#she changed everything

[scribeofmorpheus]

Var Lath Vir Bellanaris

PART 1: Vi'Revas Warnings: Veilguard spoilers, Solavellan spoilers, angst, yearning, the feels! Words: 2.5k, not proofed, straight word vomit. Sequel to: Harellan (post-Trespasser) & Not Some Fanciful Story Recommended song: In Cold Light NOT PROOFREAD

The sky was blackened. The spire covered in the entrails of Lusacan, the last Archdemon. So much of that moment reminded her of the final push at the Valley of Sacred Ashes, of the last fight to save all of Thedas.

“Bind yourself to the Veil,” Rook’s voice carried as clear as a bell. “…stop it from falling.”

Revas’ blood turned to ice, a gasp fighting its way out of her quivering lips.

This wasn’t how she’d imagined her future, crippled, heartbroken, beaten-down from losing friend after friend to the blight in the south. She hadn’t expected to survive her encounter with Corypheus all those years ago, but she had always imagined hope would endure if she fell in that battle; hope that there would always be a promise of tomorrow.

There was none of that now.

She’d felt it when she walked the streets of Tevinter, seeing so many feet sway above the hanging post, nooses digging through skin. Cries of loss trickled from near every home and it was worse back home. The Free Marches. The Dales. Denerim. There were no more roaming halla. The aravels were gone. Cities, older than she would ever be, were lost to the blighted growth of endless decay, lost to the sourness of rot and the heat of death. Skyhold remained. And the sick, the poor, the wounded, they all flocked to her walls. Last she was there, they had turned the rotunda into an infirmary. She’d watched as countless strangers and friends had erected a wall of remembrance over the frescoes.  Drawings, letters marked with the names of loved ones, red hand prints, every creative indicator of loss was mounted on those walls, a candle lit by the feet each night.

She had hung up the letter from Briala a few months ago, the one that spoke of the loss of the Dalish clans and city alienages, the loss of what little elvish resistance had begun to rise in the face of human tyranny. She had cried when she’d added the title of Last of Clan Lavellan to her speeches, rallying the dwindling number of her troops to their death as they tried to save Grand Enchanter Fiona and her Circle mages, and then the Arl at Redcliff, and then the entire city of Halamshiral. Walking the palace she had once danced in, seeing barely a soul, hearing no music, it broke her.

The morning after each hard-fought battle, when she went to count the new dead amongst the half-living, she’d hear the curse she’d once foolishly cast on the very walls that stood as the final bastion against complete ruination.

I hope, wherever you are, 'ma vhen'an, that you are as miserable in your lonely hunt as I am miserable in this broken body, carrying the weight of two hearts. May the dinan’shiral break you, for that is the only way I could ever hope to see you again; or let this cruel world open its maw and swallow me whole, into nothing, past the Fade and out of memory so my sadness can never touch another again.

Regret. O, such a dagger, blunted and rough, pushing past bone to tear at your insides. She understood it better than she did joy. Because why else would the world try so hard to tear itself apart if not to answer her prayer?

Was his dinan’shiral not breaking them both?

A week ago, she had placed a Chantry necklace at the foot of a pile of jewellery recovered from the dead for Mother Giselle and Charter. And then the letter from Varric… she had carried it with her, through everything. Her last shred of hope.

I found him, Freckles.

She had cried as she held the paper in her hands, Dorian’s hand pressed to her back as Rook walked out to face the last of the Evanuris.

Revas should have been used to losing. All those lessons of Wicked Grace she’d had with Varric, all the sparring matches with Bull, the debates with Dorian, the arguments on Circle infrastructure with Vivienne, talk of belief in the Maker with Leliana, belief in elven gods… Crestwood. Losing should have been as easy as breathing, but every breath was a shard of glass to her lungs, a battering ram to her spirit.

There were no ties left to bind her to her home in Thedas.  

There was but one choice to make.

Revas looked down at Elgar’nan’s body, disappointed at what rotten fruit the ides of godhood bore.  There was always someone bent on breaking the world. Uncertain, she looked ahead, dismayed by just how much the tide had turned in a few months.

It cut her deeply, to know that it was her heart that stood at the helm of this unending cycle.

From where she stood, she could see the Veil gouged open like the slit of a tired eye; poised to waken, yet still full of the promise of further sleep. That same light had once shone from her very palm.

Despite everything, she found herself fighting off the pull of a smile. Herald of Andraste here to face the very maker of the Veil. It was poetic enough to make a religion out of it. Varric would’ve made a killing with a twist like that. His best and last seller for all of Thedas. A love story.

She paused by the doorway, watching him ascend the steps slowly, unsure of what it was she was hoping to see, but when Solas bowed his head in that very same manner he had done before he bent to kiss her that last time, she knew the words that would fall from his lips before they even had a chance to grace the air.

He couldn’t do it.

Not on his own.

Thirteen steps. That was all she needed to surmount. Not a high dragon. Not a blighted, ancient Tevinter magister who had walked the Black City. Not the fall of the South. It was just thirteen steps across the divide, past Rook and past every decision that led them to this point.

Back turned to her, wrecked and ravaged by a hard fight, Solas’ body was wrapped beautifully in armour stripped down to its barebones, a remnant of the one she’d watched gleam through an eluvian, wolf pelt slung on the side in place of a sigil. It made him look vulnerable. Nowhere near as regal as he’d been in the Fade, yet neither draped in humility as he’d been in Skyhold.

When Solas climbed the final step, dagger balancing dangerously in his open palm, he declared full of regret: “I cannot.”

His voice, quivering and mournful, sent tremors through Revas.

She quickened her pace, half afraid she’d turn into a shemlen in the process.

He was so close. So close to touch. Her every muscle ached to reach out and be reunited with him, her chest heavy as though she could feel the very weight of him pressed against her bones. Yet, despite how much she desired it, she could not run to him. She had to take each step carefully.

Rook gave her a look of warning, but shifted to the side, letting her pass.

They would work together on this.

Revas would have her shot.

Until she wouldn’t.

The ground seemed to stretch farther with each step, creating even more distance the closer she got. The air, acrid with the smell of blight and blood, grew thick, electric in that habitual way the Fade had felt when it coursed through the anchor, when it bound her every fibre to a spark of light and used her very spirit as flint to cauterise the tears in the veil all those years ago.

Three steps left.

She could practically feel what it was like to be beside him, to be near his magic.

They had once been like ice and thunder. Her, this brewing storm like the kind that kissed the horizon on the Storm Coast. Him, the kind of avalanching cold that could rival the fall of Haven.

Whenever she’d been close to him in battle, feeling the strength of his barriers, nearly impenetrable, she’d felt unstoppable. And at the mark of terrifying blizzards that’d turn the skin of any enemy brandishing a blade against her to glaciers, she’d feel so possessively loved.

That is what she had to hold onto. Not the pain or the betrayal or the losses. The love that was always there, slipping through the cracks, chipping away at his polite mask, bolstering her with the knowledge that she was not so easily avoided, no matter how hard he’d tried to steer clear of her.

Elfroot, ozone and poultices. The scent of an apostate. A teacher. He was only three steps away.

Solas stared at the Veil, his back holding fast with purpose, his fingers twitching by the dagger's grip. He took a breath, and without looking back at Rook, he pressed on with his reasoning: “To stop now would be to dishonour those that I’ve wronged to come this far!”

Solas raised his hand, dagger’s edge close to his bleeding eye, and she knew not to wait any longer. This was it. The moment when she’d test how well she’d kept his heart.

Time went still. His body turned ridged as he turned to face her the moment she spoke.

“Even if those you’ve wronged asked you to stop?”

He looked so utterly broken. Revas watched in relief as she saw just how much of an effect those simple words had had on him.

Solas’ lips parted ever-so-slightly, his brow moving up a fraction, showing a hint of familiar awe—that surprise at having been affected so deeply by her. It was good to see that things didn’t change. And for a second, she imagined he’d smile. But then he bowed his eyes, snapping his eyes away from the heat of her gaze, turning his head to look downward.

Shame.

He was ashamed.

In a solemn breath, one meant for reunited lovers, not opposing forces at the end of the world, he whispered her title; her name; her place in his story: “Vhen’an…”

That simple word was enough to knock the wind from her, but Revas would not give him the satisfaction of being backed into a corner by pain. Not like in Halamshiral. Not again.

Her heart quickened as she took another step forward, “You think you’ve gone too far to come back but you’re wrong. I am here,” she gestured to the desolation around them, beseeching, “walking the dinan’shiral with you!”

Slowly, he lowered his dagger, his temples burdened by the dawning of his actions, by the gravity of what she’d just said.

“I lied,” he urged, trying to draw on any nerve that might still be raw, unwilling to believe she truly meant the words she’d spoken. “I betrayed you.”

And what did that matter?

Through everything.

How could that matter when she was beginning to remember what it was like to be in his gaze, to hear the tremors in his voice, to feel the power of his yearning across those steps?

“I forgive you!” She felt her voice crack. “All you have to do is stop!”

Please, for me, my heart, stop.

Solas turned to face her completely, his head, once high, was brought low in reverence. Humbly, as was his way all those years ago, he bowed before her and her heart broke.

“Ir abelas, vhen’an, but I cannot.” His head rose up, his eyes hardening, replacing humility with purpose. “Long before we met, I failed my oldest friend. She died for my failure. If I leave the Veil in place, I am destroying the world she wanted. And I will have… She will have died for nothing.”

He turned back to the tear in the veil, raised the dagger once more, and was halted by the cry of a raven—a creature Revas had once held sacred as a Keeper of Dirthamen’s Secrets.

Morrigan transformed before him, her entrances as memorable as always. She approached Solas with ease, speaking to him with the cadence of an old friend.

Revas took another step forward, mind focused on him. Always him. All she could do was push; pushing past the doubt that tried to claw up her spine when she witnessed him shrink with the realisation that he was not speaking to Morrigan entirely; pushing past the wrenching in her gut when she heard how torn he’d sounded as he’d spoken Mythal’s name; pushing past the anger as she learned of his corruption at her hands, past the devastation as she watched him crumble in the last light of forgiveness before Mythal vanished.

The petrifying sounds of his sobs sent her to her knees beside him, as he had knelt for her when she’d been wracked by pain when the anchor tried to rip its way out of her.

Finally, she would say the vows she had dreamed of saying.

“Banal nadas. Ar lath ma, vhen’an,” she could see him shake, hear him whimper, but it had been enough.

With a clenched fist, Solas resolved to stand tall, his hand ghosting the deep bruise near his forehead as he tried to control his sobs. With a steadying breath, he found the strength to turn to the Veil and do what must be done.

In the blink of an eye, he brought the lyrium dagger to his palm and sliced clean through, holding his fist up as he made his oath.

“My life force now sustains the Veil. With every breath I take, I will protect the innocent from my past failures. The Titans’ dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help to soothe its anger.”

Solas placed the dagger in Rook’s hand, finally turning to Revas to say his goodbye, “I will go and seek atonement.”

Then he paused in front of the tear, and Revas was certain this was where her path would always end.

“But you do not have to go alone,” she walked up to him, hands outstretched.

There was that look again. Awe. Disbelief, Adoration.

When next he spoke, he sounded so small, so mortal.

“Ar gelass vir banal,” she shook his head, his eyes gleaming with tears that were barely being held at bay. Soft. So unbelievably soft. Revas would not be talked out of this.

“Tel banal arama,” she refuted his excuse.

Solas swallowed down another sob, except this one was half laughter. Because, of course she’d cast aside any fears he might have used to persuade her otherwise. His hand pressed down on hers, hopeful, full of need, and she complied.

As a child, she’d heard lovers exchange the vows of eternity during marriage ceremonies. Once, she’d dreamed of uttering them to him, when they’d been in the Inquisition. Sylaise enaste var aravel. Lama, ara las mir lath. Bellanaris. The words had sounded so beautiful. Inevitable, even. But knowing what she knew of the Old Gods, if she were to make a vow of forever, it would not be in Sylaise’s name. It would be in honour of the distances they’d spent apart. The journey.

“Vir shiral ma’lasa, bellanaris,” she sealed the vow with a kiss. Gentle, compassionate, tangled with relief. They had endured. As Ar Bellanaris had, the burial grounds in the Dales, through war and occupation, an untouched beacon of old Arlathan. Bellanaris. Eternity, come what may. They had made the journey, and now all that remained was the love.

Solas deepened the kiss, wincing through it as he carefully moved his cut lip against hers, the taste of blood shared between them.

When they finally parted, they were one. Bound. Spirits entwined. And then they became the heartstone of the Fade. The place where Cole was from. The place where they had shared their first kiss. As Revas had made Skyhold a home, made Thedas a place worth living in, for however short a time, she knew Solas would do the same for her. A home for a home.

The Maker returned back to his beginnings, but he was neither alone, nor surrounded only by regret. He was with his bride. The Herald of Andraste. Inquisitor. Revasan Lavellan, the Last of Her Clan; a Paragon of Freedom.

Now all that needed to be done was face the regret.

[anxiouslittlecarrot]

I want everybody who’s calling Ken a Trophy Husband to know that he’s actually a Trophy Boyfriend, because when Ruth Handler invented Ken in the 1960s, she was adamant that he would never marry her and instead be her “handsome steady”, so that Barbie remained a figure of independence for the little girls and was never put in the position of housewife.

Her house is hers. She bought it and furnished it with money she made in her own job. In STEM, in politics, in healthcare, in fashion, in academy, in customer service. Her credit card is in her name (women in the US couldn’t have their own regardless of marital status until 1974). And it’s all pink and fashionable because femininity and badassness aren’t mutually exclusive. No matter who you are, you can be anything.

That’s why Barbie’s slogan is “you can be anything”. Teaching these ideals to little girls is why Barbie was created. Empowering women and empowering femininity is the original meaning of the Barbie doll. It’s not that you have to be all this to be a woman, but if you are all or some of this, you too are awesome.

And somehow pop culture deliberately changed that narrative. Sexualised, bimbofied, and villainised her, when she actually isn’t responsible for the impossible beauty standards — people are, she’s just a stylised, not-to-scale toy like most others.

Men are frothing because he’s just Ken and I guess they were expecting her to be just Barbie, but that’s exactly what Ken is. Canonically. A badass woman’s himbo boyfriend.

This movie has the potential to radically change the way we collectively see Barbie into what Ruth Handler originally intended, I’m so very excited

[ronanlynchbf]

tshirt that says NO LIVE ORGANISM CAN CONTINUE FOR LONG TO EXIST SANELY UNDER CONDITIONS OF ABSOLUTE REALITY

[arcanegifs]

ARCANE LEAGUE OF LEGENDS: 2x03 - “Finally Got The Name Right”

[babyblueetbaemonster]

"HA HA HA HA HA! I'M LITERATELY AIMING MY FINGERS!!!"

"This kid is going places..."

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Lan Wangji Goes To Lotus Pier AU: Part 3: Enveloping Feelings.

(Part 1, Part 2, Part 4)

[sofipitch]

Souls are permeable-> The more you interact with a person the more it changes you. This is obvious when it's in friendship, and or it is a chosen change. But even if you don't want to change, knowing others will change you will regardless, in ways you may not be able to predict. That is the nature of all relationships, we are not static things. Yeah. That's it, just gonna think about this one all day

[needlepine]

ALRIGHT THEY'VE TWISTED MY ARM I'll draw Moonpaw(s bc I'm indecisive)

[demigods-posts]

they're filming season two, but i'm thinking about the potential adaption of the mount tam scene in season three. you know, the one where annabeth could apologize for pushing percy out of the way and falling off the cliff in his place, and how she knows that sounds terrible but they didn't have time for another plan and she didn't want to lose him that way. but percy just engulfs her in a hug because he's so relieved that she's safe now and everything else be damned. and annabeth doesn't understand why he's snickering to himself after that last statement, but she melts into the hug anyway because she missed him. and thalia and grover stand in the background happy for their friends on the outside but internally mortified, because their friends are definitely falling for each other but fate may not allow them to see it through.

[onecoolbee]

People are sleeping on Lae'zel. Sure she is always intense, often inpatient, a bit violent. BUT she is ride or die from the beginning. She's the only companion that is upfront with you, doesn't lie or hide anything. She is risking it all by breaking established protocol by taking you along to find the creche to be purified. Admires your confidence and conviction. And she will one day invite you to watch a sunrise, speak fuckin poetry from her heart, and look at you like this and call you "my joy," sooo

[nefelibatat]

So it's kinda interesting how Jinx is basically Caitlyn's own extremely malevolent genie. Every desire she has, Jinx fulfills, but with such a cruel twist that it almost defeats the point.

Want something new and exciting in your sheltered life? Well, one might say nearly getting blown up is pretty exciting. Looking for a real job to undertake? Here's a convenient pile of evidence leading you straight to the heart of a criminal empire. Good luck getting out of this mess though. Coworkers making you feel excluded? They can't do that now; they're dead. Longing to see Vi again? Don't worry. You will be taken to her, like it or not. Mum being too restrictive? Never again!

It's no wonder Jinx is associated with monkeys when her role in the show is ensuring a monkey's paw curls any time Caitlyn has a vague inclination towards something.

[gothra]

I’ll never forget when I was arguing with a person in favor of total prison abolition and I asked them “what about violent offenders?” And they said “Well, in a world where prisons have been abolished, we’ll have leveled the playing field and everyone will have their basic needs met, and crime won’t be as much of an issue.” And then I was like “okay. But…no. Because rich people also rape and murder, so it isn’t just a poor person thing. So what will we do about that?” And I don’t think they answered me after that. I’m ashamed to say I continued to think that the problem was that I simply didn’t understand prison abolitionists enough and that their point was right in front of me, and it would click once I finally let myself understand it. It took me a long time to realize that if something is going to make sense, it needs to make sense. If you want to turn theory into Praxis (I’m using that word right don’t correct me I’ll vomit) everyone needs to be on board, which mean it all needs to click and it needs to click fast and fucking clear. You need to turn a complex idea into something both digestible and flexible enough to be expanded upon. Every time I ask a prison abolitionist what they actually intend to do about violent crime, I get directed to a summer reading list and a BreadTuber. It’s like a sleight-of-hand trick. Where’s the answer to my question. There it is. No wait, there it is. It’s under this cup. No it isn’t. “There’s theory that can explain this better than I can.” As if most theory isn’t just a collection of essays meant to be absorbed and discussed by academics, not the average skeptic. “Read this book.” And the book won’t even answer the question. The book tells you to go ask someone else. “Oh, watch this so-and-so, she totally explains it better than me.” Why can’t you explain it at all? Why did you even bring it up if you were going to point me to someone else to give me the basics that you should probably already know? Maybe I’m just one of those crazy people who thinks that some people need to be kept away from the public for everyone’s good. Maybe that just makes me insane. Maybe not believing that pervasive systemic misogyny could be solved with a UBI and a prayer circle makes me a bad guy. But it’s not like women’s safety is a priority anyway. It’s not like there is an objective claim to be made that re-releasing violent offenders or simply not locking them up is deadly.

[criticalbeauregard]

i truly commend and admire marisha ray to no end because someone with less confidence or thinner skin (probably myself included) would've shied away from these big character choices after the way keyleth was treated but following keyleth up with beau and then LAUDNA is a true feat. she has never once backed down or diluted herself to be more palatable or even to just avoid catching the brunt of completely misplaced and blind hate from many "fans" + baffling misinterpretations of her actions. sometimes i get really upset about how some viewers talk about her choices and characters and then i just have to remember that she literally doesn't give a single fuck and neither should i.

[theminecraftbee]

you know, I may have changed all my clocks. I may have changed when I go to work. my sleep may have adjusted. my schedule may have adjusted. but my dog? she knows the world is wrong. she knows that we’re trying to trick her into thinking that we’ve changed time. and it’s solely to spite her when she thinks she should have dinner,

[fuumiku]

It was Maid Day today yesterday a week ago so I got struck by inspiration to draw the worsties, and it ran away from me into a whole AU where they’re coworkers at a maid cafe. She’s a med student & this is just a part time job, and this is his depression job while he gets his life back together. He needs something he can be workaholic about to forget what it’s like having a personal life and personal issues. He’s actually the accountant, but the new hire janitor (Izutsumi) doesn’t show up for half her shifts and is a sloppy worker, so he gets the extra work of doing her job on top of his because he’s undervalued and overworked. Of course, janitors also have an uniform to keep the aesthetic cohesion as they go about cleaning the place, of course.

Senshi’s the part time cook you only see slivers off, he’s kind and warm when you do see him and have a chat but most shifts he’s in and out the kitchen without a trace. Laios and Falin are regulars because Falin and Marcille are besties & in the same med school, Laios accompanies Falin as she visits her friend at work and gets hooked on the food. Chilchuck has to remind Marcille to work instead of chatting with Falin for an hour, and next thing he knows she’s distracting him from work too. That’s it that’s the AU. Inspired by this idol AU fanart a bit <3

This was not meant to be birthday gift but well…… Happy bday Chil!!!

Read from left to right

[saturnniidae]