then she ran for Solas.

He was pouring over some book she was sure was very interesting, but it couldn’t be more interesting than him bending her over something and—well. She really didn’t know where to go from there, she’d just heard Dorian talk about being bent over things. Presumably, it worked the same way as everything else, but she just didn’t know.

“Hahren,” she said breathlessly, stumbling to a halt just in front of him.

He looked up at her with interest, but not interest.

“Forgive me, but I—”

“Cole took Hanal’ghilan out of Skyhold,” she said, and there was the interest she was looking for. She held out her hand. “Come with me?”

Creators, it suddenly occurred to her that he might say no. That he might gently rebuff her. He had hinted, on more than one occasion, that she was too young for him, that it was inappropriate for him as her hahren to act on any feelings for her. She would strangle him, she decided, if he told her no.

He shot to his feet, taking her hand. “You deserve better than what is sure to be a quick tumble,” he said as she all but dragged him out of the rotunda and hauled him across the great hall.

Behind them, Varric called out, “Unicorn chastity belt, Inquisitor!”

“I’m going to stick you on a spit and roast you, Varric,” she shouted back just before she pushed open her door.

She and Solas tumbled through the door and scrambled as quickly as possible around the tower to the actual door to her room. Then they were through it, and his hands were in her hair, dragging her mouth to his as he pressed her against the side of the stairwell and kissed her. Creators, it was a kiss. His nails scraped against her scalp as his tongue swept into her mouth. It was real and visceral and it flooded her with heat.

“Bed,” he said against her mouth, and he started to draw away.

“The wall is fine,” she protested, pulling him back.

His teeth found her lip, biting and tugging, and she whimpered softly before pressing another hot kiss to his mouth. “Not for your first time,” he said.

“Solas, you could fuck me in the dirt in the woods, and it would be fine,” she snapped, thrusting her hand into his breeches to find him achingly hard.

He swore, cleverly and creatively in Elvish, as she closed her fist around him and stroked. Creators, he was big. She’d stroked boys in her clan until they spilled in her hand, but they were boys and Solas was a man, and the idea of having this part of him inside of her was turning her brain to goo. Her smalls were a mess. She was a mess.

“Fuck me here, hahren,” she breathed, squeezing his cock. He gasped, his breath fanning across her lips. “Up against the wall, just like this.” She rubbed her thumb over his tip, rolling her hips against his thigh.

“Vhenan,” he said, strangled.

“The more you protest, the more time you waste,” she pointed out, taking his hand and guiding it between her legs.

He hissed, pressing the heel of his palm against her clit, rubbing her through the fabric of her trousers, and her mind went blank. She rocked against him, grinding herself on him in a rhythm that practically had her soaking through the fabric. Words escaped her. All she could do was gasp and moan, mewling for more as she worked herself over his hand, hers still stroking him.

Yanking his hand back, he deftly unlaced her trousers. Pushed them down her hips. They caught on her boots, but that didn’t deter them. He stepped between her legs, and she lifted them, trapped as they were, around his hips. His fingers pressed against her wet cunt, one sliding easily into her, and he groaned. “I should do more for you,” he said.

“Fuck me,” she demanded, sliding the fingers of her free hand behind his head. She urged him closer, feigning a kiss, then went straight for his ear. Her lips closed around the delicately pointed tip and he snapped.

He tore at the laces of his breeches, knocking her hand aside in his efforts to free himself. She kept sucking him, pulling broken groans from him with every drag of her tongue along the shell of his ear. And then his cock was free of his pants, and he was pressing it into her, and she had to release his ear so she could let her head fall back against the stone.

“Yes, yes, yes,” she hissed, clawing at his shoulders as he worked himself inside her.

He murmured something in Elvish she couldn’t understand – he was always doing that, speaking far more of their language than any elvhen had a right to – and then he was all the way inside her. “Vhenan.” He sounded strangled.

She brought his lips to hers. “Doesn’t hurt,” she told him. “Shouldn’t it hurt?”

“Sometimes it does, sometimes it doesn’t,” he ground out, and she ground against him, rocking her hips over his. They both gasped at the same time.

“Lucky me,” she said on a soft exhale. “Now, won’t you shut up and fuck me?”

He did. Creators, he did. He wasn’t tender or gentle. He was demanding, taking what he wanted with brisk thrusts that had her moaning his name every time he pushed into her. One hand curved around her ass to support her, to give her more leverage, while the other worked between their bodies to stroke her clit.

That was a revelation. Having a man inside her as he played with her? She could hardly breathe for how good it felt. Some demented part of her thought it felt so good in part because it was petty revenge on an obnoxious unicorn, too.

Then she was lost to thought, drowning in the feel of him. He made her cry out, made her quiver and shake in his arms, until finally, finally, her body clenched around his cock. It was the strangest, most delightful sensation she’d ever experienced, the orgasm somehow more intense for having him inside her. She swore – something about the Dread Wolf’s balls – and Solas swore – something about Mythal’s tits – and then he was coming, too, with jerky, abbreviated thrusts and a look of ecstasy on his face.

They slumped against each other, gasping.

“Vhenan,” he began, but she cut him off with bright, wicked laughter, peppering his face with kisses.

“Finally,” she crowed, laughing, kissing him, wrapping her arms tight around his shoulders and just hugging him. “Finally, finally, finally!” She pulled back, eyes widening with delight. “You know what this means?”

“I’m damned for all eternity for despoiling you?” he asked mildly.

She knew her expression was demented from the way his brows rose slowly. “That Blighted unicorn is going to hate me now!”

An hour or so later, Hanal’ghilan came screaming into the great hall, flowers braided into his mane. He slid to a halt before the Inquisitor’s throne, where she sat idly drinking coffee. He approached slowly, his nostrils flaring, and then recoiled from her. There was, interestingly enough, no condemnation in his eyes. Just quiet acceptance. He trotted away.

“I almost feel bad,” she said, taking a noisy sip of her coffee, as Solas drifted through the great hall toward her, a predatory look in his eyes.

At her side, Varric said, “Do you really?”

“Mmm. A little. A very little.” She sighed happily. “My sex life is still like my coffee, though.”

“Bitter and black?”

She gave him a wicked smile. “Hot and steamy.”

“More than I needed to know, Inquisitor,” he said, and he fled as Solas gained the dais.

“I believe I owe you hours of leisurely lovemaking, vhenan,” he said.

She tossed back the rest of her coffee and set the mug aside. “Let’s see if you can keep up, old man.” He did. But so did she, and it was wonderful.

[a-world-in-grey]

Sunshine Never Stops (Clouds Get in the Way) au

Or another 3am idea (that I would love more if it came at a semi-decent hour) that is so unfairly cute.

@secret-engima and @swiftyue - to make up for the angst of my last post.

.

-Ardyn gets past the gate guards, wrapped in the illusion of a nameless Crownsguard. He wants to scoff at how easy it is - so much for the Lucians’ vaunted Wall.

-He walks through the celebrations. Inwardly he seethes. Oh how ignorant the masses are, praying to cruel gods and believing in false kings. It would be so simple to reach out with his power and twist. So simple to turn cheers and laughter into such deligtful screams of fear...

-He retrains himself. He is here for a purpose after all, and it wouldn’t do to give the game away before it even begins.

-From the center of Insomnia, the Citadel cuts a striking figure though the skyline. Ardyn admires the architecture, admires how it might look crushed to so many pieces...

-Hmm, perhaps he will spare the Citadel. It would be a shame to see such a beautiful structure laid to waste. Far better to keep it as a trophy, a symbol of all his brother’s power come to nothing.

-Yes, Ardyn likes that idea much better.

-But the sight of the Citadel, of the Royal family’s seat of power gives Ardyn an spark of inspiration, and he changes his itinerary on the spot.

-He has a job to do, but that doesn’t mean he can’t have a bit of fun first.

-And it would be so rude to visit without saying hello to the family.

.

-Once past security, ‘Mars Sapientia’ is ushered off to meet with the Marshal. Ardyn lets the illusion split from him, ‘Mars’ following his superiors while Ardyn strolls through the grounds without anyone paying him a second glance.

-Truly. Ardyn may have to adjust his estimation of the Crownsguard at this rate. And the young Immortal (ha!) Leonis was rumored to be the newest Marshal. Pity, Ardyn had such high expectations for the boy.

-Not just anyone could cut off Gilgamesh’s arm.

-“What are you doing?”

-Ardyn blinks. There is a child glaring up at him, though the baby fat rounding her face turns what is no doubt intended to be a fearsome glare into a frankly adorable pout.

-Red hair and blue eyes. Ah, this must be his newest niece.

-And a delightful opportunity.

-“I am enjoying the gardens, dear Princess.” He says, one hand removing his hat with a flourish as he bows. He wraps his power about the both of them, hiding them from anyone who might come looking.

-The Princess is decidedly unimpressed with him, judging by her scowl. She points to a nearby stone bench. “Sit.” She orders.

-Ardyn carefully does not snicker. He doubts his niece would appreciate it, and he can always rile her up later. “I appreciate the concern Your Highness, but I am perfectly alright standing.”

-The bench is in the sun after all. He may have his hat, but even so direct sunlight is a touch... warm for his tastes.

-The Princess frowns. Not in frustration, curiously enough, but in thought and Ardyn can almost see the gears turning in her little head.

-Ah. No, not see. Feel. His niece’s magic (sunshine-fire-warmth, the same odd twist to it that Ardyn knows so intimately yet so weak Ardyn only now can sense it) curls freely about her, unrestrained and conveying her concern for him quite clearly.

-A spark of triumph, and his niece grabs his hand. Ardyn lets the little girl pull him further into the gardens, further into shade, without so much as a request for Ardyn to follow.

-Demanding little thing.

-Naive too. Unaware of the danger she courts, as she pulls him further away from the well trodden paths.

-Oh how easy this will be.

-They round the corner of the path, coming to a small alcove shaded by trees and hidden from view by flowering bushes. And in the center, another bench.

-“Sit.”

-Ardyn laughs. His niece is stubborn. “Of course, Your Highness.” He can afford to indulge her.

-He sits, and the Princess hoists herself up beside him. Ardyn has but a moment to recognize the tiny flare of magic, the frown of concentration and intent on her face.

-He gently catches her wrists, halting golden wreathed hands before they can touch him. “It is rude to use magic on someone without permission, Your Highness.” He says sternly, meeting her gaze and trying to impress upon her just how serious he is. Honestly, has no one taught her this yet? He’s shocked she hasn’t hurt herself yet!

-This time the Princess does pout. But she drops her hands when he releases her, magic curling about in shame. Ah, so she has been told. “You’re hurt. Want to help.”

-Hurt?

-His niece nods as though Ardyn has spoke the thought aloud (Ardyn did not, he knows he did not) and reaches for him. Ardyn watches wih sharp eyes but her magic doesn’t ripple, so he allows pudgy fingers to poke his chest, directly over his heart.

-“Not right.” She says from her perch in his lap. “Cold. Everywhere, but worse here,” a second tap to his heart, and then she pokes his forehead, “and here.”

-Ardyn... is shocked as his niece sits back and glares at his chest, as though she can scare the problem into submission. (Perhaps when she is older, her glare will inspire fear. For now, it only inspires the desire to pinch her cheeks.)

-How interesting. His niece can apparently sense the Starscourge.

-His heart skips a beat. His niece tried to heal the Starscourge.

-Has she no survival instinct?!

-Ardyn wraps his arms around her and pulls her close, settling his chin atop her red hair (so like his) and breathing deep to settle the flare of panic seizing his chest. “Promise me you won’t try to heal this again, Little Sun,” he murmurs, “it’s very dangerous and it’ll make you very sick.”

-Small hands tighten on his shirt. “But you’re sick.”

-That isn’t a promise. “I am. I’ve been sick for a very long time. Promise me, Little Sun.”

-Sola leans back to glare at him. “Why haven’t the doctors helped!” She demands, righteous rage and indignation searing through her magic.

-Ardyn chuckles. “It’s not something that can be healed, Little Sun.”

-“Have they tried?”

-Ardyn opens his mouth - of course he tried, thousands he tried to save only to damn himself - and pauses.

-Has anyone in this day and age tried to cure the Starscourge?

-Ardyn... doesn’t know.

-“I’m going to find a cure.” Sola declares (and Ardyn knows he didn’t speak that aloud either- can his niece sense his emotions?). She looks up at him, blue eyes blazing with magic-will-promise, “And then I’ll heal you.”

-A beat. Then, “Please?”

-And Ardyn is so tempted to say yes, to accept the oath offered.

-But Sola’s magic is barely a fraction of what Ardyn’s was. He’ll not bind her to an oath she has no hope of keeping.

-“You care so much for someone you do not know, Little Sun.” He says instead.

-His niece frowns at him, geniunely puzzled. “You’re family.” She says. “Family helps each other.”

-Ardyn stills. “Little Sun,” he asks carefully, “how do you know that?”

-In every memory, only the Founder King was remembered by history. Nothing of Ardyn, not the Healer or the Adagium, so how does a toddler know what only Besithia had discovered after decades plundering royal tombs-

-Hands touch his face. “Look like me.” She says, and Ardyn can pick out the faint similarities beyond their coloring, “Feel like me.”

-“That does not mean I am not dangerous, Little Sun.” Ardyn warns, and he lets the illusion over his face fall. “That doesn’t mean I’m not a monster.”

-Face to face with the Starscourge, with a sight many have fled from in terror-

-Sola blinks. Prods his cheek. “Creepy.” She declares with a grin. Then the grin disappears for another glare. “Not a monster. Sick.”

-Arydn... doesn’t know how to respond. What can he say to such simple, fierce conviction?

-“You’re Uncle.” Sola says. “Trust you.”

-She does. She really does, and when was the last time anyone trusted him so intimately?

-“Come with me.” Ardyn says. “Let me teach you to heal, so one day you can keep your promise.”

-This will be his revenge. His niece will be his Heir, not Somnus’s.

-And as Sola’s face brightens with all the sunshine in the world, Ardyn vows he will not let the darkness in his veins take her light like it did his.

[dragonswithjetpacks]

Short chapter! I forgot to throw it up here. Will probably do another chapter today. Maybe two. The editing is going pretty fast since I had worked on this already months ago.

Beautiful War

-dragonswithjetpacks

Summary: Dame Claira Trevelyan is known to be a stubborn and off-putting woman. She was always told she never amounted to anything, that she was never pretty or graceful enough to marry. She believed that for the longest time. But her strength and her compassion managed to catch the eye of someone beyond her what she imagined possible. A man just as stubborn and oblivious to how his feelings for his leader are more than just respect. 

Chapter Five: The Stuff of Nightmares

Previous Chapters: 1 | 2 | 3 | 4 (Ao3)

Read here on Ao3.

"Are you sure you're ready to leave, my Lady?"

"I'm never ready for anything anymore, Harding," Claira shouted through the rain. "But I have to report back to Haven.

"Fair enough," she shouted back.

"Let's begin the debriefing, then," Corporal Vale decreed.

The wind was blowing mercilessly, making it very difficult to hear one another inside the meeting point. It was a small hut within the Crossroads. Many of the other buildings there were damaged but it remained one of the few left still standing strong. It was home to one of the villagers who didn't mind standing by while the Inquisition made use of it. Claira withdrew her papers from a satchel at her side. She didn't need to read from them, as she was aware of what the reports mentioned. After all, she was the one who wrote them. She rolled them up neatly, tying them with a red ribbon before slipping them into a wooden tube.

"The Hinterlands remain an unsafe area for further Inquisition occupation," she began with the agreement of the others surrounding her. "During my time here, I have managed to acquire supplies for refugees as well as fellow agents. A cult in the southeast, posing as no threat, has agreed to take in others and aid the camps nearby. A bandit camp to the southwest was also been eliminated, providing more shelter and supplies to the camps."

"We have made no advancements toward the thieve's fortress or the cult castle," Vale reminded Claira. "It's still a bit unsafe. Our troops have made contact, but are assessing the situation further."

"As they should," Claira proclaimed. "Reach out to Scout Harding if you run into trouble. She should be able to provide support. Furthermore, I've been unable to reach Dennet at this time. The conflict between the mages and templars has prevented any sort of contact to and from the northern Hinterlands. We will have to resolve that issue upon return. I would like to follow Mother Giselle back to Haven to ensure her safety."

"With the rogue templars watching the main routes, I think this is our best option," Cassandra thought aloud.

"We've all read and signed the reports, yes?" Claira looked at her peers.

They all nodded.

"Corporal Vale, if there is anything you need-"

"I know where to find you," he assured her.

"Very good. Then we'll take our leave. Harding, would you mind sending this for me?"

"Of course," Harding took the scroll from the Herald's hands.

"Luck be with you, Lady Herald," Corporal Vale brought his fist to his chest.

**********************************************

The entire journey back, Claira thought about how nice it would be to fall into her bed. How warm the bath would feel. How good the food would taste. Unfortunately, Haven had other plans. After bidding farewell to Varric and Solas at the tavern, Claira walked up the stairs toward the Chantry with the intent to deliver research information. She was eager to see the Chantry Sisters chattering with excitement as she arrived. Only it wasn't the usual welcoming party she had expected. Instead, she was greeted by a rather large crowd that had no intention of acknowledging her at all.

"Your kind killed the most holy!" a templar shouted angrily.

"Lies!" a mage retaliated. "Your kind let her die!"

Remaining amid the common people, Claira began to assess the situation. The people around her murmured words across one another in hushed whispers. They would not dare to get involved. She listened closely but could not make out the details of what had gone wrong. Deciding she could assist with a better view, she brushed shoulders with the crowd. If need be, she would intervene.

"Shut your mouth, mage," the templar drew his sword.

With her hand gripping the hilt of her own sword, she stepped forward. But she was not nearly as quick as she needed to be.

"Enough!"

The voice came from absolutely nowhere. He would have been easy to pick out among the others, but she had not spotted him. And he threw himself between them, right in front of both a sharpened sword and glowing staff. His risen arms were a warning that they should remain the distance between his fingertips, although his stare was enough to keep them at bay.

"Knight-Captain," the templar stepped back first, sheathing his sword instantly.

"That is not my title," Cullen said with a glare colder than the ground they were standing on. "We are not templars any longer. We are all part of the Inquisition."

"And what does that mean, exactly?" an antagonizing voice appeared.

Claira lowered her brow as she felt the irritation growing under her skin the moment he strode in front of the Commander. She wanted to attempt to get closer but did not want to draw attention to herself. There was no doubt she would be harassed and she was his favorite target.

"Back already, Chancellor?" Cullen sneered, and it made her grin. "Haven't you done enough?"

"I'm curious, Commander," he said stepping closer. "As to how your Inquisition and its Herald will restore order as you've promised."

"Of course you are," Cullen growled in response. It almost sounded as if he was being defensive about her. But she would not take it to heart.

"Back to your duties," he said, turning away from the Chancellor. "All of you!"

The crowd began to thin, but she remained, pushing past them to see them clearly. In times like these, Claira was never permitted to speak. She was too blunt and often said the wrong things. Though, the more time she spent with the Inquisition, the more she realized that being straightforward wasn't always a bad thing.

"Mages and templars were already at war. Now they're blaming each other for the Divine's death," Cullen went on.

"Which is why we require a proper authority to guide them back to order."

"Who? You?" she saw Cullen's brow raise. "Random clerics, who weren't important enough to be at the Conclave?"

Claria recognized the sharp blade of his tongue. Only this time, it was turned toward the Chancellor. Between the humility of the fool and Cullen's mocking tone, she was taken over by the adrenaline of watching vicariously and decided now was a good time to catch forward. Cullen had caught sight of her and nodded slightly in somewhat of relief of her being there.

"The rebel Inquisition and its so-called 'Herald of Andraste'? I think not."

Either he didn't know Claira was standing nearby or he didn't care.

"Don't be so disagreeable, Roderick," she chimed in, making him roll his eyes at the sound of her voice. "The Inquisition seems as functional as any young family."

"How many families are on the verge of splitting into open warfare with themselves?"

"Yes," Cullen sarcastically snickered. "Because that would never happen to the Chantry."

Claira bit her bottom lip in an attempt to remain serious on the matter. But between the Chancellor's scowled face and Cullen's smirk, it proved to be quite difficult.

"Centuries of tradition will guide us. We are not an upstart eager to turn over every apple cart."

"Yet here you are," Claira grumbled. "Do we know how widespread the violence is between mages and templars?"

"Impossible to say as of yet," the Commander replied.

"...organization floating the Chantry's authority will not help matters," Roderick kept babbling. But they were not interested in what he had to say as they continued to commute with each other.

"With the Conclave destroyed, I imagine the war between mages and templars is renewed... with interest," he went on.

"As we have witnessed today... The mages and templars are fighting... even though we don't really know what happened at the Temple of Sacred Ashes?" she asked her Commander.

"Exactly why all this should be left to a new Divine," Roderick clasped his hands together at his waist. "If you are innocent, the Chantry will establish it as so."

"Or will be happy to use someone as a scapegoat," Cullen snapped.

"You think nobody cares about the truth? We all grieve Justinia's loss," he spat.

"But you won't grieve if the Herald of Andraste is conveniently swept under a carpet."

Claira could not decide if she was more surprised by the fact that she was still being blamed for the Conclave or that Cullen confirmed he was defending her. With the way they had fought before she left, she had assumed things between them would be awkward for a time. Their exchange of apologies must have truly made a difference, as Cullen was proving to be quite passionate about keeping the Herald from Chantry hands

"Remind me why you are allowing the Chancellor to stay, Commander?" her eyes drifted over to Cullen's face, tireless of the Chancellor's rambling as well.

"Clearly, your templar knows where to draw the line," Roderick's words were meant to be bold, but no one took him seriously.

"He's toothless," Cullen stated, unaffected by the man. "There's no point in turning him into a martyr simply because he runs at the mouth. The Chancellor's a good indicator of what to expect in Val Reoux, however."

"Well, let's hope we find a solution there and not a cathedral full of Chancellors," she turned to sarcasm as her savior, as always.

"The stuff of nightmares," he grinned in return.

"Mock if you will," Roderick was appeared offended. "I'm sure the Maker is less..."

But she did not catch the entirety of what he said. She was too busy attempting to stifle her laughter as Cullen directed a humoring brow-raising expression followed by a dramatic eye roll. It would be far too obvious to bring a hand to her mouth. So instead, she continued to bite her lip and looked at her feet. The Chancellor's chatter did not cease but continued until it faded to the minimum. Claira turned Cullen.

"I didn't realize I was gone long enough for the Chantry to prepare a protest," she teased. "I will be gone to Orlais much longer."

"The walls should still be standing when you return... I hope," he shrugged with a teasing glance.

"Chancellor Roderick came to speak with me..." Josephine scolded, tapping her pen against her clipboard as Cullen entered the room. "Could you try not to antagonize him?"

It was unfair the attention was drawn directly toward him the moment he entered the room. He paused to look at them but was altogether completely unphased. Claira caught a glimpse of his gaze before he quickly looked away. It must have been much easier for him to hide his grin than it was for her. She resorted to taking a rather large bite from the apple in her hand lest she showed him just how interested she was in his display of sarcasm.

"If I offend the man so easily, perhaps he should try leaving me alone," he suggested as he took his place.

"Cullen..." Josephine sighed.

"In his defense," Claria swallowed what was left, "Roderick came out of nowhere during an altercation. I just happened to arrive at the same time."

"You are not helping," Josephine leaned forward to point her quill at her. "I'm not going to stand here and chide you both like children for making faces behind the Chancellor's back."

"I wasn't the one making faces," Claira grumbled quietly.

Josephine had her fill of mothering for the day. She turned to Cassandra and Leliana for support, but they were doing their best to hide their laughter as well.

"You two should know better," she shook her head at the Hands. "I'm done trying to get any of you to act mature when speaking to this man."

"Perhaps Cullen is right," Leliana stated calmly. "He should likely try his best not to bother us if he does not want to be further upset."

[ellstersmash]

Three: Fifteen

Fandom: Dragon Age

Pairing: Solas x f!Lavellan (Modern!AU)

Rating: overall E for Explicit | this chapter T for Teen

|Previous Chapter| |Next Chapter| |Read on AO3|

--

    [  Results were inconclusive. Again. Any last-minute suggestions?  ]

Athi reads the message from Solas, then reads it again. Is ready to send back [???] but her phone buzzes again before she has the chance.

    [  Apologies. That was not intended for you.   ]

She smirks—

no shit

—deletes her question, taps out a response.

    [  :* i miss u too   ]

    [  oop sry. wrong #   ]

    [  Ha Ha.   ]

    [  sry bout ur results :(   ]

    [  Thank you. What are you doing today?  ]

“That Solas?” Sera says, not bothering to look up from her unbroken line of yellow glitter glue. “Tell him to suck it.”

    [  arts n crafts   ]

Athi snaps a quick picture of the mess they’ve made in their living room and sends it to him.

    [  sera says suck it   ]

    [  Of course she does.  ]

“He says hi.”

Sera gags dramatically. “Thought you wanted to help with all this, not flirt with your boyfriend.”

A snotty retort itches behind Athi’s teeth but she stifles it. Rolls her eyes instead and tosses her phone aside, the device bouncing once to rest face-down on the sofa cushion. She picks up a thick black marker with pungent permanent ink, and gets back to work filling in the block letters Sera lined earlier.

Her boyfriend. Gods, but that sounds strange. Childish. Like they go on dates behind the primary school, or pretend not to be having sex in the room down the hall from someone's parents’. And yet she finds herself giddy at the thought. To be fair, it’s all she has for the moment. The thought. He's off on some adventure, and she's stuck here. Again. They'd only had that one perfect day, breakfast and window shopping and holding hands like real life lovers under trees full of dry rainbow leaves fluttering their applause. And then he took a phone call and went home to pack and left first thing in the morning.

She wonders just how often this happens.

How important could it be? Not like a bunch of ancient artifacts are going to up and wander off if he can’t go poke at them right away. A mental note to ask him later, and she moves this poster to the pile of finished ones and exchanges it for another that says “YOUR VILLAGE —> OUR CITY.” Cute, though maybe a smidge too reliant on humans knowing their history.

“Sure you don’t want to come?” Sera asks.

“That’s not—” Athi sighs. “I told you, I have work.”

“Yeah, but isn’t this more important?”

“I don’t know. Do you want rent paid?”

Sera quiets, kicking her legs back and forth as she works. Her glue bottle sputters, spits shimmer all over. A frustrated grunt and she tosses it aside, rolls onto her back.

“I’m just saying you should care is all. ‘S not going to get any better if nobody makes noise, and nobody’s making it for us.”

“Us?" Athi scoffs. "When we met, you said—and I quote—‘So glad you’re not one of those elfy elves.’”

“Yeah, well, therapy’s all right. Besides, it’s not for elves, or not just. It’s for whoever gets stepped on. That means us.”

“I didn’t know you were in therapy.” 

“Maybe I don’t tell you everything," Sera mutters. “Thought of that?”

Athi caps her marker and lays it down. It’s just a feeling, but it's nagging. Persistent. Like and yet unlike the one she still gets when her papae calls her by her full name. Isalathena Sulahnera Lavellan, come here this instant, and it’s heavy on her chest, sitting right on top of her breastbone. Guilty, but she's not.

“What’s wrong?” she asks. Throws it out there before the feeling gets stale and she decides it's something she can live with.

“Nothing.”

“Right, ok, except for it’s not, so come on. Let's get it out and over with.”

Sera sits up, blonde hair sticking out in a couple new directions. “What’s your problem?”

“You! You’ve been acting weird all week, Ser. Haven’t come in for lunch or been home at night, responded to texts—”

“If you think I want to be in the next room while you and—”

“Oh, so you have a problem with Solas? That was one—”

“No!” Sera groans in frustration. “I mean, yeah, he is kind of old, and talks about old stuff a lot, and he’s all”—she straightens her spine into an uncomfortable posture, then slouches again—“but I like him well enough.”

"Then what?"

Sera stares at her hands for a while. Then out the window. Then at the wall. Then back at her hands. Athi’s patience is thin on a good day, and it takes a lot of willpower to keep quiet as Sera opens her mouth and closes it again, false start after false start.

Finally, Sera blurts out: “I want to ask Dagna to move in.”

Athi has no idea what she was expecting, but not that. Searching for some way to relate it to her own behavior, to justify her feeling or shove it aside, she takes so long to form a response that Sera begins to fidget.

“You what?” she asks at last, thoroughly stumped.

“I want to ask Dagna—”

“Yeah, I…” Athi tries to catch up, shuffles through the past month as best as she can in the pause between. “Here?”

Sera squints at her like she's stupid, but that's fair. It was a stupid thing to say. 

“No, my mother's. Yes here!” 

“I’m sorry, I didn't realize you two were dating again. What’s it been, a year since you broke up?” 

“Yeah. You were out at your friend’s place. Better you missed the makeup sex, though, yeah? More room for fun.” 

At first Sera’s cheeky grin has Athi smiling too. It’s a relief to talk about someone else’s shit instead of her own, but then Sera glances toward the couch and—

Oh.

Oh gods, she wouldn’t have . . . would she?

Athi gets up for a glass of water, makes it two at Sera’s request. Sits cross-legged on the coffee table when she comes back. Just to be safe.

“Isn’t it a bit fast?” she asks.

“Maybe. Doesn’t feel fast, though. If you add 'em all up it's been like, a few years or something, so it sort of works out to normal. If you think about it.”

“I guess.”

Sera empties her glass in one go. “Her lease is up next month,” she says.

Athi nods. “Right. So soon, then. Um… and if it doesn’t work out?” She leaves out the again, but it’s implied.

“But that’s why I should do it! See, I keep losing her because I’m not in. She was serious about us, but I kept messing around. Don’t even know why, really.” She looks on the edge of losing her momentum, halfway to introspection, then snaps back into the room. “But therapy! So this time, like Wicked Grace, right? I’m all in and she’ll see I mean it. And then it’ll work out.”

Her logic isn’t quite flawed but it’s far from perfect. Still, friends don't tell friends to be afraid. Especially when those friends have clearly put a lot of thought into their dynamic-altering life-changing decisions. So Athi drops the questions.

“Wow,” she says instead. “I didn’t know you felt that way about her.”

Sera shifts into soft focus and smiles, a faraway look in her eyes. “Me either.”

She seems so certain. Satisfied, and happy. Really, truly happy. And it’s kind of fucking beautiful.

Feeling overcome for no good reason, Athi goes back to her task. Long thick careful black lines, then short ones. She marks a pattern with them to make it less work and more play. Not that anyone will see unless they’re trying. And as she makes the spaces solid, a thought occurs to her.

“So,” she says, bright. Like it’s no big deal. “Do you want me to move out?”

“What? No! Course not. Why would you say that?”

There’s no time to answer. After so much silence, Sera bubbles over with unused conversation. 

“I mean, do you want to move out? You’re not moving in with Solas are you? Gross. Definitely too fast for that one. Bet he wants to get married first, in a chantry and everything. Is he Andrastian, do you know? Where is he, anyway? He travels a lot for work, right? Must be nice. Wonder if his job pays for it. Is he gone now?”

Too many questions, so Athi answers the last one.

“Yeah. Flies in late tonight. He’s picking me up after work.”

Sera snorts. “What, picking you up? So you wouldn’t get up to take him in, huh? Good girl. Stay strong. Trust me, you drive him once and you're in for forever.”

“No, he didn’t even ask. Figured he’d take a cab or something, but I guess he drove himself.”

“And paid for parking? What’s he, loaded?”

Athi grins and crosses her fingers.

“Real nice. I’m serious, Ath, that’s some weird psychopath shit. Nobody drives their own self to the airport. No one who has friends, anyway.”

"I think he's just used to being alone.”

“Way to make it sad.”

"Alone doesn't mean sad."

"It kind of is though. But then, he’s got people, right? Like Varric, and, well... I don’t know. People.”

Athi shrugs. “Habits can be hard to break, especially when you’re not trying.”

“Ooh. Very wise today."

"Shut up."

"I mean it!"

She doesn’t tell Sera about the other things. The books covering all his furniture. The busted bathroom door that he removed rather than replaced. The singular coaster on his side table. The way he forgets to be hospitable, then overcorrects, asks her if she needs anything three times in a row. His house, his life, is not prepared for the presence of others. Not meant to host company or take in strays or accommodate a lover, meant for him and his needs and his convenience and no more.

And she’s honestly not sure if that makes her an exception or an intruder.

--

“Woah.”

The door slams shut behind her. Very nearly catches her in the ass but she happened to freeze just beyond its reach.

The place is gutted. Or maybe it's not? Ceiling and walls are fine and nothing she can place is missing, tables and chairs and bottles of booze all present and accounted for, but it looks fucking empty. And clean, though she can’t tell if that’s real or just the lack of tasteless decor.

“I know, right?” Tali dumps a bucket of ice in the bin with the rest. “It was like this when I showed up today.”

Athi drifts in slow, perturbed by the smell of cleaning solution and the lack of clutter. Hangs her purse on the coat rack just inside the office, her jacket on top of that. Pulls her hair back, ties her apron, washes her hands.

“Were we robbed?” she asks, only half joking.

“Technically, that would be a burglary.”

“Were we burglarized?”

“You know,” Tali says, “If someone broke in just to take those awful knick-knacks and creepy pictures Seggrit had up, I say more power to ‘em. Enjoy your ghosts, thief!"

Athi giggles. “Worst was the cabin.”

“Are you kidding? I couldn’t even look at that family one. The kid’s vacant stare, blessed Andraste, I wanted to flip it around every time I walked in that door. And you know that cat had seen things. I mean, did Seggrit know them? Why were they on our wall?”

"Somebody had to keep an eye on us."

"And make sure we weren't flirting with tall handsome customers in the back alley?" Tali grins, tongue stuck out between her teeth.

"Why? You make that a habit too?"

Tali wrings out and refolds her bar towel. “Ok, sweetie. Keep your secrets. I'll get my details one day."

"Anyway." Athi gestures at the naked walls. "Change!"

"Right. It was Seggie for sure. He was here when I came in. Must have dealt with all that crap this morning, though I couldn't say what he did with all of it. Or why. Oh! And he left that.”

Tali reaches back and raps a knuckle on the fridge where a sheet of paper hangs. Athi slides it out from under the magnet. Scans its contents. Flips it writing-side-out toward Tali.

“The fuck is this?”

“A cleaning list.”

“I can see that. Seggrit made it?”

“Either that or your writer pal is moving in for real.”

“And that’s not strange to you? That he cares?”

Tali shrugs one shoulder. “Maybe he’s decided to rejuvenate this place. You know? Spruce it up, invest a little time, maybe hire some better bartenders.”

“Hey, don't sell yourself short."

"Bold of you to assume I meant myself."

“This is weird, though. Right?" She reads off the paper. "Sweep out back? Deep-clean the office? Dust the brick wall? Tali, most of these have nothing to do with anything. Where are the temp checks? Or the fucking tap lines? Or, you know, any of the shit we should actually be doing?"

“Beats me, babe. I'm just glad he's getting involved. You should’ve seen him whirling around here earlier. Something seems to have lit a fire under his rear-end.”

Another feeling, but she can't place this one. It all fits together somehow, or should. The list and the bare walls and the lack of fire hazards. Chewing on the puzzle, Athi picks a task at random, takes a spray bottle and a coffee filter to the windows. Even free of five years’ grime and in full sun, they don’t illuminate much. But that’s all right. The list says clean, and they are definitely that.

[askdragonagecompanions]

👀👀 dai romances finding out that the Inquisitor is a vampire...?

Dorian: Dorian first finds out after quite the harrowing battle. No one in the party had walked away unscathed. What truly worried Dorian was that the Inquisitor wouldn’t let any of the healers check his wounds. He just walked away from the battle and kept his nose and mouth covered. He had noticed plenty of odd behavior from the Inquisitor since he joined, even more since he and the Inquisitor started to spend more time together. Honestly? Dorian was just worried about the man. He’d seen the injury when the Inquisitor got it, stabbed right through by one of the Red Templars. Dorian doesn’t know why the Inquisitor won’t let any of the healers help him, but maybe his Amatus will at least let him take a look. When he gets to the Inquisitor’s room he hears things being tossed around and he immediately rushes in thinking that the Inquisitor is being attacked or robbed, or something. What he finds is the Inquisitor rummaging through his room, tossing things aside, clearly looking for something. He’s shirtless, and that’s when Dorian sees it. His side is completely fine, not even a scratch left. Healing magic would have made a scar, but the Inquisitor’s side looks like he wasn’t even touched in battle. Dorian and the Inquisitor look up at each other at the same time. Dorian sees the Inquisitor’s now black eyes and the long fangs in his mouth. For a moment his heart races. He’s heard tale of vampires, but he thought they were all fictional. Sure there were some in Tevinter who insisted Vampires were still out there... Maker it was breathtaking. In hindsight maybe Dorian should have been more scared, but all he could see was the dawning horror on his Amatus’s face having realized that Dorian knew what he truly was. Dorian steps towards him slowly. The Inquisitor makes his vampiric features recede and he looks away. Dorian hugs him from behind and sighs softly, “I’m... guessing you misplaced a vial of blood?” His voice is free of judgement. When the Inquisitor nods Dorian kisses his neck. “And I’m also going to assume you haven’t fed in a while, which was why you avoided the healers and us all day?” Another nod. “Well. I suppose, since we don’t want you losing control I can let you take some of mine.” He murmurs. “And don’t worry Amatus, the only thing this changes is that you’ll have to promise to be extra careful when leaving hickeys alright?” And there’s the smile Dorian’s been waiting for. Honestly with ancient Magisters turned Darkspawn and giant tears in the Fade? His Amatus being a vampire isn’t all that strange or terrifying. The Inquisitor has never hurt him, and so Dorian doesn’t fear that he will. He only worries that the Inquisitor isn’t taking proper care of himself. After battles Dorian distracts the other party members so that his amatus can collect blood from the fallen. He also starts asking questions, because he thought vampires would turn to dust in the sunlight. He’s fascinated by what the Inquisitor tells him.

Solas: Solas has known a few vampires in his time. Some are just as bloodthirsty as the tales say they are (but those vampires tend to have been just as bloodthirsty before they were turned), and most were just trying to adjust to their new life style. When Solas woke up he had been under the impression that vampires had all died out over the centuries. It was sad, but with how fearful humans were it wasn’t a surprise that they would have hunted the creatures down. So, when Solas starts to see evidence of a vampire in the midst of the Inquisition he’s quite surprised. It’s just small things, the apothecary starts running low on plants and herbs that Solas knows can be made into an effective salve to keep the sun from turning a vampire into ash. Some people begin to complain about little cuts that appeared out of nowhere. He would have investigated more but things began to grow increasingly stressful. It was on the journey to Skyhold that Solas began to suspect the Inquisitor might be the Vampire he had been noticing about. The longer they traveled the more anxious she seemed to become. She would start dawning more layers, though this could be explained by the cold air of the mountain, but she also looked a little gaunt. He could only assume that the blood she had stored was dwindling and that she was trying to ration it, if she was a vampire of course. It wouldn’t do anyone good if the Inquisitor went into a blood frenzy, so Solas prepared a vial of his own blood. He knew it would be potent enough to keep any vampire satiated for the rest of the journey, and he left it somewhere inconspicuous. A vampire would find it sure enough. Solas watched from a distance and when he saw that the Inquisitor was the one to pick it up it only confirmed his suspicions. His opinion of her didn’t change, in fact he was impressed that she was keeping it hidden so well. What Solas didn’t expect was to fall for the Inquisitor. She had such a brilliant mind, and she was so open to ideas about the Fade and spirits. Solas had been so blindsided that he fell in love before he could steel off his heart. One night they are together the Inquisitor seems more nervous than usual. When she finally speaks up she tells him that she’s a vampire and she starts to ramble but Solas just laughs gently and kisses her. “Ma Vhenan, I already knew.” His voice is soft as he cups her cheek. She looks shocked before replying, “You did? Why didn’t you say anything?” “It simply wasn’t my place, and clearly you were only taking what you needed. What you are doesn’t define you.”

Sera: Okay the only stories Sera knows about vampires is that they’re blood sucking demons who kill their victims by biting into their necks and drinking all the blood. Great for scary stories not for real life. She finds out because the Inquisitor tells her. They had just started getting serious and Sera was really excited, she really liked the Inquisitor. She really felt like she could trust her with everything and that Inky would always have her back. So when the Inquisitor told Sera that she was a vampire, Sera thought she was joking at first. That’s when the Inquisitor showed her the fangs and how her eyes went all creepy and black. Sera... did not handle it well at first. She kind of freaked out because 1. vampires were friggin real and that was really fucking scary and 2. Her inky was one of them? Inky left that night, she looked really sad and Sera felt really guilty. She hadn’t meant to make Inky feel bad, she was just... scared. It took Sera a few weeks to really accept it. Inky only hurt bad people, and she never bit anyone in Skyhold... there weren’t any bloodless bodies being discovered. And Sera was only feeling worse. Inky was giving her space, and the more Sera waited the more she wanted to hang out with Inky again. She really did love the Inquisitor, and as long as she wasn’t going to get all bitey and monstery Sera was pretty sure she could handle it. They talked about it together for a while and finally Sera hugged Inky close because, “I’m sorry... I acted like an ass... I just... i only heard about scary vampires, but... you’re not scary. Not really. You can be, but you’re also bloody amazing and you’re sweet, and you know how to make me feel... really nice and stuff. I’m sorry.” Sera is OK with the fact that Inky’s a vampire, as long as she isn’t hurting enemies and doesn’t drink blood around Sera it should be fine. Sera’s still a little nervous, but she trusts Inky.

Blackwall: Blackwall’s honestly just stumped. He finds out that the Inquisitor is a werewolf after she gets seriously hurt during a fight. He sends the others to go get a healer or something while he stays with the Inquisitor and tries to keep pressure on her wound. What stumps him is that the wound starts closing underneath his hands all on his own. He’s not a mage, and even so a spell wouldn’t work that fast or that clean. The Inquisitor tells him to grab the red vial from her pack and he does. The liquid inside looks suspiciously like blood and she quickly drinks it down. In a matter of seconds she begins to look better and within a few minutes she’s back to normal. Blackwall raised a brow and the Inquisitor sighed and quickly began to explain how she was a vampire, how she only took blood from the enemies they killed in battle, and how she hoped this wouldnt’ change anything about how Blackwall felt about her. Blackwall just gave her a smile and then kissed her, “Inquisitor after everything that’s happened you being a vampire is like the least crazy thing that’s happened alright? You still love me after finding out who I truly am, and honestly this doesn’t change how I feel.” He promises. As long as the blood is in a vial it doesn’t bother Blackwall. He does ask a few questions and while they travel he picks up herbs he knows that can be used to make the salve that will keep her safe from the sun. He also makes sure to remind her, in private of course, to pack enough blood vials if they’re going on a long journey. It’s actually the Inquisitor who’s so surprised that Blackwall’s taking the news so well. 

Iron Bull: He’s had a few run ins with vampires. Nasty creatures if they’ve gone feral from hunger. Honestly Bull’s not one to judge. He figures out that the Inquisitor is a vampire shortly after meeting them. The eyes, the teeth that just look a tad too sharp, on top of the way they always look so nervous when they’re traveling during the day are a dead give away to him. What he does do is keep his eye out for any strange deaths of Inquisition soldiers, but none come along. He knows the Inquisitor must be getting blood from somewhere, or else they would have gone feral by now and Maker that would fucking suck. But he’s pretty sure that’s not going to happen, so he drops the topic. He’s confident that the Inquisitor has their shit under control. The more he gets to know the Inquisitor the more he likes them. They guard themself a bit, only natural, but as the two grow closer Bull finds himself... he cares about them a great deal. The feeling is only solidified after they tell him its okay to save the Chargers. They trust him, they care about how he feels and what’s important to him, and honestly it feels amazing to have someone that close that cares for him like that. He wants to make them feel the same way. Every night they spend together he makes it special. He wants them to relax, to trust him, and afterwards when its just them curled close in bed he smiles. They both know a side of each other that no one else will get to see. It was the night when his Kadan gave him the dragon tooth necklace, they were curled up against Bull’s chest and he was playing with their hair and making sure they were resting when they told him they were a vampire. No wonder they had seemed so worked up all day, they were planning two huge things to admit to Bull. He kissed their neck gently and ran his hand down their side. “I know.” His voice was gentle and he chuckled when they asked how. “Ben Hasrath remember? Besides it wasn’t my place to ask about it Kadan. You weren’t hurting anyone and you still trusted me even knowing I was still working for the Qun. And before you ask, no it doesn’t change anything. You have my heart.” And he kisses them again before smirking a little, “One question, will biting me turn me into a vampire? No? Great.” It’s all about trust really, and Bull would trust his life with the Inquisitor. There’s only a few times that the Inquisitor gets gravely injured during battle, and Bull lets them drink from him. They’re always gentle and only take what they need. He feels a lot closer to them, and he’ll fight anyone that calls his Kadan a monster. 

Cassandra: She has heard of vampires before, yes. Cursed creatures forced to drink blood and dwell in the dark shadows just to survive. She knows they are not demons, but they are dangerous. Cassandra had always been confident that if she saw a vampire she would be able to tell right away. They would have large fangs, black eyes, and unable to step into the sunlight. Besides they were also quite rare, so she never even suspected that the Inquisitor was one. His odd behavior could simply be written off as someone who was squeamish around injuries which wasn’t uncommon at all. She finds out the Inquisitor is a vampire when he tells her. They had started to grow quite close. They weren’t dating yet, but Cassandra was really starting to open up to him, and he was making it very obvious that he wanted to be with her. She was nervous. He said they needed to talk and that never really sounded like it was going to be a positive thing. She frowned when she saw how nervous the Inquisitor looked. For a moment Cassandra thought she had done something that upset him, but then he started to talk. He explained what he was, how he felt she deserved to know before they got serious or anything, and that he’d understand if him being a vampire changed anything for Cassandra. She was stunned at first. This felt like a joke, she wanted to accuse him of making this a joke, or some prank, but the way he was looking at her. He clearly believed that what he was saying to be true. As if seeming to notice she was doubting his statement he showed her his fangs. Cassandra is not proud of how she handled the news. She walked away from him without a word. She needed time to think. The Seekers taught that vampires were monsters, no humanity in them, that they would kill because they enjoyed it and because they needed the blood. She began to go through the reports of every mission, looking for any odd deaths, of corpses drained of all of their blood, but she found none. No one seemed to have been turned either... Cassandra began to realize that she may have overreacted. She still needed to time to sort out her own feelings. It become obvious to her that the Seekers had lied once again, that the Inquisitor wasn’t actually a bloodthirsty killer. He couldn’t control what he was, and he wasn’t killing people and draining them. Eventually she decides that she still has feelings for the Inquisitor and she tells him as such (it’s awkward and she’s blushing because feelings are hard to express). Their relationship has a bit of a slow start, they both need to earn each other’s trust again, but once they do Cassandra feels so stupid for how she acted when he first told her. She makes sure he has enough blood vials, and she makes sure that he always has enough salve before leaving on journeys. She would hate if he turned into ash because he didn’t bring enough.

Cullen: One would think that Cullen would be quite nervous around the Inquisitor once he finds out she’s a vampire, but honestly? It was the opposite. The Inquisitor told him about what she was on a night where he was really struggling with beating his Lyrium addiction, and he had been embarrassed that anyone saw him so vulnerable, let alone the Inquisitor, but there was no judgement in her eyes. She closed the door to his office and began to help him pick up the shattered remains of his phial before sitting next to him. His hands were shaking, so she put hers on top of his. She told him what she was to show him he wasn’t alone. She too had something similar to his addiction, and how much of a struggle it could be sometimes, but that having those feelings didn’t make her weak, or any less of a person. He’s a little surprised at first, a little nervous for just a moment, but it ebbs away. She has done nothing but help people and do her best to save Thedas. Besides shes... she understands what hes going through... kind of. Knowing what she is early on actually helps them grow closer. Cullen opens up a little more and she comforts him and helps him stay strong on the days where it feels impossible to just get out of bed. When Cullen sees the Inquisitor start to get nervous because there are too many people in the room, too much temptation he pulls her out and makes an excuse so that they can be alone, so that she can have a chance to calm down. Sometimes he worries about her, that he’s going to lose her either because someone else found out and took things into their own hands, or because she runs out of her salve... when those worries fog his mind he finds her and murmurs to her so that they can retire to his room. He just needs to hold her close and assure himself that she’s okay, that she’s safe. Whenever she’s away on missions he’s nervous and jittery, but when she comes back safe and sound he relaxes almost immediately. He knows she doesn’t need sleep, but he does appreciate that she will spend the nights with him, just holding him close. It helps keep his nightmares at bay, and she assures him she likes to watch him sleep. 

Josephine: She was very surprised when the Inquisitor told her they were a vampire. For a moment she thought it was just another prank, but they were so nervous it couldn’t be. If she had had to suspect anyone of being a vampire she would have thought Dorian to be one, granted her only knowledge of vampires was based off what she had heard in stories. It is hard for her to wrap her head around it, but in the end she knows the Inquisitor. They haven’t attacked any allies, they haven’t drained anyone of all of their blood, and they are so kind to her. Josie keeps an open mind about it all really and she asks questions just in case. She wants to be prepared if word ever gets out because it would be absolutely awful if people wanted to kill her love just because of what they were. It takes a while for her to get used to it, but once she does it’s really not a big deal to her. Josie treats it like a condition. The Inquisitor just has rare dietary restrictions, a severe allergy to the sun, and doesn’t need sleep. 

[modernagesomniari]

Fic - ‘That’s Not Quite an Answer’

Part of the Mala Suledin Nadas Series.  You can read it on AO3 here.

So this is in fact a retelling of an early romance conversation you have with Solas at Haven.  However, it also morphed with an idea I picked up from some brilliant folks on tumblr - where Solas does yoga/tai chi as exercise.  Damn those thighs....

Maturish (Eli is thirsty af bless her), ~4900 words

**************

Eli woke early, luxuriating in a proper bed after days on the road.  Especially the last few where they’d been up in the mountains.  Aravels had been cold enough in the snow, tents were significantly less insulated.  The bed in her little shack was large and covered with blankets - it may not have been as comfortable as her bed in the aravel, but she doubted the villagers of Haven were up to hunting the birds necessary to stuff their mattresses with the feathers.  The wood was cold against her bare feet as she stood, stretching, padding over to the little area screened off for morning ablutions.  She found the whole concept of a bucket for that sort of thing a bit disgusting, but Cassandra had forbidden her to go to the woods to do it, something about ‘Herald of Andraste’ and ‘propriety’.  One of the servants had brought another bucket last night with fresh water in it and she winced at the cold as she crouched and dangled one hand in it.  Closing her eyes, she allowed the heat of the flames at her fingertips to heat the frigid liquid until steam came off the top and only then did she dip the flannel left for her in the water and quickly wash herself.

She remembered Hearthmistress Ashanaya getting so excited one time when they were skirting Starkhaven because the hunters had come back with some rare herb.  The camp had stunk for three days, but at the end she had made a large quantity of soaps that they had all treasured for their scent.  The soap here felt like it was made of dandelion nectar and bitter roots, but she still felt cleaner for it afterwards.  It made her feel slightly homesick, but that was quite common at the moment.  In a way, she preferred being out on the road than in Haven - people were beginning to think she belonged here.

Varric was at the main fire when she approached him, her bare toes crunching in the snow.  He gave her a large grin and passed her some freshly fried oatcakes and honeyed tea.  At least someone was happy.  He seemed busy, though, sifting through various papers with a crease on his brow, so she kissed him lightly on the forehead and let him be.

She knew who she wanted to go and see.  Their adventures in the Hinterlands had devolved into the territory of nightmares after Redcliffe, but had been illuminating none the less.  There had been a report from one of Leliana’s agents that the scouts who had been sent to Wycome had landed safely in Kirkwall and were making their way northwards, extra Dalish mage in tow.  She hoped Mihris was behaving herself.  She and Solas had been easier with each other since then, although it helped that they had got themselves thoroughly engrossed in searching for fragments of Tyrrda’s legend.  She was beginning to enjoy his company more, to be less afraid that he would suddenly turn on her and her people whenever he was feeling cranky.  True, they avoided certain topics, but even when they had been discussing more general magical theory he had listened and debated her experiences fairly, not jumping to conclusions like he had before.

As she passed the tavern, she caught some of the servers there taking out some rubbish and smiled at them, waving.  She liked that they smiled and waved back rather than look at her fearfully - she’d been working quite hard before they’d left for the Hinterlands to ensure that they would.

“Anything special on the menu tonight?” she called out.  One of them grimaced (Tobias, she thought his name was).

“Not particularly, your worship.  Although the hunters brought some good dried meat back from near Redcliffe.”

She made a face sympathetically - dried meat may be fine on its own, but wasn’t particularly good at being used in dishes.

Hopping up the steps to where Solas did his research, she greeted a few people already waiting in line for Adan and then knocked on the door of Solas’ hut.  When there was no reply, she knocked again - it was quite early in the day, although the sun was most definitely up.  Perhaps he was engrossed in something?

“Your…your worship?”

She turned to find a young elven woman carrying a laundry basket on her hip.  The poor thing looked a bit terrified, so Eli made sure her smile was warm as she inclined her head.

“Just ‘Ellana’ is fine, if that makes you more comfortable.  What’s your name?”

The girl swallowed, eyes wide.

“Um, Jan, your wor….Ellana.”

“It’s nice to meet you, Jan.  I haven’t seen you before.”

“Oh, I came up whilst you were away, miss.  My master wanted to come and speak to the Ambassador, but then I came here and I didn’t want to leave.  Lady Leliana said I could stay if I made myself useful, that you would be happy for me to stay?”

“Of course I’m happy, Jan.  I hope you’re being treated well?”

“Oh yes,” Jan answered, warming up now Eli clearly wasn’t going to smite her with holy flame.  “And it’s good to be doing something that means something, isn’t it?  You being the Herald of Andraste and all.  I always went to Chantry on Sundays, miss.  Always.”

Eli tried not to let her smile fade.

“I’m glad you’re enjoying yourself.  Did you want something?”

“Oh!  Yes, I was wondering if you were looking for your friend?  Messere Solas?”

“I think he prefers just ‘Solas’, as well.”

“Yes, yes of course.  I just wanted to let you know that he left early this morning, went up into the woods above the Chantry?  He wasn’t carrying anything with him, though, so he can’t have gone far.”

Eli smiled at her again, thanking her for letting Eli know.  Jan beamed, blushing as she took her laundry out of the small square.  Eli wished she could rid herself of the nausea that came with people insisting on her being the Herald, wished that she could see a way to rid them of the notion.  Perhaps this was why she wanted to see Solas so much.  It didn’t take much deliberation to decide to follow him - at least she’d get a nice morning walk if she didn’t find him.

The path up into the woods was just behind the Chantry and she took a moment to bow her head at the small clearing where Ghila and Yerevan’s memorial stones were.  Then she was in the trees, the low hustle and bustle of Haven falling away until there was nothing but silence and early morning light.  The pale bark seemed almost as white as the snow that lay on the branches, these small trees quiet and waiting for spring, whatever green they possessed locked tightly up inside them against the cold.  She loved to brush her fingers gently over the rough trunks, imagining she could feel the life pent up inside.  There had been some woods in her life where she could do just that.  She wondered if Solas had ever been there, ever dreamed amongst the evergreen trunks of northern Nevarra, the gentle oaken slopes of Starkhaven, the tangled heat of southern Antivan jungle and old, old forests in places where not even the greatest of shemlen nations could claim any part of it other than a pathetic name in ink on a map.  He still hadn’t told her much about his past or his studies and she was desperate to know, excited to see how his experiences matched with hers.  She couldn’t travel the Fade like he could and so her knowledge was grounded in reality.  What had she seen that he had missed as he slept and what had he done that she never could?  What could their combined experiences tell them both?

She only came across him by accident, just as she was beginning to wonder why she couldn’t see any tracks.  Her eyes had been naturally scanning for them, but perhaps he had just taken a more winding path.  His slow movement had nevertheless been in stark enough comparison to the stillness of the woods that she’d spotted him from quite far away, but the sight once she’d worked out what she was seeing was enough to stop her in her tracks, breath catching slightly in her throat.

He was shifting through a series of movements she half recognised as part of the Vir Atish’an.  Combining many still forms and movements through those forms, it was a method of slow training that was taught to most of the Clan throughout their lives as a way to learn their own body and find peace between themselves and the world around them.  Her brother had always been awful at it being far too impatient, but Eli had come to enjoy it once she had dedicated herself to her own magical talent and future role as First.  Solas was employing forms she had never seen before, with transitions strange yet somehow achingly familiar.  He was amazing, his body moving with such fluidity and grace one moment to poised, anticipating stillness the next.  His eyes were gently shut, the sun filtering through the trees in the small clearing he’d found dappling the light over him.  In front of him was a slope down to the main valley that laid out the whole lake.

He was also, despite the snow, shirtless.  Eli came forward slowly, not wanting to disturb but frankly unable not to come closer.  He’d clearly been working for some time - there was a sheen of sweat over a chest more lean than she’d expected, faint ridges of muscle on his stomach not so defined, but enough that the early morning sunlight played over them in a way Eli found utterly mesmerising.  Gods but he was beautiful.  Her mind and body were at war with themselves - on the one hand she just wanted to continue watching him, seeing him move through the forms of their people with all the expertise of someone who’d been doing it their whole life.  On the other she felt her mouth go dry at the thought of running her tongue over that stomach, to feel the sheen of sweat against her own naked body as she pressed up against him.  She couldn’t help imagining what this tight control would mean in sex, how he would hold himself above her, move her body to where he needed it to be to make her toes curl.  Her breath came out in a stutter as she tried to calm herself - Dread Wolf take her naked in front of the Clan fire but she hadn’t quite realised just how much she wanted him.

The sound of her breath was enough and his eyes opened languidly, fixing straight on her and making her stop in her tracks.  Her hands extended in placation immediately.

“I’m sorry, Solas.  I didn’t mean to intrude.  Please, let me leave you in peace.”

He slowly placed his foot on the ground from where he had been balancing, like he could stand there on one leg through a hurricane if he wished.  He didn’t stop as he spoke, although the next series of movements she recognised as those that would bring one down from the Way, beginning to end the session.

“I was almost finished anyway.”

She greedily took that as tacit permission to stay and decided to lean up against one of the trees near him to try and relearn how to breathe.  Not that she kept her eyes off him as he went through the last of the motions.  He planted both feet solidly on the ground, raising both arms palms down at his chest to push down like he took his own soul and gave it to the earth.  As he moved through this last motion his eyes opened again from where they had closed. They looked directly at her, though he had not watched her move and there was a lazy heat in them that made her swallow.  She had taken lovers in the Clan who had been learning the Way as part of their craft and knowing precisely what sex after such a session could be like was not helping her situation in the slightest.  He would be languid and strong all in one, his senses would be heightened and his consciousness newly extended to encompass all feeling in his body.  She could have him writhing before she came close to his cock, trailing fingers over skin warmed with near sweat to raise the soft hairs at the nape of his neck, scraping the gentlest of nails over his back until he shuddered with it.

He had finished and she should probably say something.  To her credit, she used him turning away to reach for his things to clear her throat a little so she could speak with sounding like he’d half had her already.

“I recognise some of those.  Did you learn it as the Vir Atish’an or did it have another name?”

He looked back at her from taking water from his flask, his attention and obvious curiosity doing nothing to douse whatever flames had taken hold of her body this morning.  The fact that he seemed utterly uncaring of his partial nudity (something she had already tired of amongst the shemlen) did not help.  At all.

“It was part of thethe Vir Atish’an where I learned it, too.  I was not aware the Dalish still practiced it.”

“It’s different in some ways - I didn’t recognise all of the forms but the basic principals seem to be the same.  Not everyone is very good at it, so we don’t demand it of everyone, but it’s generally used as an educational tool first and then a healing tool if need be.”

“Healing?”

“Yes.  Often our Hearthmistress will take any newcomers as students to help them deal with any darkness they have lived through.  Sometimes it takes feeling connected to something to allow for grief to manifest.  And…

“…only when grief manifests can it be taken care of.” Solas finished quietly, something close to a smile in his eyes.  “I am glad such things are still part of your life.”

Eli smiled and nodded, watching him reach for his undershirt and begin to put it on.  It clung to his arms and torso as he did, distractingly enough she almost didn’t hear him.  “Is it something that you enjoy?”

“Yes, actually.  I didn’t at first - too hot-headed.”

He glanced over with a small grin that seemed to suggest this was something he was familiar with.  “After a while though, I got better at it.  It was useful, after…well, I had some trouble with my role when I was younger and the Vir Atish’an helped me focus on trying to work out what it was that I wanted.”

“And did you ever?” he asked, deftly picking up his pack and coming towards her.  She really needed not to be wondering what he would smell like after exertion.

“I don’t know,” she managed to reply.  “I thought I had.  Then…”

He looked up towards where they both knew the Breach was.

“Ah.  Yes I can imagine such a thing rather taking precedence.”

“For all of us, I would guess.”

He inclined his head towards her.

“Indeed.  Shall we?”

They began to walk back together, Eli trying very hard not to be so aware of his body beside hers.  Clearly she didn’t manage it, though, because she caught him catching her looking.  She might have imagined the ghost of a smirk on his face, but she didn’t think so.

“I’d like to know more about you, Solas.” she declared after a few moments’ silence.

“Why?”

She looked over at him, a little dismayed to see naked suspicion on his face.  Where had that come from?

“Why not?”

The frown deepened.

“Privacy?  Caution?  Concern about the direction of this Inquisition once our work is done?”

Oh for all the tits of Sylaise, really?  She pursed her lips, feeling the anger bloom easily in her chest.  Only, they’d talked about this, hadn’t they?  She looked over, really looked over and saw the suspicion hiding the guardedness he’d harboured since she met him.

“Then don’t answer.” She said softly, trying not to sound hurt.  She was a little, but she could understand.  “I wasn’t asking as part of the Inquisition.”

Suspicion faded to mild alarm on his face and she looked away as he clearly had a little war with himself.  

“I’m…sorry.  With so much fear in the air…”

To her surprise, she felt him bump his body gently into hers, the skin of his hand still warm from exercise.  When she looked up she could almost see how much effort it was taking him to be open, something weirdly forced about his smile.  “What would you know of me?”

She let him see her grin, genuinely this time.  Then her excitement got the better of her.

“You said you’d travelled to many different places.  In the Fade?  Whereabouts have you been?”

She’d clearly surprised him.

“You…wish to know of my journeys in the Fade?”

“Of course!  I’ve never met a somniari before - think of all the places and things you could have seen, how much more access you have to things once lost.  Tell me?”

She viewed his obvious attempt not to be charmed as a win on her part, even more so when he allowed the twinkle of enthusiasm he often had when they found ruins together to shine in his eyes.

What he told her was better than she could imagine.  He told it so simply, so beautifully - like he had nothing to prove.  The best thing by far was how easily he warmed to a subject the more questions she asked, like he only wanted to tell someone who was as fascinated by it as he was.  So much of what he said was so different from anything the shemlen wrote or said - there was no underlying morality, no inferences, just what he had seen and how he had interpreted it.  That he had been to Ostagar shocked her - she didn’t know he’d travelled so far south, but the way he told the tales of the spirits he found, at once united and utterly splintered, made her feel the fear and elation in her own heart.

She didn’t want him to stop.  Not just because she loved hearing about his experiences, but she could listen to his voice forever.  She’d go through phases of being completely soothed by it only to then feel it coaxing those embers of desire that hadn’t quite bedded down back into flames again.  It was extremely disconcerting.  She wondered if there had been any others like her, entranced with his magical talent.  Also, whether he’d taken them with him.  Perhaps after all of this she could persuade him to allow her to travel with him too.

When she asked him if he’d always travelled alone, he shot her a strange look before answering, a little smirk on his face that told her he was about to be a shit about something.

“Not at all,” He said, obviously obtusely.  “I have built many lasting friendships.  Spirits of Wisdom, possessed of ancient knowledge, happy to share what they have seen.  Spirits of Purpose helped me search.  Even wisps, curious and playful, would point out treasures I might have missed.”

Eli laughed, delighted at the idea of her grumpy Rift-mage being bugged by little wisps of light, trying as hard not to be charmed by them as he was by her.

“We used to be warned off playing with any wisps, but the ones I found in the forest always seemed harmless enough.  It was the demons that often used them to draw out prey that were the problem.”

“Trapped here on this side of the Veil, such scavenging is only natural.”

“Precisely.  I don’t know of any spirits with the other names, though.”

His face grew soft, the back of his hand gently brushing hers as they started walking down a slope further from the Chantry than they had been before.  She realised they’d come out nearer his hut, the other side of the fence.

“They rarely seek out this world.” He told her, softly.  “When they do, their natures do not often survive exposure to the people they encounter.”

“You sound sad.  What do you mean?” She asked, instinctively stepping closer to him.  He noticed and smiled at her for it.

“Wisdom and Purpose are too easily twisted into Pride and Desire.”

She didn’t like how he read her clearly shocked expression - like he knew that was what she would think and judged her for it.

“So after all of the warnings, you’re saying you became friends with Pride and Desire demons?”

“They were not demons for me.”

His quiet certainty rocked her, something softly devastating about how he simply stated ideas that broke even the Dalish definition of the Fade and demons.  He let them walk in silence for a while, but the more Eli thought about it, the less she was willing to let it go.  She stopped them with a hand to his chest, coming round to face him.

“What does that mean?”

He was sneering at her again.

“You think me foolish?”

“I think you cryptic.  And judging.  Which is unfair, by the way.”

Clearly this was not what he’d expected her to say.  Given how she’d just felt about him, Eli didn’t mind admitting that she found surprising him borderline arousing.  Seeing him off-balance was beginning to become an addiction.  “So explain.  I understand that spirits can be twisted, but how were they not demons?”

The hard look faded and he shrugged.

“I may have been misleading.”

“Mmhmm?  Deliberately so, I’d go as far to say?”

She was teasing him and he knew it.  She much preferred this particular smirk.

“Perhaps.  What I meant is that the Fade reflects the minds of the living, as we’ve spoken about.”

“Yes.”

“Well, if you expect a Spirit of Wisdom to be a pride demon, it will adapt.  And if your mind is free of corrupting influences, if you understand the nature of the spirit, they can be fast friends.”

Eli thought about this for a moment, turning back to their path and clasping her hands behind her back as she began wandering forward.

“Of course, what that means is that most people going into the Fade expect to see demons, which most do.  But you’re saying that even if they met Wisdom, because they expect anything with knowledge to be a pride demon, to be manipulative, the spirit will become that thing?”

“Simply put - yes.”

“But pride demons do try and manipulate people.”

“There is no one answer to this issue.  Some will do so because they believe it is what is expected of them based on their reading of their audience.  Some have become corrupted enough that they have a sense of their own, have decided that this is a course of action they wish to pursue.”

“So you’re not saying that every demon was made by someone misreading them?”

He hummed beside her, considering, then shook his head.

“I do not believe so.  Although, there is always more to learn.”

“I’m impressed, by the way.” She told him, glad that there was still the fence between them and other people.  They would hit the lake first, then come round the front.  

“Impressed?”

“That you could become friends with spirits - I’ve never been able to.”

“Anyone who can dream has the potential.  Few ever try.”

“Hence the pride demons.”

He smiled, allowing the simplified point.  Then his face turned sad again and he moved them off the path so that they walked up a short rise that looked over the lake.  Eli took a deep breath of mountain air, watching the sunlight gleam off the map of ice cracks on the frozen water, the trees on the other side occasionally shedding their snow to leave trailing clouds of mist.

“My friends comforted me in grief and shared my joy,” Solas said softly, after a few moments.  He was looking at the same scene she was, but was somehow also looking somewhere far away.  “Yet, because they exist without form as we understand it, the Chantry declares that spirits are not truly people.”

“They declare a lot of people not truly people.” Eli replied with a  familiar frustration.  “Although I grant you, spirits seem to be the subject of most of their wrath.”

He turned to her, his hands behind his back, standing in that way he did that made her realise how tall he was.

“Is Cassandra defined by her cheekbones and not her faith?  Varric by his chest-hair and not his wit?”

There was something challenging in his voice she didn’t like and told him so.

“You’re testing me again.”

“It is just a question.”

“I don’t like it when you test me.”

“It is just a question.”

He’d gone guarded again and she wasn’t about to let him.  So she smiled, mischief glinting in her eyes off the sunlight and ice.

“You have an interesting way of looking at the world, Solas.”

“I try,” he replied, suspiciously.  “And that isn’t quite an answer.”

She shook her head, still smiling, her hands gently clasped behind her back.  She took another step towards him, on her toes.  Another, and if she leaned just a little closer their bodies would touch from hip to chest.

“I look forward to helping you make new friends.” She told him, keeping her voice soft.  His eyes darted to her lips and back again, slightly parted in his uncertainty.  To her utter delight, he stuttered a little when he spoke.

“That should be, well…”

She grinned, letting him watch her look at his mouth before meeting his eyes again.  They were brilliant grey in the sunshine and a mixture of unsure and aroused.  She loved it.

“That isn’t quite an answer, either.”

Her voice had dropped to something low and intimate and she kept herself balanced on her toes, feeling his breath quicken in his chest.  A thought occurred to her.  “What would I be?”

His eyes took a moment to focus.

“Pardon?”

“If Cassandra is defined by her faith and Varric his wit - how would you define me?”

He took a breath as he understood the question, his face so very close to hers.  If she concentrated she could almost feel the latent heat of his exercise seeping through the wool of his shirt and onto her own skin.  He let their breath mingle in the scant inch between their lips and something flipped in her stomach as she swayed slightly again, feeling like a leaf in the wind next to his solidity.  She only had the briefest of smug twists of his lips to realise he was going to play with her before he leaned ever so slightly forward, his breath caressing her cold cheek.  He held her eyes and his voice was low and almost spoken onto her skin.

“Curiosity.”

When he pulled away it was like a physical wrench and her body actually tipped a little forward in the space where he’d left before she fell back on her heels, letting her intake of breath translate as knowing frustration as she watched him step back and to the side of her.  There was something exhilarating in the way he acknowledged it, a slight dip to his head and repressed grin telling her he knew exactly what kind of a teasing shit he was being.  She chuckled at them both, shaking her head and looking back out at the lake.

“Curiosity?  I think I can take that.”

“There are some who think it dangerous.”

She looked at him, not flinching from the warning in his eyes.  It had less impact when he was smiling at her, anyway.

“Only when you’re not prepared.  And even then, it’s often worth it.”

He laughed a little, shaking his head.  She’d have to address that little tell of disbelief at some point.  Possibly.  Andruil’s fluffy snow-shoes - what was she getting herself into?

“If you like, you could join me tomorrow.  It would be interesting to see how the Vir Atish’an has changed over time.”

She laughed, partly through joy of being asked into this obviously private time for him, partly because of his expression.

“Over time?  How long ago did you learn it?”

There was something bashful in his answering huff of laughter.

“Ah.  The spirit I learned from was an echo of a man long gone.  I’m aware some of the forms may be…archaic.”

“Well, maybe we can compare notes and make a hybrid between the two?  Only maybe not tomorrow - honestly I think I’d rather just move through the forms, it’s the perfect time for it.”

“Because of the Breach?”

She nodded, glad of his gentleness and the understanding in his eyes.

“The Breach.  But truthfully, just as much the Herald of Andraste.  There was this girl today…” She trailed off, not wanting to burden him.  “It doesn’t matter.”

“No.” He said firmly, if softly.  He hooked his fingers gently around her arm to move her into walking beside him.  She was reminded fiercely of her fantasy earlier on for a quick moment.  He would know precisely where to put her.

“No?”

“Tell me.” He urged.  “I wish to know.”

She smiled at him, the heat of desire mixing with the warmth of closeness.  She linked their arms together, pleased when he naturally compensated for the attachment.  And then she told him.  They walked together through the snow, Haven looming above them, but for a brief moment she didn’t feel the weight.

[eightlittletalons]

Death and Faith

Hey so we’re still calling smutty fics lemons, right? While this definitely isn’t the raunchiest fic I’ve written, the beginning does have some. Also deals with discussions of death. Lavellan/Dorian, as most of my old fics were. 

Dorian drifted somewhere between sleep and wakefulness when he faintly heard the door to the Inquisitor’s personal chambers creak open. He sluggishly registered the sound of bare feet padding up the stone staircase and across the room, followed by the soft rustling of clothing being discarded. A moment later, he felt the mattress dip under a familiar weight. Forcing his eyes open, he reached out to pull Revas against his chest. “Abelas, ma lath,” Revas whispered apologetically. “I didn’t intend to wake you.”

“Think nothing of it,” Dorian responded, voice still rough from sleep. “I planned on waiting up for you, but it appears your meeting with the advisors ran later than expected, yes?” Revas hummed an affirmative and leaned in to brush their lips together in a light caress. 

One kiss became two, two became many more until Dorian found himself panting and pressing his hips up against Revas’ as the elf sat perched atop him, lavishing open-mouthed kisses along the column of his throat. A small voice reminded him that this wasn’t the reason he had wanted to see his lover before bed, even as his hands grasped the elf’s slender hips for better control over the delicious friction.

“Revas,” he gasped, breath hitching as the Inquisitor paused to suck a love bite into the juncture of Dorian’s neck and shoulder. Pulling back to admire his handiwork, Revas flashed his teeth in a devious smile before continuing to kiss a trail down the human’s chest. Well, perhaps Dorian could afford to allow the elf his way for a moment longer. Maker knew he would much rather put that clever tongue to a much more pleasurable task than talking.

A sharp nip at his hip brought Dorian’s attention back to Revas, who was now kneeling between his spread thighs. The elf locked eyes with him, a smirk lifting the corner of his mouth as he leaned back down to press a chaste kiss to the tip of Dorian’s cock. Exhaling harshly, Dorian threaded his fingers through Revas’ hair, uncertain whether he wanted to encourage the elf further or push him away. “Revas, there’s something I’ve been wanting to discuss with you.” Dorian felt more than he heard Revas’ sigh, a puff of hot air against his flesh that made his toes curl. “Now?” the Inquisitor asked incredulously. It would be all too easy to give in to the temptation his lover so willingly offered. He could always breach this subject another time. Although with how busy Revas was with his duties, running to and fro, who knew when the next opportunity would arise?

When Dorian hesitated to respond, Revas ran the bridge of his nose teasingly along the human’s rigid length, tongue darting out to tease at the skin there. Groaning, Dorian tried and failed to resist the urge to buck his hips upwards and fisted his hand still in the elf’s silken hair. He yanked, desperate to get some room to think clearly and immediately regretted it as he heard Revas moan lustfully at the abuse. Dorian’s mouth went dry at the heated look the elf pinned him with. Fasta vass. 

He released Revas’ hair as though scalded and cleared his throat as he tried to find his voice. “Yes, I would like to speak of this now,” he managed to croak out. He cleared his throat for a second time, not missing the Dalish mage’s grumble of displeasure. Regardless, the elf decided to humor him, propping his head up on Dorian’s thigh and watching him expectantly. “You often joke about death as though it is a trivial thing. Your own death, specifically.”

“Is that what all this is about? Fear not, vhenan, I have no immediate plans for my very likely untimely demise,” Revas assured, patting Dorian’s leg in a comforting gesture. It might have worked were it not for the thinly veiled patronizing tone or the fact that the Inquisitor’s other hand was slowly inching towards his cock again. 

Feeling his temper flare, Dorian roughly grabbed the elf’s wrist, halting his progress. “Be serious for once, Inquisitor,” he snapped irritably. He watched as Revas’ eyes went hard as steel and worried that the Dalish would try to fight him on this. “Please.”

That soft plea caused Revas to deflate, his eyes softening to a molten silver. He sighed again, casting one last longing look between Dorian’s legs. Then he crawled up beside the man on the bed, making sure to keep a small distance between them. “Very well, let’s talk.” Dorian could have sworn that his lover was pouting, but at least he was seemingly willing to cooperate. 

“What are you doing all the way over there, amatus? Come here,” he urged, wrapping his arm around Revas’ hips. 

“No. One of us might become distracted,” Revas responded waspishly. Ah. Yes, he was definitely sulking. 

“Come here,” Dorian insisted, hauling the elf closer. He enveloped his arms loosely around the elf and was pleased when he leaned into the embrace immediately instead of trying to wriggle away.

Eventually, the Inquisitor took a fortifying breath and drew back far enough to look Dorian in the eye. “So. You wish to talk about...my death?” he asked hesitantly.

“About the fact that you have such a cavalier attitude regarding it, preferably,” Dorian kept his voice soft to hide the slight tremor it held. 

“And this troubles you?” Revas asked, frowning. Dorian nodded. “Why? I can remember more than a few occasions of you yourself mentioning becoming martyrs.” 

Dorian reached up to cradle Revas’ face in his hand, his thumb slowly tracing the vallaslin that curved along the elf’s cheek. “I apologize for being flippant,” he breathes, whispering the words so softly that Revas’ ears had to twitch forward to catch them. “The thought of you ceasing to be...I can’t bear it. I would give anything to be able to stay with you like this forever.”

Revas shook his head rapidly. “Do not fear death, vhenan. It’s the natural balance to life. All that lives must eventually fade so that another life may thrive in its place,” he said quietly, taking Dorian’s hand in one of his own. He pressed a kiss to the human’s palm before lacing their fingers together.

“Is that a common belief among your people?”

Revas shrugged, giving a tight smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I suppose it is. Falon’Din, my chosen god, used to guide us on our journeys into the Beyond upon our deaths, but...that was before he and his brethren were locked away by Fen’Harel. Nowadays, the specifics on what happens are a bit vague,” Revas explained, laughing humorlessly.

Dorian was quiet for a long moment, bowing his head as he thought. “Is that what you believe?” he finally asked, meeting the elf’s gaze once more. For all the time he’d spent in Revas’ company, he could count on one hand the number of times he’d encountered the Dalish praying to his gods. Either his amatus was incredibly private about his faith or he wasn’t terribly pious. Considering how open he was about information regarding his people, Dorian suspected it was the latter. 

“I believe it’s as plausible as your people believing that your souls join with Andraste and your Maker once you expire,” Revas remarked, shrugging a second time. The elf took ahold of Dorian’s other hand, clasping them tightly between his own with an oddly shy look settling across his features. “Since we’re already on the subject, I was wondering if there is something I could request of you.”

“Anything.”

The Inquisitor grinned lopsidedly at the immediate response, the kind of smile that made Dorian’s heart ache. “Anything? You might want to wait to hear what exactly it is I want from you before agreeing. What if I were to ask you to swap clothes with Solas for a week?” he teased. Dorian wrinkled his nose in disgust, causing Revas to laugh before he sobered again. “Dor, you know how most of those here view me as a...holy icon because of this mark on my hand, yes?”

Dorian’s eyes darted unbidden to their intertwined hands. “Yes. I also know how much you despise it.”

The elf shifted uncomfortably, drawing Dorian’s eyes back up in time to see Revas glance away with an unreadable look. “If...if something does happen to me, I want a Dalish ceremony. Would you be willing to see to that?”

Dorian hummed thoughtfully, freeing one hand to rub at the stubble on his jaw. The Chantry would no doubt desire to give the Inquisitor a traditional Andrastian pyre. He wasn’t sure how easy it would be to ensure that Revas’ wish was fulfilled. “What exactly would that entail? I know that you don’t burn your dead and there were the trees in the Dales, but…” he trailed off helplessly.

“It might be easier if you were able to pass me off to a clan, but they wouldn’t likely allow - I mean, if you would even want to…” Revas began, the words coming fast in his nervous state. Dorian caressed the elf’s hand that he still held, hoping the contact would calm him. “I would like for you to be there, Dorian. If you have no objections - I could teach you the proper way to prepare...and the songs and prayers, and-”

Dorian gripped Revas by the back of his neck and pulled him until their foreheads rested against each other, cutting off the elf’s rambling. “I would be honored,” he vowed, firmly. Revas relaxed immediately, sagging against Dorian in relief. They sat there together in the dimness of the room, Dorian petting the elf’s hair in long soothing strokes until both drifted off into sleep.

[thevagueambition]

I was tagged by @antirococoreaction to talk about five male characters I love

(God, only five? However will I choose between my boys >_< ?!)

This is most certainly not going to be a literary as your offerings, lmao. When it comes to literary fiction I mostly like Kafka and Kafka, by the nature of his writing, writes thoroughly unlikable characters.

This got way too long bc I’m incapable of not gushing about my faves when given the chance lol 

Zuko from Avatar: The Last Airbender

It is my enduring opinion that if you want to see a redemption arc done right, look at Zuko’s arc in The Last Airbender. He’s a scared, abused kid who managed to build up personal morals in a system that discouraged them, and was harshly punished for daring to voice them. He’s someone who always wanted to be good, but struggles with defining what good is, given that his culture and upbringing has taught him one thing, but his heart (and his uncle) tells him another, and his new experiences reinforces that. After he figures out what “good” looks like, he’s always held accountable for his past actions. He makes amends, and he accepts it, for the most part, when people aren’t ready to receive them. His anger issues, as well as how he sees himself as someone who had to be hardworking because he isn’t talented (however far from the truth that may or may not be in reality) are also aspects of him that appeal to me and indeed that I relate to. 

Anakin Skywalker from Star Wars

My love for Anakin is not dissimilar to my love for Zuko, though the quality of the writing in question certainly is. I love an edgy boy, is what I’m getting at, I guess :’D More seriously, Anakin’s story is ultimately one about control, which is a subject that interests me quite a bit. Anakin is never, at any point, really in control of his own life. He’s never really truly free. He’s born a slave, he joins the Jedi Order and he becomes Palpatine’s apprentice. He always exists within rigid systems of control, until his very lasts moments with Luke before he dies. With how Palpatine essentially groomed him, thinking of Anakin as equally a victim of Palpatine and a perpetuator of his (metaphorically speaking) abuse is also interesting to me. Certainly his clearly distorted thinking (eg convincing himself he can’t trust Obi-Wan, for instance) is also hugely important to his appeal to me. Also? He’s SO EXTRA I can’t with him lol 

(That’s your LIFE SUPPORT SYSTEM you turned off, Anakin!!! I know you’re depressed and dissociated and also The Drama but damn!!!!!!)

Nicodemus Ravens from The Shamer Chronicles (Skammerens børn)

The Shamer Chronicles is a series of Danish fantasy books for kids, and probably the most popular books of that type (particularly the first book, The Shamer’s Daughter). Nico is a major character, though never a POV one. 

Nico was, essentially, abused by his father for not living up to the male gender role. He didn’t want to learn to use a sword, he didn’t want to kill, and his father hated him for it. As a result, he’s a teenage alcoholic and profoundly at war with himself. He constantly have other people telling him narratives about who he is/should be: first, he’s the younger son who should bring his father glory, then he’s the heir unfit for the throne, then he’s, depending on the political position of the character in question, either a monstrous murderer who must be killed by the glorious leader or the rightful heir to throne, a hero ready to bring war to his enemy and liberate his people, then rule them in benevolence.

Nico doesn’t want to be any of those things. He knows who he is, is stubborn about it, but also can’t shake the belief that his relative pacifism is really just cowardice. I’m just going to quote one of my favourite scenes here (forgive the translation, it’s my own, I don’t have the official one at hand):

“[...] They want a hero, I think.”

“Is that so bad? It’s better than being a monster, at any rate.”

“You think? Have you noticed how often heroes die in battle? Of course everyone mourns them afterwards and write beautiful ballads about them, but the heroes remain dead. Stone-dead. And I’m in no hurry to get on my white steed and start slaughtering people until someone better or luckier than I sticks a sword in me. No, thank you.”

He looked both obstinate and shameful, as if he thought he really should get on his white steed and all of that. I could understand why he didn’t want to die, and yet… Well, I think I’d always expected him to return to the Lowlands to fight Drakan at some point.

“What do you want, then?” [...]

“I just want to be me,” he whispered. “Is that so terrible? I just want to be Nico and not a lot of other people’s hero or monster.”

Anyway there are Two Crimes when it comes to Nico: the fact he isn’t gay in canon and how so many adaptations turns him into the Generic Fantasy Hero he’s a very conscious subversion of in the books (the other principle male character is essentially someone who’s hurt by toxic masculinity as someone who buys into it, while Nico ofc is hurt by it because he doesn’t/can’t, so the series certainly had an opinion about it). 

Albus Dumbledore from Harry Potter

Dumbledore is, to me, someone who chose what was good for the world over his own happiness. He chose to be the one to dirty his hands, the one two make the terrible decisions, do the terrible things, that were necessary in the battle against facism. There is something very brave and admirable about that to me. It’s not that he never did anything wrong, he certainly did, but again, I think he was very aware of the terrible things he was doing, and part of the reason he keeps everything so close to his chest is because he doesn’t want anyone else to have to make those decisions, to have to feel that blood stain their hands. Dumbledore loves the people in his care profoundly, he loves Harry profoundly. And it kills him to have, as Snape puts it, “brought him up like a pig for slaughter”. 

Whether something is morally justified and whether it’s necessary to prevent evil are two different questions, and I don’t think Dumbledore feels particularly justified, but I do think he does what he perceives to be necessary to prevent facism. And hates himself for the decisions he takes along the way. And all of that comes back to, to some extent, his survivor’s guilt over the death of Arianna and the profound wake up call that was Grindelwald 1) turning on his family 2) being a very violent fascist, rather than just a theoretical one like teenage!Dumbledore was. In his mind, Dumbledore is already condemned for what happened when he was 18, so it’s better that it be he who takes the terrible things upon himself than an “innocent.” It’s better that he try to atone. Dumbledore is working towards a redemption he never (to his mind) arrives at. 

In regards to his sexuality, Dumbledore was certainly written with the trope of a “tragic old closeted gay” in mind, but of course JKR never made anything much canon aside from his “flamboyant” sense of style (that the movies have ROBBED us of >:( ) and hobbies, so to a certain extent, I get to ignore that homophobic intent. In the books themselves, the only thing you can really read between the lines is that Dumbledore was in love with Grindelwald, not whether it was 1) reciprocated 2) acted upon, so with only the canon, we also get to mitigate some of the Implications of “Dumbledore dated Wizard Hitler for a while”.... 

I mean I do Love Mess(tm) so Dumbledore having that terrible wake up call is certainly also part of the appeal for me. Personally I enjoy the interpretation that Grindelwald deliberately manipulated Dumbledore’s feelings. 

Captain Flint/James McGraw from Black Sails

BE GAY DO CRIME BE GAY DO CRIME BE GAY DO CRIME BE-- *coughs*

As you might guess from my description of Dumbledore, a lot of the reasons I love Flint are similar to why I love Dumbledore (and Solas, but we won’t go in to Solas rn lol). Flint is also someone who chooses to do the terrible, necessary things, who chooses the fight over his personal moral cleanliness. In a more obvious and extreme way than Dumbledore, certainly, but the principle is essentially the same. Of course, Flint’s fight is personal in a completely different way from how Dumbledore’s is. Flint’s fight is simoultaneously his revenge, a fight against the corrupt system that ruined his life and a fight for something better. Dumbledore is defensive, Flint is offensive. 

The self-integrity he has is truly amazing. He’s cast aside by everyone but Miranda, and yet he never starts thinking he has anything to apologise for. To ask for a pardon would be to ask for forgiveness, and he doesn’t think he needs to be forgiven. Not for loving Thomas, not for anything he did while he was still English. He perceives the reality of the situation, he sees what is right and what is wrong, and he knows that he is the wronged party. He stares at the behemoth of the entire social structure of his world and says: No. You move. I am not in the wrong. England should apologise to me.

Flint is my angry gay dad and I love him. 

I tag (as always, completely optional ^^ ): @teddy-stonehill​ @thebearmuse​ @andvaka​ @solitarelee​ @gallifreyanathearts​ @sinni-ok-sessi​ @melle93​ @papanden​ @seimsisk​

I feel a bit dishonest leaving Grantaire off of this list, lmao, but I talk about him enough as it is. 

Other honorables mentions go to: Enjolras (Les Mis), Captain Jack Harkness (Doctor Who/Torchwood), Solas (Dragon Age), Fitzwilliam Darcy (Pride and Prejudice), Kim Kitsuragi (Disco Elysium), Harry Potter, Remus Lupin (Harry Potter) and my soap boys Robert Sugden (Emmerdale), Richard “Ringo” Beckmann (Unter Uns) and Ben Mitchell (Eastenders). 

[lvllns]

5 questions for writers!

i was tagged by @goblin-deity​!! thank you so much owen!!!

i’ll tag: @allisondraste​ @serbarris​ @arlathen​ @trvelyans​ @lavellane​ and i am probably missing a few writers so if you wanna do this, consider yourself tagged!!

some of this is under a cut bc it got long since i am incapable of picking “short” things that i like oops

1. Do you have a favorite character to write? Who and why? Oh Isseya for sure. A lot of it is because I have her so fucking fleshed out after writing so much of her. I know her like the back of my hands and she is so damn easy to slip into and write. I did really enjoy writing Solas as well, that was a whole experience.

2. Do you have a favorite trope to write? Or one you want to write? Friends to lovers is so good and is my absolute favorite. Tending wounds is another good one. FOUND FAMILY, give me that good good slow burn friends to lovers with a side of found family actually.

3. Share your favorite description you’ve written? from rare is this love.

This is what they are. Protectors that are forgotten about until they’re needed to stop the world ending and even then, when they fall nobody notices unless they take an archdemon with them. Nobody will remember Riordan. Nobody will talk of how he flung himself at a fucking archdemon and wounded it enough to ground it so the two of them could have a chance. Isseya knows, she knows, she will spend the rest of her life talking about him but it will not matter because only the name of one of the last two Grey Wardens of Ferelden will be spoken in taverns after the sun has gone down.

also this from ritl:

Isseya moves, stands on the handles of her daggers and leaps. Comes straight down with her longsword and uses her momentum to bury it deep into the skull of the archdemon. It sinks in cleanly, but slowly, so slowly. Her arms shake.

There’s a blast of heat and light. Bright and hot. She closes her eyes, looks to the side and holds steady pressure. Forces the blade to stay deep in the beast. The leather of her gloves starts to smoke a little, her hands begin to ache and it’s too much. It’s too much and her arms hurt, her eyes hurt even though they’re closed. Her right foot slips off the pommel of the dagger that she’s using as a foothold, and she swears.

The archdemon is thrashing around, screaming and bellowing and twitching. Its massive body rolls around, knocks soldiers and dwarves and mages and elves around. Sends them flying and Isseya knows death throes when she sees them but she hurts all over. Her body slams against its neck as her other foot slips off the dagger and she clings to the longsword, desperate to end this.

And right when she thinks she is going to have to let go if she wants to keep her hands, the dragon falls to the ground with a deafening thud.

Everything goes silent and dark and the heat recedes. Isseya lets go and falls to the ground. Lands in a heap and curls into a ball. Her head knocks against the stone and isn’t that just great. Every single part of her aches and has a heartbeat. She flexes her hands, winces when the leather gloves crack and she tries to pull them off but she is shaking so bad she can’t get a good grip so she gives up.

The sounds of battle still ring out around her. No doubt the last few darkspawn getting their heads removed. She reaches to her belt and pulls a thick, red elfroot potion free. Pops it open and swallows it down without even a grimace. It won’t heal her, not even close, but it numbs everything enough that she can climb to her feet. She braces herself on the shoulder of the archdemon. Dips her head low and takes a few deep breaths before she steps away.

Her knees knock together, legs shaking from sheer exhaustion, but she takes another step. And another. Gets herself to where she can see the fighting. Where she can see the darkspawn retreating and soldiers cheering and there is so much blood everywhere.

Isseya looks around and finds herself locking eyes with Alistair. He’s a mess. His gauntlets are gone, his shield is dented and his hair is stuck to his head. Blood and ash and sweat streak his face, deep cuts that will scar mar his skin but —

But he’s alive.

And so is she.

Isseya laughs, high and strained and pushes herself into an unsteady, limping run. Thinks that when this is all done, she is never running again.

Alistair drops his sword and catches her when she leaps at him. She throws her arms around his neck, legs around his waist, and laughs into his hair. Laughs and cries and kisses the top of his head. The metal of his armor is uncomfortable where it pushes against her but she does not care.

They’re alive.

4. Share your favorite dialogue you’ve written? This is from salt.

“Solas?”

He startles. Jumps and sends an apple flying through the air. She catches it easily and her brows turn down as she looks at him.

“I am —”

“You went somewhere and it didn’t look very nice,” a small smile as she hands the fruit back to him. Her fingers brush his and he barely keeps his body from blowing apart.

He shakes his head violently.

“Memories,” his smile is more teeth than anything. It only makes her look more concerned. “They return in pieces. Sometimes I find myself swept away,” his fingers drum against the table to the beat of an old song that he has not heard since a party at Dirthamen’s many years ago.

She hums before setting to work peeling the orange. “My name’s Abigail, by the way.”

He thinks he has never been so off in his entire life. “Ah, please pardon my inability to remember how one handles a conversation.”

Abigail snorts. “‘Handles a conversation?’ It’s just talking Solas,” she waves an orange segment around as she speaks. “Handling implies that it’s uncomfortable,” a blink as she leans across the table. “Are you uncomfortable?”

“I — No?”

“You sure about that?”

“Yes.”

He takes a bite of the apple and leans back in his chair. Wills his heart to stop trying to beat right out his throat. Is this really all it takes, to catch him so flat-footed? A nice conversation? Pretty eyes? He rolls his shoulders and flops his arm over his face.

“Yeah, you look like you’re having a blast over there.”

and this bit from rare is this love:

“Zevran” her voice is barely above a whisper and holds his gaze until he looks at the door. “This seems...like it is very important to you.”

“Don’t get the wrong idea about it,” there he goes. Walls and bricks and stones to hide behind. “You killed Taliesen. As far as the Crows will be concerned, I died with him. That means I’m free, at least for now,” his body is tense, like a trap ready to spring and she is reaching right for the trigger. “Feel free to sell it, or wear it...or whatever you’d like. It’s really the least I could give you in return.”

Something odd nudges in her chest. At the spot where that plant took root so many months ago.

She turns the earring over in her hand.

“So...not a token of affection, then?” She tries to keep her voice light but immediately he freezes. Amber eyes wide like a spooked halla.

Somewhere in the back of her skull, glass shatters.

“I...look, just...just take it,” he stands now, runs a shaky hand through his hair. “It’s meant a lot to me, but so have...so has what you’ve done. Please, take it.”

He’s pleading with her to take this earring and ah, that’s it. There’s fear laced throughout. Fear and nerves and he is looking at her like she is on the verge of tearing his heart from his chest.

“I - Zev, vhenan,” he flinches and she holds the earring out toward him. “Please believe me when I say I want to take it but...I can’t,” shaky hands pluck the gold earring from her fingers and she watches as he chases every emotion from his face and oh how it hurts to be closed off from him so suddenly after all this time. “I think...I think it means something more to you and I won’t take it until you can be honest about what it means first.”

“You are a very frustrating woman to deal with, do you know that?” The words are sharp and he takes another step away. “We pick up every other bit of treasure we come across, but not this,” he opens his mouth. Shuts it. Shakes his head. “You don’t want the earring? You don’t get the earring. Very simple.”

“You’re being childish,” gold eyes narrow and he snorts. “You are! Zev, we have to communicate, to talk about things,” her voice softens. “This doesn’t, Creators guide me, I care about you Zevran. I love you and whatever you need to work through, I’m here for you but you need to let me know what's going on. I'm not, fuck, I know there are things that will take time, on both our ends, but I can’t accept this when it is clearly more than just the pretty earring you’re trying to pass it off as.”

He says nothing. Hands scrub over his face before he pinches the bridge of his nose.

“I - Give me a few days, please,” twists the leather around his wrist, eyes flicking to her own and he looks terrified.

She takes a step closer, just enough so she can touch his arm briefly.

“You can talk to me about anything, you know that right?” Her head tilts as she wraps her arms around herself. “This won’t...what we have, it will not work if we don't communicate with each other.”

“I know. And I promise I will tell you, I just…” a heavy sigh, a hand through his messy hair. “A few days Isseya. Please.”

“Whatever you need, it’s yours.”

She watches his face crumble, a hand covering his eyes for a moment before he dips his head and quickly leaves the room.

5. Scene you haven’t written, but want to?: SO MANY. I have a ridiculously large modern au plotted out and I want to write Isseya/Zev meeting there so badly. Also really want to write Penelope/Fen in that au bc oh BOY that’s good stuff. I also have an Alistair/Hawke thing that’s been rattling around my skull and I so desperately want to write them meeting up at Skyhold after everything that’s happened since the Blight.

[pikapeppa]

Solavellan angst: Never Too Late

Inspired by the DA4 teaser trailer. I’ve got that Solavellan, Solavellan sadness... *sung to the tune of Lana Del Rey’s Summertime Sadness*

Timeline note: vaguely a couple of years after Trespasser.

For @dadrunkwriting Friday.

Read here on AO3:  tinyurl.com/solavellanhell1

**************

He talks to Elia still, sometimes.

The conversations take place in his imagination, of course. They are fairly one-sided, and might more accurately be called monologues, but his thoughts are always aimed at her.

He travels across Thedas largely on his own. He moves between his multitude of strongholds and sees the swelling numbers of elves who have flocked to the promise of freedom. He provides the encouragement that he can, and he gives the commands that he must. And all the while, he imagines what she would say to all of this.

He imagines her wide-eyed dismay if she knew that Briala had ceded the eluvians - and her countless spies - to his cause. He imagines the sad resignation on her face if she knew that Abelas had joined him as well. He imagines her, and in the privacy of his mind, he explains to her why he must do everything that he has done.

If he can explain it to her - if he can imagine that she believes him - then he can continue to believe it himself.

He keeps the conversations imaginary. He does not seek her in the Fade. His agents are watching her, just as they are watching everyone, but he refuses to hear what Elia is doing unless it directly impacts his plans.

So far, despite her best efforts, little that she has done has made him need to change his course. He is unsure whether to be relieved by this fact, or to pity her for it.

When he is not plotting and planning and issuing orders to his officers, he walks the Fade and watches where the spirits are clamouring. Sometimes he walks as himself and talks to the spirits. He gleans their advice, and he coaxes them away from the dangers of the thinnest parts of the Veil.

Other times, he walks in his other form so he need not speak to anyone. When he prowls on four lupine legs, he is hidden among the multitude of other creatures who fly and crawl and slither in the shifting unreality of his native world.

It is on one such night that he finds an unusual lacune of peace in the Fade. It is a dark glen, thick with trees and soft grass underfoot, devoid of the usual roiling whirl of spirits who have grown more restless in the past few years. The spirits who float here are calm and sedate and slow.

Curious about this place of quiet, he pads into the glen on his four furred feet.

A raven-haired adolescent sits high in a tree. It is an elven figure, pale of skin and dark of hair, feet swinging with the happy abandon of youth.

He stops when he spots her, and she stops swinging her feet.

Then she turns her head to look at him.

He stares back at her. She is young, and her cheeks are round and bare. But her brilliant cerulean eyes are unmistakable.

She slides down from the tree, and by the time her toes touch the ground, Elia is her full height and age again. Her sweeping vallaslin stands out starkly on her cheekbones, and the exuberance of her swinging feet is gone.

She wraps her one remaining arm around her middle. There is a frailty to her, a certain fragility that he doesn’t recall, but the gaze that meets his own is steady.

“What brings you here?” Elia asks.

Her question is polite and calm: far more calm than he expected, and far more polite than he perhaps deserves.

He cannot answer with his lupine teeth and tongue, and it is for the best. In truth, crossing her path was completely accidental, but Elia has always had a talent for tempting words to leave his heart that are better left unsaid.

He remains silent. A moment later, or perhaps it is an eon, she sits slowly on the grassy ground.

She wraps her arm around her knees and regards him gravely. “You’ve had agents observing me. Observing us,” she amends. “The… former Inquisition.”

Her words are a statement, not a question. She is correct, of course, although observation is only a fraction of what his people have done. But of course, he cannot say that; not with the goals that take precedence in the logic of his mind, and not with his wolf’s jaws and mouth.

He remains silent.

She watches him for a moment longer, then nods her head as though his silence is an answer. The tranquility of this place is as thick and heavy as a wet snowfall, and he wonders if it is Elia’s calming influence that has brought this cloying brand of peace. Perhaps she had purposely sought this silence.

If that is the case, his presence is ruining it for her.

He should go. He knows he should. He knew it the moment he spotted her short and tufty hair. There is no point in his being here; the lines were clearly drawn the last time they met, and there is no place for either of them at the other’s side. Despite the skirmishes he’s orchestrated and the spies he’s sent to infiltrate her allies’ ranks, the worst that he will do is still yet to come.

He studies her face in silence. Her eyes are soft and sad, but there is something strange about them; something oddly flat. He can’t help but remember other times when her eyes were bright with happiness, with the awe of discovery, with love.

He remembers being the focus of the happiness in her eyes. He remembers being the reason for her joy. He didn’t appreciate it enough at the time. But then again, he should never have allowed himself to become so important to her at all.

He turns to leave.

“Solas,” she calls.

He stops in his tracks. Solas. It is a foreign word to his ears. He hasn’t heard this name in years. He shed the name when he shed her people - when he shed her. But the impact it has, the power of this name in her soft and rolling voice…

“You can still change your mind,” she says. “You don’t…” She pauses. “You are stepping farther away from the man I knew,” she tells him. “I don’t want that for you.”

He turns around to face her. Her cavernous gaze is deep and full of empathy. The weight of it - of her understanding - is more than he can bear.

Suddenly he is speaking, speaking before he can stop the words from leaving his now-elvhen tongue. “I did not want any of this for you,” he says.

She rises slowly to her feet. “Then make it stop,” she says simply.

Her voice is gentle but just as flat as the look in her eyes, and his ominous sense of offness increases.

“That is impossible,” he says.

She steps closer to him. “It’s never too late,” she says. “It will never be too late to fix this.”

She is wrong. There is always point of no return, a point at which it is no longer possible to go back, and he is swiftly reaching that time.

She stops a foot away from him. Her one remaining hand hangs limply at her side. “I haven’t given up on you, you know,” she says.

Her lackluster tone belies her words, and the bleakness in her expression continue to strike a discordant note in his heart. He may be moving farther from the man she knew, but the woman before him - this woman with the weight in her eyes and the weariness in her face: this is not the Elia he knew.

He swallows hard before speaking. “I assure you, I am beyond your reach. It would be wiser for you to invest your energies elsewhere, Inquisitor,” he says.

For the first time tonight, she smiles. “I haven’t been the Inquisitor for years. You know that. Or have your spies been so amiss?”

Her smile is a twisted mask of rueful bitterness, and finally he realizes what is wrong. She may not have given up on him, but she has given up on herself.

A boil of emotion rises in his chest, frothing behind his eyes and at the back of his tongue. He hates seeing her like this, so devoid of hope and so lacking in passion. He would almost welcome the vitriol that she screamed at him the last time they met; at least it was evidence of passion and of life.  

But she is only like this because of him. He has no one but himself to blame.

Before he can stop himself, he is reaching for her.

He cups the softness of her cheek in his hand. Her eyes snap to his face, and for an instant, there is a spark in them. He stares greedily at her eyes, hungry for that spark and wishing with his entire aching heart that he could foster it, but he knows it isn’t possible.

I’m sorry. The fault is entirely mine. The words rattle in his mind, but he holds them back. He has said these words before, and they were useless then. They will be just as useless now.

She stares back at him, and bit by bit, that fragile little spark dies away. She smiles again, and the smile is wrong, heavy and crooked with melancholy.

“I’ve never stopped defending you, you know,” she says. “For all that we’ve been working against you, I’ve never stopped believing you’ll change your mind. They all think I’m a fool.”

“You should listen to them,” he says, then winces at his unintentional cruelty.

Elia laughs, but it sounds distinctly like a sob. “I should, shouldn’t I?” She sighs heavily, then takes a step away from him. “I can’t give up, Solas. It’s too late for me. But it will never be too late for you.”

She takes another step away. He wants to follow her, to convince her that - what? That there is hope for her, to survive and thrive? That he will come back to her? That he will change his mind?

His tongue is paralyzed by the lies he refuses to tell her. He simply watches as Elia backs away. “You know where I’ll be,” she says. “Or your spies will, at least. If they do their jobs.” She shoots him a tiny smile.

It’s wan and sad, but more genuine than any of the others smiles she’s given him thus far. Before he can properly appreciate its beauty, she is gone.

He takes a deep breath and presses his fingers to his burning eyes. Then a small voice speaks in his ear. “Waiting, wanting, never waning. ‘He does not want this,’ she says. They don’t believe her, but it’s true, isn’t it?”

He sighs. The spirit always seems to find him, even when he begs it to leave him be. “You should go to her,” he tells the spirit. “She needs you more than I. And I am certain she misses you.”

Compassion floats in front him, a faded reflection of a boy with shaggy hair. “Yes,” it agrees. “But she misses you more.”

A tear slides down his cheek. “I know,” he whispers.