#she keeps her vallaslin now :)

[hollytree33]

THE HIGH PRIESTESS

Annnnd her third card, hope y’all like her!!!

1. Hanged Man 2. The Chariot

Next

[liaragaming]

Has anyone stopped to think about how, like, Lavellan wouldn't be able to forget about Solas even if she wanted to?

"It's been 8 years since Trespasser. She should have moved on by now." Like, how? If she didn't disband the Inquisition and still leads it, then trying to stop Solas is literally her everyday life.

And maybe she left and rejoined her clan. Can you imagine every day looking at faces with vallaslin and remembering how Solas said the evanuris weren't who the Dalish thought they were? Or performing Dalish customs and wondering if any of it actually connects to Ancient Arlathan? And that, god dammit, Solas would know the answer - and she probably wouldn't like it? How about any exclamations of "By the Dread Wolf!"?"

God forbid your Lavellan travels after the events of DAI because we know those Dread Wolf statues are everywhere. (And that they sit outside Dalish clans).

And maybe, like my Lavellan, she decides not to go home. But she still want to research and learn all she can about the past. Everything she could possibly uncover could link back to him. Certainly anything elven. But even Dwarven ruins aren't safe because we know the elves missed with stuff there. Ancient history isn't safe. Even studying modern cultures - like the Avvar who are so friendly with spirits and thinking about how much Solas would fucking love it!

If Lavellan's a mage and has any discussions on spirits or the Fade - of course she's going to be thinking about what Solas knew.

Maybe she joins the Red Jenny's and tries to heal things one person at a time. How can she not think about how much Solas only ever wanted to help people? But that he's also going to tear down the Veil and kill everyone? Is anything she's doing right now even going to matter in a few years? If only she could show him small incremental change that he could be doing right now instead of total destruction.

How can she not think about him all the fucking time? How does this girl keep from going insane?

Remember, there's a scar in the sky from where they closed the breach. She's going to see that every damn day.

Also her arm is gone from when he took it right before disappearing again, so that's also a constant reminder.

Nowhere is safe for this woman.

She should just escape reality and drift off into Fad-

[buttsonthebeach]

Okay okay so, for my Rook, currently thinking female elf. She was 11 or so when Inquisition happened and absolutely hero-worshipped Ellana from afar, couldn't believe an elf was being so celebrated. Had no idea of the actual horror of what Ellana went through - just totally romanticizes the idea of being a hero on an epic quest. She joins the Shadow Dragons to be part of a fight for justice, just like her hero. Just about dies of excitement and more hero worship when Varric says "hey come be a hero with us."

Ellana, meanwhile, has gone through hell in the last 10 years - she feels like she can't go home to her clan, gave up her vallaslin, lost her arm, lost Solas. She's 40 and fears she'll never have a family because she hasn't gotten over Solas and has too many walls up now to genuinely connect with someone new. Becoming Inquisitor has taken everything from her. And so to meet this young excited hero is simultaneously affirming that maybe it was worth it, to lose it all, and terrifying to her, because she knows the real cost of being a hero. (She talked to Morrigan about Zakir and knows everything being the Hero of Ferelden took from him, and watched Marian Hawke sacrifice herself in the Fade after the hell she walked through as Champion of Kirkwall, too.) She doesn't want anyone else to go through that. She wants to tell this sweet brave soul to run.

All my heroes so far have been reluctant, accidental, or angry - and I know the writers have said that a major theme of this story is regret. Kinda love the idea of this optimist in the middle of this who is like "yes, I chose to be here, and I am going to keep choosing to be here and fighting the good fight."

[plasticfreckles]

🌙 post-descent solavellan confrontation enjoy 🌙

[part 2 of 2]

"Lathari." She startles.

She barely has time to process his presence in her dreams before he embraces her.

Her arms settle awkwardly around his waist as he crushes her to his chest.

"I thought-" And oh, she soothes his trembles, thumbs teasing up and down at his sides.

The motions almost split him down the middle right again. Yet, he clings to them like a man overboard to a thrown rope.

"I could not find you any longer; the spirits searched everywhere, I searched, to no avail-" she moves back, just enough to look up at him, to see him; the knot between his brows, the tears in his eyes, the sob choked back in his throat. "I thought I'd lost you."

She hushes him, kisses away the tears that now do run down his cheeks.

A gentleness he never deserved.

"You wander my dreams?" She poses the question in that tone that reveals she suspected it, long before it was taken to light. Somewhere beneath the carefully neutral tone, the satisfaction to know her hunches were correct.

In earlier times, she would pull his face down to hers, claw her fingers into his shoulders, I told you so whispered against his skin.

"I- I apologize. I know I should not, but- I have to know you are safe."

"I am, lath'haim, I am, see?" She removes his hands from her, moves them to cup her own face; her earring caught between his ring and small finger; the way he used to still her in earlier times. "I am as safe as the day you- the day Corypheys fell." As the day you left, she almost says. Still, there's already remnants of smoke, rubble, broken artifacts and strained love in the makings of the Fade.

Her pulse flutters underneath his hand.

"Where were you?" The Fade moves around them, as she shifts slightly, to press a kiss into his thumbpad.

Rocks shoot up past their heads, canopying them, yet revealing the nightsky. Unnerving, unseeing pale blue dots in the dark so deep even their elvhen eyes cannot see. Solas smells the salt and brine of - the Buried Sea, of all oceans; the flames of the darkspawn torches, feels the warmth of a stranger's too-small bedrolls combating the cold stone beneath their backs. He hears echoes of voices, loose stone tumbling before Lavellan's scuffling boots, sees cheese offered to nugs, Lavellan stepping off the edge into a canyon, but traversing the distance instead of falling.

And beneath it all, hidden in a small, ashamed corner of herself, relief at her Mark not reacting to the pure lyrium in the ceiling. She narrowly dodges a lyrium flail, Bull keeping her from falling off another edge to her death by the fabric of her cloak. Compassion prodding a mighty beast's hide.

"You fought a Titan?"

"I walked inside a Titan."

"And you lived."

Rock falls away, a tattooed dwarf hands gold to Scout Harding, and suddenly the sun shines even on the Storm Coast. It reflects in the gold beads in her hair, the volcanic aurum woven into her mail, and somehow, in the faded lines of her removed vallaslin, still showing on her face like edges of cloth on farmers' arms.

"I do."

Solas rests his forehead against hers. Watching her dreams, walking the Fade had never been so exhausting.

Her fingers dig into the skin of his shoulders. Her mark zaps against his magic.

"Leliana taught me to be a bard. I wrote songs while down there, so there's at least that." Oh, how he had missed her bite, her misplaced attempts at humor. An elvhen plea fast at his feet, and if there's something I hate more then it's the fact it works on me.

"Don't return there. Please. Do not venture where I cannot watch over you."

"There's a way to remedy that without the lurking, tundra'ma." She shifts, and suddenly they sit in the rotunda; she in his massive chair, him in her lap, his face hidden in her neck, her shoulder, her hair tickling his nose.

In earlier times, he would not tear at her soulstrings everytime they spoke.

"I cannot return, vhenan." He does not say, And you cannot join me. You cannot know what I awoke to do. Even the thought of having to see her disappointment in him kills him thrice over.

Instead, he says, "this journey I must walk alone." A noise in her throat, between a sigh and a sob. Stubborn fool, but hers entirely.

"Then maybe you should leave now. Let me pretend I hit my head and dreamt up our little tryst here."

When he stands, she sits in her throne, turning her face away from him like he was but a criminal for her to judge.

Perhaps he is.

He certainly should be.

"Ma nuvenin."

Also decided not to do the whole inquisition end game break up thing after all bc I already had 1 meltdown at work last night I did not need another <3

🌙

Decided to split this from part 1 bc the tone is like really different.

This is the bonus points I talked about in this post lmao

Up Next: experimental Dorian POV, trespasser, veilguard reunion freestyle

Dorian POV and Trespasser prob also go up together

tundra'ma stolen from Project Elvhen with my -10 skill to use grammar, supposed to be my gentleness or some cringy shit like that

tundra = gentle, tender, kind, ma = possessive pronoun

@vespaer77 <3

lath'haim also stolen from Project Elvhen do do lost love

lath = love, haim = gone, absent, departed

[~rina]

[5queerducksinatrenchcoat]

can't decide whether my inky's clan should make it out of wycome or not. cause on the one hand, i feel like it would definitely lend more weight, in her eyes, to choosing to keep her vallaslin, along with meeting ameridan. but on the other, for fuck's sake does she deserve something good. also the idea of there being a city in the free marches run by a mixed council of dalish, city elves, and humans is fucken rad as hell. and, i mean, the whole thing with ameridan is very much enough on it's own, and will be a core driving force, for her to be like, "no, im keeping these." history erased the whole-ass identity of the last inquisitor. he was just like her and she had no idea, nobody did. and she'll be fucked if she makes it easier for them to make her just like him that way, too.

and, the way she sees it, whatever vallaslin use to be back in ancient times couldn't be further from what they are now. not having them didn't ensure the elves their freedom. they fought for their freedom. they fought for whatever bits and scraps of their history and culture and language they could find. they were given a home for their part in the fight against tevinter, and they took those bits and scraps and made something new with them. they found these markings of their ancestors and made them into symbols of independence and pride.

the vallaslin are their resistance to and rejection of the humans who keep trying to take what's theirs and break their spirits literally written across their faces.

anyway, if her clan's gonna survive, i'd do joh before i get the last war table mission in the quest line. it just feels right, narratively, because first she meets this elf who's just like her, from a land that's no longer his, and then her clan fights for their lives alongside local city elves and humans, and suddenly find a home in this city. a real, physical home. a land that they belong in as much as anyone else and they didn't have to sacrifice their identities.

she's a dalish elf and her home is in wycome. her family and friends live in wycome, freely. not in an alienage or on the outskirts. as do the city elves, and as do the humans. they live there together, and run it together, and take care of it together.

(this is basically just me rambling about an oc, at this point. also, her twin brother would survive either way, im not a fucken monster.)

[thatapostateboy]

wonderstruck

Pairing: Brenna Lavellan x Cremisius 'Krem' Acclasi

Word Count: 3239

Listening Suggestion: Enchanting - Taylor Swift

Synopsis: in which Krem meets Lavellan, but does not put two and two together

Warnings: Very brief description of battle

Crossposted: Here on AO3

Haven was bloody cold.

He had dressed for winter, and yet the cold was finding a way to seep into his bones. He could usually handle the weather, if he was fighting or travelling, keeping his blood pumping. But he had been stood outside of the Haven Chantry for what had felt like an age, having arrived on horseback a little past dawn, trying to find someone of authority to speak to. But he had either been brushed off or straight up ignored.

Perhaps they had assumed he was there to make trouble; couldn’t be too careful when you were part of an organisation that some considered heretical.  

Either that or the entire Inquisition were not morning people.

“Are you alright, soldier?”

He turned to see an elven woman behind him, dressed in the traditional furs and leathers of a Dalish hunter, with vallaslin on her face to confirm his assumption. Her grey eyes met his, and even in the low light of morning, he was struck by how they shone like silver.

Her eyebrows rose a little, as though hinting that she was waiting on a response, and he realised that he had been staring for beat of a moment too long.

“Oh I-” he cleared his throat, straightening up his posture, remembering why he was here, “I’ve been trying to find someone to speak to. My name is Lieutenant Cremisius Aclassi, I represent a mercenary company looking to aid the Inquisition.”

A soft smile passed over her face, “I believe most of the leadership is in a meeting presently, but I’d be happy to pass on a message if you can give me the details.”

He began to explain about the Chargers, answering her questions about their credentials, Bull’s leadership style, even their cost, relaxing the more he went on. Selling the Chargers was second nature, their work spoke for itself, and she asked the right questions of a prospective client. She wrote down no details, but he had no doubt in his mind that she would remember everything he said. She listened with rapt attention, grey eyes watching him intently as he spoke.

She was a beautiful young woman, her elven figure shorter than his own, muscles clearly toned from use of the bow she carried, but a subtle femininity to her that softened her edges, her dark hair long and braided off of her face, a few wildflowers twisted into it. He noticed a few scars scattered across her skin, some older, some much fresher; signs of more recent battle wounds. Whatever her role was within the Inquisition, she was clearly no stranger to a fight.

Once he had finished his pitch, she nodded him towards the centre of the village where people had begun to queue up for breakfast, “It seems you’ve had a long journey, lieutenant. Take a rest by the fire, get something to eat. I’ll pass along a message to those in charge and come find you once they have reached a decision.”

“Thank you. What about you?”

“What about me?” her eyebrows raised a little.

He glanced towards the porridge that was now being ladled out to those waiting and back to her, “Won’t you miss breakfast if you await their outcome?”

She let out a soft breath, a look of surprise in her expression, “I’ve already eaten, I’ve not quite acclimatised to human cooking as yet. But you’re very sweet to worry.”

He laughed a little at that, mostly to cover the warmth in his cheeks as she called him sweet, “Very well then.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

He watched her go as she headed back inside the Chantry, an odd stirring settling into his chest. He shook his head to himself and turned to go find some food, now was not the time to be thinking with anything other than his stomach or his head.

~*~*~

It was a short while later that she returned, finding him having finished his breakfast and wandered further into the village to investigate more about the Inquisition that he had found himself determined to work for. He had heard about the work they were doing, knew in his heart that the Chargers could be of assistance, and seeing it in person only strengthened his resolve.

“Lieutenant!” she called to him, joining him where he was watching some of the soldiers training, “How was breakfast?”

“Not the worst porridge I’ve eaten by a long shot,” he admitted, “But it’s a far cry from a Dalish recipe.”

“You know Dalish cooking?”

“A member of our company was born into a Dalish clan, she’s made us a few things she remembers from her childhood when it’s her turn to cook.”

“Your group truly is full of surprises,” she said with a smile before she straightened up her form a little, as though remembering why she was actually there, “The Herald apologises for not coming to meet you in person, but she said she would be happy to meet your group. Business will take her to the Storm Coast in the next few days.”

He nodded, “That’s good to hear.”

“Will you be staying to travel there with the Herald?”

“I should be heading back as soon as possible, let the Chief know to expect the Herald, make sure he hasn’t gotten himself into too much trouble whilst I’ve been gone.”

“That’s understandable, though the Herald asked me to let you know that if you require any supplies to ensure that you had them.”

“A most generous offer, though I think I’ll be okay. I brought plenty of provisions for the return trip.”

“Well, there is one thing for you to take with you. See to your horse and I’ll find you before you go.”

They parted once again, and true to her word, she returned as he was leading his mount from the stable, who had been fed and watered without want for any gold in exchange. The horsemaster had simply told him that the Inquisition looked after their own.

“Here,” she said, handing a bundle out to him, “For the road.”

He took it from her, feeling the warmth of the contents through the linen wrapping. He pulled on the string holding it together, the sweet smell wafting from within. Inside were half a dozen sweet buns, covered with a sticky glaze.

“Honey cakes,” she clarified, “They just finished cooking.”

“They smell incredible. What’s in these?”

“Well, the trick is-” she met his eyes, a grin spreading across her face, “If things work out between your boss and the Herald, I’ll tell you the secret ingredient when you come back to Haven.”

He gave a nod and a soft laugh, “I’ll hold you to that.”

“I wish you safe travels, Lieutenant.”

“Thank you, for everything… my apologies, I never got your name.”

“No, you didn’t. Something else I’ll tell you when you come back to Haven.”

He chuckled, “Very well.” He took her gloved hand, and her form stiffened for a brief moment before he brushed a kiss against the leather on the back on her hand, “Until we meet again.”

He noted the flush in her cheeks before she returned his warm smile, “Until we meet again.”

~*~*~

“Krem, is that a pack of baked goods?”

He had been back with the Chargers for less than an hour, finally taking a well-earned rest from his journey to enjoy one of the honey cakes away from the main part of their campsite, having no intention of sharing this gift with them, until a familiar horned shadow had loomed over him.

“Sure is, Chief,” he responded.

“Did you swing into the city on the way here? Where did you get those?”

“Haven.”

“You found cakes in Haven?”

“I didn’t steal them, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

“Well I’ve never seen you buy them either, so what’s...” he glanced at his lieutenant’s face, and the subtle hint of the flush in his cheeks, “Someone gave them to you. The question is if they’re as sweet on you as you are on them.”

Krem didn’t even bother to hide his growing smile at that point, “She was just being kind, but she was...”

“Yeah?”

“Possibly the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”

“Atta’ boy,” Bull clapped a hand to his back, taking a seat beside him, “So, c’mon, tell me about her.”

“She was elven, Dalish by the look of her tattoos and that hunting gear they wear-”

“The tight leather wraps, I’m familiar,” he nodded.

“She was the first person to actually stop and speak to me. I told her about the Chargers, she said she’d make sure the Herald got the message. She came and found me again before I could leave, said the Herald would love to come meet us and she gave me these for the road. She made them herself.”

“Well, damn. Even if things don’t work out with the Herald, we should swing by Haven when we’re next out that way.”

“We don’t-”

“Hey, it’s not every day my right-hand man meets an enchanting woman that captures his heart. Now, finish those up before Skinner spots them and tries to shiv you for them.”

He snorted a laugh, the warmth in his cheeks at the thought of meeting that young woman again still making itself known, “Yes, Chief.”

~*~*~

The fight had been a bloody disaster from the start.

They had been tracking the Tevinter mages along the coastline since his return from Haven, but one wrong move had left them fenced in; the sea on one side, a cliff face on the other, encroaching waves of Venatori, all whilst trying to fight on a pebble beach in a thunderstorm.

His heavy armour didn’t fare well against the salt spray of the seawater, nor the loose stone underfoot, breathing heavily under his helm as he knocked down mage after mage with his hammer, trying to hold the line to protect their ranged fighters.

Somewhere to the side of him he could hear Bull’s familiar battle roar as he cut down another Venatori, followed by a string of curses as another group of mages appeared on the periphery.

There was a hum of magic cast over them, a wavering barrier, and he gave a call of thanks to Dalish, who didn’t even give the obligatory protest of not being a mage, but warned that she couldn’t keep this up much longer.

They were all near spent, he could see it in the way Grim’s shoulder sagged under the weight of his shield as he blocked an incoming spell, or how Skinner’s usually deadly blows had grown sloppy, desperate.

Bull gave a bellowing call of encouragement to them all, receiving an exhausted but determined, “Horns up!” in response from his company.

They could do this. They had gotten out of worse fights than this. They could-

His foot slid out from under him as the pebbles shifted, distracting him for a split second long enough that he didn’t defend against the spell coming his way, knocking him clean on his back, head ringing as he hit the ground hard, vision swimming from the pain and the rain now thundering into his face through the slit in his visor.

Eyes silver like starlight. White wildflowers stark against dark hair. The warmth of freshly baked goods. He didn’t know her name yet.

With a groan of pain, he hauled himself to his feet, hefting his hammer onto his shoulder, tensing himself to bring it crashing down into the sternum of the approaching mage. Yet before he could make his move, an arrow whistled past his ear, sinking into the jugular of the ‘vint, felling him in a single shot.

He turned, looking to thank one of Skinner’s skirmishers, but instead saw a figure sliding down the cliff face towards them, bow in hand, firing another arrow as they went, taking down another approaching soldier. He lifted the visor of his helm, wiping the rain from his eyes and saw the elven woman from Haven approaching him.

“Nice hammer, lieutenant,” she flashed him a smile then ran past him, throwing herself into the fray firing arrow after arrow.

Other members of the Inquisition soon joined them, having taken a more stable route down the cliff face; an elven mage, the Seeker and a man in the armour of a Grey Warden. It was more than enough to tip the fight in their favour, finishing off the final Venatori on the beach.

As he allowed himself a few breaths to recover, he couldn’t help but admire the elven rogue, watching her move gracefully across the battlefield, light enough on her feet that the pebbles barely shifted under her movements, unperturbed by the storm that raged around them; a true Dalish hunter.

Hells, if nothing else worked out with the Inquisition, she would make an incredible addition to the Chargers.

He set to his post-battle routine, checking on the others, ensuring the throat-cutters were getting to work at the Chief’s orders, though he kept half an eye on the group from the Inquisition as they began talking to Bull. He saw him beginning to talk to the elven woman alone and he felt a knot in his stomach.

He trusted Bull with his life, but the thought of him saying anything at all untoward her in an attempt to aid his love life had him wandering over, determined to interrupt so that he could make sure that Bull finalised their contract with no damned distractions.

“The, uh, the throat-cutters are all done, Chief,” he said as he approached, “Stitches is looking after the wounded.”

Bull looked between him and the elf, and he could tell he was holding back a shit eating grin.

“I assume you remember my lieutenant, Cremisius Aclassi.”

Krem met her eyes as she smiled at him, and he nodded, “It’s good to see you again, I-”

“Krem, this is Brenna of Clan Lavellan,” Bull cut him off, an inordinate amount of glee in his eye, “She’s the Herald of Andraste.”

Shit.

“Y-Your Worship,” he fully bowed his head, partially out of respect, mostly to hide the look of horror on his face.

“Oh!” she said, surprised, “There’s really no need for any of that.”

“Get everyone up together, Krem, we’re headed out,” Bull told him, “We just got hired.”

Of fucking course.

~*~*~

“Buy her a drink,” Bull insisted.

It had been a few weeks since they had joined the Inquisition formally. Bull had begun travelling at the Herald’s side, leaving him to lead the Chargers. They had been travelling around the Hinterlands for the most part, aiding with relief efforts, clearing bandit camps, but during the pockets of time between assignments, he found himself in Haven, avoiding the Herald of Andraste.

It would be easier that way, he could move on from his stupid bloody crush, and pretend that he wasn’t pining for the woman who had physically walked out of the Fade and potentially held the fate of the world in her hands.

And yet, despite his efforts, she was bloody everywhere.

He was running the Chargers through some training drills in the snowy fields outside Haven, only for her to go hurtling past, bow in hand, calling out a greeting before she disappeared off into the woods, returning later to call for some help to carry her goods, having hunted down some wild druffalo for meat and furs to keep members of the Inquisition fed and warm. He had gone to her without thought, and followed her back to the village, arms laden with furs, heart hammering in his chest as she laughed and joked with him.

He had volunteered for a night watch, determined to help out around Haven whenever he was there, and as he stood shivering in the cold, regretting not bringing his warmer cloak with him from his tent, he suddenly found a steaming cup of tea held out in front of him, the Herald telling him that it was a special Dalish blend designed to warm the body on winter nights. It was herbal, but he couldn’t ignore the sweetness of the honey that she had clearly mixed into it to detract from the bitterness. He had thanked her, and hoped she thought the blush in his cheeks was simply from the cold.

Even when he had been stationed out in the Hinterlands, the Chargers making quick work of some bandits that had been hassling refugees, there she was, brining supplies to the smallfolk, talking to a young girl about her vallaslin as the curious child asked questions, not shunning her away as some would. There was a patience to her, a kindness that he was surprised still endured after everything that had happened in the last few weeks to her. Even if members of the Chantry still doubted her innocence, still claimed she was responsible for the destruction of the Conclave, called her a heretic, there was no doubt in him that she was a hero. Not for the mark on her hand, or the title that had been thrust upon her, but for who she was at heart.  

And now, once again, here she was, sitting a few tables away in the tavern in Haven, close enough to hear her laughter as she conversed with Dorian and Varric. Her dark hair was loose around her shoulders for once, looking more at ease than she had in a while.

He sighed, “She’s the Herald of Andraste, Chief, she’s not going to want to drink with some common mercenary.”

“Hey now, the Chargers are no common band of mercs, and you’re a damn fine soldier, any woman would be lucky to have a drink with you,” Bull said, “Besides, she’s not exactly been one for airs and graces, you know she doesn’t give a shit about the title. If anything, she probably needs someone to treat her like a regular woman again.”

He watched her bid goodnight to her friends, even flashing him a warm smile when she caught his eye, then headed outside.

“Krem,” Bull’s tone turned a little more serious, “You don’t let a woman like that get away. Take a chance.”

Fuck it.

He slammed back the rest of his drink, and got to his feet, earning a hefty pat on the back from the Chief before he followed her out into the cool night air.

She was quicker than him, light on her feet as always, headed away from the tavern. He followed her for a few paces, opening his mouth to call to her, but he stopped in his tracks when he saw someone else approach her.

It was the elf, the one who had been with her at the Coast, the one who travelled diligently at her side, Solas. The Herald smile at him, wide eyed in the moonlight, her hand gently squeezing one of his as they spoke before she let go, a flush in her cheeks.

Oh.

They turned, clearly headed somewhere together, and she spotted him.

“Are you alright, Krem?” she asked.

“Y-Yes, Your Worship,” he nodded quickly, “Just getting some air. You have a pleasant evening.”

“You as well,” she said, “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” he replied softly, waiting until she and Solas were out of sight to rest his head against the side of the tavern, letting out a hard breath that clouded on the air.

Idiot.

[lanafofana]

Snippet Sunday Funday

✨💖Thankies for the tag @roguishcat 💖✨

If you're here for BG3 content I'm afraid I've dipped my toes into Dragon Age Inquisition. Read on for some Solavellan Hell Mongering.

No warnings (other than DAI spoilers)

Context is that Inky has time travelled, dated the eggman and now Solas has dragged her ass to Crustywood.

Enjoy 😘

“Then what I must tell you…the truth–”

There. She can see it now, the tell she missed in her first life. The flicker in his gaze. The sudden realization and despair in the same breath. The weighty mantle of grim acceptance settling around him like a funeral shroud. She can see it all like a beacon of pain shining out from his eyes, the dip at the corner of his mouth, the furrow of his brow.

The gentle press of her fingers against his lips has startled him into temporary muteness. Stemmed the tide of this ill-fated evening but she knows it won't hold for long.

“The truth is,” she says quietly, staring at where her fingertips brush against the soft dry skin of his mouth to avoid his piercing gaze. “I know a liar when I see one.”

Solas’ lips part when he sucks in a breath.

“Even one who lies only by omission.”

The breath he releases is slow, controlled and steady, and hot against her skin. She sees him swallow hard, his lashes fluttering as his lids slide shut.

What could he possibly be thinking, she wonders with a thrill of fear.

Reconsidering what Leliana’s network of spies might have discovered and insinuated? Perhaps how to control any potential fallout with misdirection and a clever lie so mired in truth it tastes just the same when she swallows it.

Or, she thinks darkly, maybe he is judging the weight of the Inquisition's value against its potential liability. Dreading what she could possibly be leading up to.

She wishes she knew. Her stomach swoops like she's in freefall.

Wrapped in the safety of mortal flesh and bone, her heartbeat hammers to break free and scream.

“A mage with a mysterious past,” she begins.

Miraculously, her voice is steady, betraying none of the tremulous anxiety ricocheting around her gut, striking against her ribs like shrapnel.

“One with rare, intimate knowledge of the Fade; experience with warfare enough to find kinship with a battlehardend warrior.”

Still and stern he reminds her chillingly of the stone statues he once left in his wake. Is he even breathing? Is she?

“Canny enough to play mental strategy against the best Hissrad the Qunari could offer. And win.”

When she chances a glance at his face his eyes are still closed, his usually placid expression is tense. A wolf backed into a corner.

“An apostate that appeared at the right time, in the right place.”

Moving her hand from its delicate perch on his lips, Ellana cups his clenched jaw, tracing the laugh line at the corner of his mouth with her thumb. His eyes crack open slowly, pools of liquid silver in the moonlight. Mercurial and soaked in secrets. The Dread Wolf carries his own Wells of Sorrow on his face, as obvious as any vallaslin, borne in tandem with his terrible yoke of duty. The weight of them could crush her.

“Did you think I walked into your love blind, Vhenan?”

Solas’ eyes trace the planes of her face like it’s a map he’s never seen before. As quickly as he turns new information around in his mind he’s also memorizing every line and freckle, committing each fresh detail of her that's been revealed in this new light to his eternal memory.

“I have never pressed you to reveal your secrets or why you keep them. I do not intend to do so now.”

At this he can hold his silence no longer. “Vhenan–”

With terrible certainty she knows this is where he is trying to draw his line in the sand. The clean break to spare them both a worse fallout in the future. A desperate, foolish, stupid attempt to protect her that could only have been born from his deep tragic love for her. Idiot.

She can see his regret as clearly as she can hear it. It makes her want to tear it from his face with her nails and teeth. To rip it from him like a mask. Like she did in Tevinter, a lifetime ago.

A lifetime that ended in ashes.

When she’d thought she’d finally gained the upper hand for once and slid her fingers beneath carved porcelain. So naively certain of her victory. Only to reveal the face of a trusted confident staring back at her, also painted with regret.

Ellana hates regret. What good was regret when his hand was already buried to the wrist between her ribs, iron fingers around her heart.

No, the Inquisitor has no need for regret. And neither does Ellana.

Her voice, when she finds it, is a hoarse whisper. “Do not presume to make my decisions for me, Solas.”

He stares at her in surprise. Opening his mouth he hesitates and closes it again, rethinking what he wants to say. Completely incongruous with the heavy hearted seriousness of the moment she feels an entirely inappropriate burst of glee at catching him off guard.

The line of his shoulders softens and the expression on his face turns rueful. “Even in this, you surprise me.”

And then they have filthy depraved grotto sex.

TBC 😘

Tags: @feedthepheasants

[nerdee-blondee]

Other question 😋 : Did your Lavellan keep or remove the Vallaslin after the reveal in DAI? I feel like keeping it teaches another valuable lesson to Solas about the world evolving but at the same time I like playing a Dalish elf desillusioned about what she was taught to believe

oooh i never thought of it that way! never thought of how keeping the valaslin could be a lesson for solas on how not everything is the same as it was in his time! LOVE THAT!!

but i personally always play a lavellan who is very open minded about learning anything and everything! about how humans really are like. how dwarves in orzammar govern. what's going on in par vollen. anywhere where she can't be physically, she wants to understand. she's a natural leader, as she was meant to become the next Keeper of her clan.

and to that end, she doesn't tolerate misinformation. she doesn't have time for it. throughout inquisition she's finding out that her a lot of her own people's history and lore are in fact misinformation, and yes that stings initially, but she adepts and rethinks.

SO for my lavellan, when she finds out vallaslin are in fact slave markings, of course that is going to hurt her at first. something that she was initially so proud of. something that said "i am dalish and proud" now meant "i am some gods property". and again, she doesn't tolerate misinformation. so, when solas gives her a way to remove this accursed marking. she will take it in a heartbeat.

the word slave is an ugly ugly word and my inquisitor wants nothing to do with it

but AGAIN we all play our characters differently and i love finding out about other peoples characters!

[shift-shaping]

"Let me train you in spirit magic" or, please stop getting your ass kicked

Short fic from early in Solas and Enaste's relationship, in which he offers to teach her combat magic and spends absolutely no excess time staring at her and describing her eyes.

rating: general

pairing: solavellan

She was an inexperienced mage, and that made her dangerous.

In battle she stood beside him, careful not to disrupt his spells but not confident enough to properly wield her own. She knew this about herself, and thus restrained her power. Perhaps this was what the Dalish taught her, that it was better for her grip to be too tight than too loose.

It would not keep her safe, not with the Anchor drawing so much attention from across the Veil. She lacked the inner calm needed to dissuade demonic interest. He hoped, at first, that she could simply learn by example: she was remarkably observant and self-possessed, and perhaps could find the gaps in her training by paying attention to his.

If she did find such gaps, she was unable to mend them herself. Even if he believed she could resist possession, drawing demons towards their position was exhausting them both and would inevitably lead to casualties. He recalled her short, shallow breaths, how her black hair stuck to the shimmering skin of her face, the shudder of magic through her lithe frame and into her white-knuckled hands --and when she fell, as she often did, her hazel eyes shone with guilt as he bent to help her stand.

She did not like being helpless, and prided herself on her reliability and independence. He had yet to witness her response to genuine criticism, and thus waited until she was alone just outside of camp so as not to embarrass her.

"Enaste." She leaned against a roughshod wooden banister overlooking a narrow valley. The Hinterlands was often picturesque, in its way, especially in the fading light of dusk. She turned to him, first over her shoulder, then more fully. The metallic details of her armor took on an orange tint. "May I have a word?"

Her dark brows furrowed, pinching the dendritic lines of her deep purple vallaslin. "Of course." She sounded cautious. The gravel of the path crunched beneath his feet as he came to join her by the overlook. "Is it about the artifact we found earlier?"

He shook his head. "Curious as it is, no. I wanted to know how you were fairing, after so much fighting. Did you train for combat in your Clan?"

She sighed. "No." She turned away from him, towards the valley. Her long, thin fingers gripped the railing. "I was far more focused on learning about magic than how to use it."

"I understand. Yet you have some talent for it. Did your Keeper see no reason to hone that?"

"It is... complicated." She glanced at him, and he tilted his head. "Whatever talent I had did not manifest until I was already trained to be hunter. Or mostly trained, anyway."

"Truly? You must have been older than most, then."

She nodded. "I had some odd dreams when I was younger, but no one suspected I was a mage until I was nearly ready to receive my vallaslin." He was unfamiliar with magic manifesting so late, even now, and it explained a great deal about her lack of skill. "The mark has made my magic stronger, I can feel it." She opened her left palm, and green sparks shivered to her fingertips. Then she looked at him again, and the intensity of her gaze disarmed him. "I need more training, don't I?" Her full lips tilted into a rare grin and she gestured to a gash in the leather of his armor. He'd earned it catching a blow meant for her. "Or Josephine will have words with me about our armor budget."

He returned her smirk. "I would not be concerned about the armor budget."

"No, I suppose hiring a real trainer will be more expensive."

The smirk remained; he cocked his head. "Why would you need to hire a trainer?" She frowned, confused, and he went on. "You need practice in spirit magic, to avoid drawing excess threats to our position." He held his hands behind his back. "I believe I am fully qualified to assist you."

"Oh." Her smirk did not return. "I... there's no reason to burden you with training me. You have other duties."

The hesitance was unexpected, but understandable. "If you would prefer a different trainer, I could help find one." He had sat by her side and studied the effect of the anchor on her body for hours while she slept, had felt the flow of magic through her and into the mark. He had enough stability in battle to watch her, and had noted her interactions with the rest of the Inquisition. He felt he knew her, but she likely had no such feeling for him. "Even another Dalish mage could be found, I suppose."

Enaste looked out towards the valley. She was silent for a few moments. A gentle breeze stirred the loose locks of hair that framed her face. In this light her eyes were almost green, her face outlined with golden sunlight. She bit her lower lip. He looked away.

"No, you are right," she said finally, her voice surprisingly firm and clear. "You've seen my weaknesses in combat. You are a talented spirit mage." She nodded, apparently having made her decision. "I would be honored if you'd consider training me."

"I require no such formality, lethallan." It was endearing, though. Enaste could be deferential when she wanted to, though she rarely was to their human companions. "We may begin whenever you are ready."

She blinked at him. "Now?"

"Whenever you are ready," he repeated. His lips twitched into a smirk. "But the sooner the better. The Rifts will not wait for you to become more proficient in closing them."

"And I'm sure you're sick of rescuing me."

He opened his mouth, then thought better of what he was about to say and rephrased it. "I --am still here to assist you. But reducing the frequency of the rescuing would be preferable."

Footsteps crunched up the path behind them, and they both turned to see one of the Inquisition officers waiting patiently with a sheet of paper in hand. "Herald, my apologies for interrupting. I have a report on the locations of the bandits you asked about earlier."

"Yes, thank you," Enaste nodded to him. "Later, then." She paused, then smiled softly. "Hahren."

He nodded in response, uncertain how sarcastic that was. She left him by the overlook, the officer's voice drifting into the distance as he kept his gaze on the valley below.

next fic ->

[thecherrypitpie]

below the cut is a still-unedited excerpt from my nearly decade-old solavellan fic

that a younger kesali removed from the earth in fear of continuing merrill-backlash but that's a tale for another day

enjoy if you want! it is post-crestwood solas-critical as delivered by my OG lavellan's very protective brother

@rosieofcorona food for thee specifically should you hunger

"No!"

He bit back with a vengeance. He had sat by and watched as the elven hermit filled his sister's head with dreamy tales of the time before. He had encouraged their blossoming affection, wanting so badly to keep that small smile on her face. He had wished them well on their romantic getaway even as he desperately wanted to squirrel Dheana away and discuss what they had learned in Mythal's temple.

And now she was gone.

"I can't explain to you how very fucking little I care what vallaslin meant eons ago! Slave markings - sure, add it to the ridiculously long list of terrible things done to elves throughout history. Did you ever bother to consider what it means now? To the real people who live every day knowing how little they have left and trying to build something out of fucking ashes while every other person in the world stands over them with another torch? Do you care? Does it matter to you at all that you've spent years rejecting community and choosing to isolate yourself with nothing but spirits and your own self-righteousness for company? Does it matter that you've ripped my sister's literal identity off her skin and condemned her to a life as isolated and pathetic as yours?"

He had been speaking incredibly fast, the words pouring out before he had fully considered them. Not that he regretted any of them and the deepening hurt and anger behind Solas' eyes brought him much satisfaction - even as he continued spitting venom into the older man's carefully-blank face.

"You have done every conceivable thing to pull her away from what family she has left. And she can't even have you?"

His face still twisted in disgust, he couldn't bare to breathe Solas' air for another moment, and he left on swift legs - a shocked and intrigued Dorian following after him. He didn't get to see the mask crack as a single tear was hastily wiped away.

[monabee-draws]

My Dragon Age elves! Each of them wears a token from their lovers.

(Theron is a sweet poly boy and yes, he does drag Zevran along into the Eluvian to raise Kieran with Morrigan. Kid is lucky he has three great parents.)

Some notes if anyone is interested:

Theron Mahariel - a Dalish mage who loses out on being First to Merrill because of his heritage. Romances both Morrigan and Zev, does the Dark Ritual, goes after Morrigan with Zevran and all three spend time together in the Crossroads raising Kieran. They also travel the world as a family, keeping the Crows off of Zev's back, and during Inquisition Theron and Zev go off to find a cure for the Calling, while Morrigan protects Kieran and waits for their return. Morrigan and Zev aren't romantically involved but they do share some gestures and sexytimes eventually (its canon she finds him attractive so 😉.)

Marin Lavellan - a simple Dalish hunter who struggles finding a reason to stay with the Inquisition to start with. Was sent to the Conclave to find an old clan member who became a warden, eventually meets and falls for Dorian as they save the world, and comes to love the people there. He and Dorian are apart for a few years while things in Minrathous settle, but eventually join up with some Eluvian help and adopt a child together named Davhalla (Little Gift.)

Silea Lavellan - Her clan's First, and a lover of history. Silea spends most of Inquisition trying to uncover the truths behind the relationship between elves and humans, and falls immediately for Solas' soft voice and wisdom. She chooses to keep her Vallaslin because its been thousands of years, and they don't represent what they used to in elven culture anymore - she is still proud of how it makes obvious her pride for withstanding human greed and expansion. Meeting Solas in Trespasser is awful because she appreciates that the world is what it is, and should only move forward. But, she's hopeful she can redeem him. Whether he is still in her heart by Veilguard is... on the fence.

Emmaline Bellin - a Tranquil mage from the Circle of Antiva City. She leaves the circle after a few years and is taken up into the Crows where she makes a fine blade - doesn't complain, survives off of minimal money as she doesn't covet nice items or tasty food, and an immediately underestimated face due to her mark of tranquility. She is saved by a kind Spirit Healer a few years after the cure is spread post-Inquisition (that healer MAY be Anders.) Now she loves life, is very boisterous, and indulges every whim - violence, hunger, greed and avarice. If she weren't now 'immune' to possession, she'd be a fantastic target.

[vigilskeep]

can we hear more nennaia divorce lore?

okay yes. you need the broader nennaia backstory here so we may as well go through the whole thing

nennaia is keeper deshanna’s sister, and the two were trained to act together. nennaia has mythal’s vallaslin and deshanna has elgar’nan’s, representing the leadership qualities of the allmother and the allfather. deshanna led boldly, while nennaia acted with caution and care: offering advice, keeping the clan safe, and placating them all to get along and work together under their keeper’s command

this led to the heaviest decision of nennaia’s life. a few years before the rebellion, her mage son (she married fairly young and had two(?) children) was captured by a large group of templars who returned with him to a sizable chantry. he was probably on the older side of teenager, just earned his vallaslin, trying to be a brave man instead of a boy. lives would be lost and the entire clan targeted if a rescue was attempted. ultimately, ever the dutiful right hand, nennaia chose to put the clan’s safety first as she always had, rather than push to try to save her boy.

her relationship with the clan as a whole has been pretty strained ever since. it’s hard to live with people who know what you’re willing to sacrifice, whose gratitude stings even more than their mistrust, and who you had such easy lifelong rapport with before all this. the duties she used to do so unthinkingly are now harder because of that changed dynamic, and because resentment spoils all the work that was once a joy; hasn’t she given enough for this clan? how can anyone ask more? things were especially difficult with her daughter and her spouse, who felt the loss, and on some level the betrayal, most keenly. she tried to repair things for a long time, but with her spouse eventually officially leaving her, and her daughter starting a young family of her own, it feels like even what little she can offer is no longer wanted or needed

she spent more and more time away from the clan even before the conclave, and her sister was good enough to make excuses, find useful things she could go out to do alone. but it’s been a while since nennaia felt like she had a real purpose. the plan to go and keep an eye on the conclave offered a glimmer of hope, if only because it was a difficult task to set her mind to, and involved the fraction of a possibility that her lost son might be there

[gabumonisbestdigimon]

Alright DA fans, help me out. I just started a solavellan run, what should I do? My Lavellan is a SnS warrior with Mythal's vallaslin. She's also going to drink from the well. She doesn't wear the vallaslin for religious reasons, but for her clan and heritage.

Should she keep it, have Solas remove it, or remove it but have it redone by Veilguard because she is now a servant of Mythal?

[ruiningsalads]

Finding a letter they weren't meant to see for Solavellan :D Happy friday!

woof! I had trouble deciding which way I wanted this to go.

this is set after Veilguard, once the dust has settled.

"Vhenan?" Solas ventured into Lavellan's workroom, expecting to find her busily writing at her desk, as she so often did. To his surprise, she wasn't there. Her desk was covered in letters for her friends and former inner circle, but his eyes were drawn to a thick stack of parchment laid off to one side. Had Varric finally returned her accounting of the Inquisition? The dwarf had agreed to help her edit, but Solas suspected he was also pulling from her writing to supplement his own book.

Curious to see Varric's comments, he sank into Lavellan's chair and pulled the stack closer to him. Immediately, he could see that it was not her manuscript, but was instead a large stack of unsent letters -- addressed to him. It was beneath him to snoop, but his curiosity got the better of him, and he read.

Though written like letters to him, he quickly realized she used them as a sort of diary. The earliest pages were fresh with pain, betrayal, determination -- but as he read, he could feel as she grew ever more tired. Her arm no longer troubled her, but the pain in her heart, the pain caused by him, festered. He had known how much she suffered, at least to some degree, but to read it laid out in her handwriting chronicled over the decade they were apart...

He felt unworthy of her. After all she had done, all she had sacrificed, he broke her heart and left her behind for his own selfish purpose. Of course nothing went to plan, and that served to bring her back to him, but would it have been better if he kept his distance? Guilt weighed heavily on him, seeping under his skin like the vallaslin he so despised, leaving him marked and tainted.

"I could never figure out where to send those." He whipped his head around to see her leaning against the doorway, watching him. "You never left a mailing address."

"I... Vhenan, forgive me. My curiosity got the better of me, and..." His voice trailed off. No explanation felt sufficient, not after reading her soul laid bare.

"It was written to you." She padded over to the desk and picked up the page he had been reading. "I never thought you would actually read these, but it brought me some comfort imagining that somehow you would."

He felt unclean, like the lowest darkspawn skulking in the deep roads. When he moved to get up, she placed her hand gently on his chest to keep him in place. Then, she perched on his leg, much to his surprise.

"You already know much of this." She sorted through the pages, skimming the details briefly before moving on. "You had agents tracking me all along."

"I... Yes, I knew most of it."

She lowered the pages to look at him, one corner of her mouth twitching upwards. "Careful, Dread Wolf. Your reputation will be ruined if word gets out that you have such a soft heart."

How did she do it? How could she bear to look at him and smile after everything?

"Solas." Her warm hand on his cheek shook him free of his spiraling thoughts. "You're here now. You've made amends. I need you to acknowledge that." She peered searchingly into his eyes. "Don't run away from me this time. Please."

He sighed and wrapped her in his arms. "For you, vhenan, I will try."

[aprilmr]

Ok, but I am a firm believer in the fact that Solas should have told the truth about vallaslin to a befriended Lavellan too. Imagine for a second, you are looking at your beloved's face and despite their beauty there are these godawful SLAVE MARKINGS that are just painful to look at. You obviously decide to tell the truth to her, and let her choose if she wants to keep them or not. Understandble. NOW. Why doesn't he do this to a friend Lavellan too? 😭 What is the inherent difference between the two?? It's like looking at your friend's face and seeing a dick doodle made in permanent marker, and not even hinting at the fact that something is wrong. Why the hell do I learn about the fact that vallaslin is a FUCKING SLAVE MARK from FUCKING CORYPHEUS with ONE FUCKING LINE. Solas, what the hell, come back right now and take this shit off of my face you silly goose.

[dreadfutures]

and a final stealth prompt for dirth: “technically you won’t kill me, because i gave it to you. do it properly, then.”

thank you friend

for @dadrunkwriting

Dirthamen committed the first sin of the Evanuris, setting his lordly family down a path of slavery and megalomania when he first shared with them the secrets of the vallaslin. He learned well thereafter to keep his secrets to himself, but his regret remained for what became of the People under his invention.

When the Rebel Wolf gave him a chance to atone, Dirth knew how it would end.

He just hopes that this secret will die with him.

Image: statue found above Flemeth and Kieran's ritual in the raw Fade, identical to "The Watcher" and "The Raven" in the Emerald Graves/Exalted Plains, associated with Dirthamen.

-:-:-

Dirthamen flies, and his shadow follows.

Through the furthest reaches of the Fade, Dirthamen leads his twin; he is a streak of starlight, and Falon'Din is the hungry darkness that lurks behind. They are inextricable, and that is why Falon'Din was tasked with chasing him down when his treason was discovered. Yet that bond is also why Dirthamen can stay one step ahead.

Dirthamen knows what Falon'Din doesn't, but Falon'Din knows his brother.

The God of Secrets will not outstrip his pursuer, but that is not his goal--not that the God of Death knows *that.* All Dirthamen can hope to do here is keep his family's attention as best he can, while the Pride of Elvhenan orchestrates its fall.

He's fairly certain that even Solas doesn't understand that that, truly, is what he will enact. And Dirthamen, poisoned by his sister's arrow, feathers scorched by his adopted father's mighty rays, pursued by his brother's bloody maw, and forsaken by all the rest, has neither time nor desire to open Solas' eyes.

Time is running out for them all. Mythal's death is unraveling him, and Falon'Din, for though they took on bodies at her instruction, they were born of her spirit. Andruil and Sylaise alone out of their family had been bodied first, then awakened as Spirits, and this they were the only ones with the ability to destroy their maker without destroying themselves. But while Mythal's death did not threaten Andruil's existence, the Huntress was already well on her way to ruin already thanks to the Void magic that tainted her existence. Even Sylaise could not heal what was broken and breaking inside her sister. She had tried--and it had cost her her sanity, and probably her life, though Dirthamen was not witness to it.

Everything in existence was on its way to join he if Solas did not act, and Dirthamen could not have risked Pride staying his hand. Foolish, brash, despairing Pride--he would be at once the doom of Elvhenan, and the savior of the world.

Time would tell how he would be remembered.

Dirthamen hoped they would all be forgotten.

He would do his best to drag them with him, into oblivion. His own plans had been laid long ago, and he believed that his family was still ignorant of his trap.

It was his greatest secret. He had worked hard to keep it, until now.

Through the Fade he fled, leading his brother along a path only he knew. Falon'Din would think him simply desperate prey, hopeless and afraid, but Dirthamen planned every step, every warp, every twist, every portal, with care. Their path ventured, then returned, and once again they careened through the glittering domes of Arlathan.

Andruil, maddened and with a thirst that had not been slaked with Mythal's blood, joined the chase, and Ghilan'nain followed--now, little more than one of the monsters she had sired. Elgar'nan's wrath turned toward them, focusing on the traitor to his own treasonous plot, and gave pursuit with all his might.

Dirthamen was fleet, slippery, a shade. But his strength was not without limit, and he could not hope to stand against them all.

He felt Pride's song begin, far away at the court of Justice where Mythal had once appointed her his steward. It was far enough that the Evanuris would not be able to reach him, having gone so far astray in their pursuit of traitorous Dirthamen. They knew--as much as the lucid ones could know--that they had been caught in a trap.

The only thing left to do was to tear apart the bait.

In the central square of the city, Dirthamen crashed to the ground. Feathers and blood rained down around him, and the serpentine monstrosities of his kin followed with landings that shook the island to its root. Civilians and soldiers alike fled in terror, and watched, horrified, from afar as the Evanuris gathered for a final time.

Dirthamen staggered to his feet, his cloak of shadows and secrets all that remained of his regalia. His armor was scorched and tattered, metal hanging from his body like ripped fabric.

But still--the First of the People were not easy to kill, and of them all, Dirthamen was the Eldest.

"HE'S MINE," Falon'Din bellowed to their maddened kin, and Dirthamen smiled a bloody smile in the shadow of his hood.

"You won't kill me," he chided. "I gave you that body, my brother, and you gave me mine."

"I shall," Falon'Din said. "I will have no brother, no reflection--I shall stand alone in glory, purchased with your blood!"

"Then do it properly!" Dirthamen roared in reply. His eyes darted to his other kin, circling him. "Let me be your final sacrifice, O Death, and seal your fate!"

"Hold him still," Falon'Din barked. "Do not let him escape!"

Dirthamen could not brace himself in time for the blow. He rocked forward with it, staggered, and fell to one knee in a hail of blood. Elgar'nan's sword jutted from his chest, streaked with red, and as Dirthamen gasps, more blood pours from his wound and from his mouth.

He will not, cannot die from this--but the agony is beyond anything he has ever known.

He bows his head, gagging, face shadowed beneath his hood.

Falon'Din stands before him.

Kneels.

This was never going to be the victory the vain god wanted. This was never going to be the peaceful venture Dirthamen has dreamed of.

Falon'Din looks into his brother's eyes, hatred and a vicious love reflected back at him.

"No more secrets," Dirthamen whispers.

"No more journeys," Falon'Din agrees.

Falon'Din slits his own throat, and Dirthamen dies.

And dies.

And dies.

Time unwinds from the world, but Arlathan remains frozen, and Dirthamen's blood anchors the spell--the moment held like an extended note in an aching melody, a life preserved in Solas's song.