#solas pov

[vir-bellanaris]

Chapter 2 is here!! 3500 words babeeee Took me 4 hours but that's 20 mintues of reading time LOL please I hope you enjoy! I worked hard, comments are appreciate my loves :)))

Of course, Veilguard ending spoilers please beware.

[vivispec]

Atish'an

In her, he'd found everything he'd stopped himself from hoping for. She was earnest, honest, open-minded. And she was never meant to have existed.

In the arms of his lover, Solas gives into his guilt. Viera is quick to silence him. I'm going to quit pretending I can write anything fluffier than hurt/comfort, but in my defense a prompt like this lends itself to such.

Fluffuary Day 10: Reassurance Solas/Viera words: 646 tags: solavellan, hurt/comfort but heavy on the comfort, physical fluff, brooding solas, rogue lavellan, solas pov, during dai, cuddling, some allusions to datv lore if you squint

There was peace here, if he let his mind fall completely silent. A calm like the prelude to sleep, of slow inhales and melting exhales. He'd found it easier to grasp the longer he let himself linger in the half-light, between waking and sleeping, but for once he didn't wish to slip into the Fade. For however long he had, he wished to savor it within her arms.

Viera'vun cradled him against her chest, the gentle rhythm of her callused thumb dragging lazily from cheek to temple, and her warmth beneath his other ear seemed to sing. Not just a song of pulse and breath, but a song of spirit, crooning to his very essence through their skin pressed flush. It felt as if he should see her very being painted on the backs of his lids, the light of her soul branching and reaching just as his once had, intertwining with his own. As if he should feel her there, deeper than their skin would allow.

In her, he'd found everything he'd stopped himself from hoping for. She was earnest, honest, open-minded. And she was never meant to have existed.

His arms wound her waist tighter, as if to remind him where he was; still the thoughts found crack and crevice, still they crept inside. All this time he'd known and yet still he'd stumbled, careening so wildly off the path as to end up here. He traced his steps backwards, past the press of her lips and the song her company sang. It hadn't been that first sight of her, crumpled in a makeshift bed on the dungeon floor with the light of the Anchor ripping her body apart from the inside, nor was it that first touch as he'd grasped her hand and thrust it towards the gash in the heavens. She'd been collateral, then, and a guilt he'd grown unnervingly comfortable carrying. Regard, only in her ferocity to live.

Had it been the thoughtfulness with which she chose her questions, then, and the rapt attention she'd bestowed him? Or her adherence to her beliefs, her loyalty to what was right?

Where had she disarmed him so, and when, exactly, had he lost such control of his carefully laid plans?

"Vhenan, what's wrong?"

Her voice was a murmur, tired and slow, and his brow tensed over eyes still shut. "I fear I am a selfish man, for loving you the way I have," he confessed. She rolled her head, resting her cheek upon his crown.

"Tell me, how's it selfish when I love you?"

There was no doubt within his mind that, to some extent, she already knew. It was wishful to believe that she didn't, a truth he'd much rather ignore—and she made it easy to, always patiently waiting for him to come to her in his own time. But she deserved better than that. She deserved the truth, and if he was unable to give even so much to her…

"Am I truly who you want? You cannot know, the things I've done—"

"There's nothing that would keep me from loving you," she interrupted, guiding him to look up at her with a gentle hand. "As you are is who I care for. Who you once were has no bearing on that fact."

The rebuttal upon his lips, the insistence that she pull away as he couldn't possibly bear to any longer, was silenced before it could be given voice. She tilted his chin, and then Viera'vun stole his words with a kiss, soft, but insistent. It unraveled him. The pounding of his heart, the sigh of their mingling breaths, until the cadence of his thoughts meant nothing to him. Unintelligible, or simply just irrelevant.

There was peace here, if only he'd let himself feel it. Solas closed his eyes once more, and let her song lull him into silence.

[dreadfutures]

Unprompted, for @dadrunkwriting, inspired by working on painting Ixchel's scarred face more accurately in recent months. Solas & Ixchel's first kiss in Dead Pasts and Dread Futures.

16. / 17. He Who Hunts Alone

Her pain hit him like a shriek's hidden blade: by surprise.

The Behemoth should have pounded her into the ground with its arm of red lyrium, as big as a dragon's--but it instead met a pulsing green barrier. Ixchel had raised the Anchor and directed its energies into a brutal shield, and the red lyrium exploded when it met its target. Unable to break through her aegis of protection, the arm broke instead.

The sound was deafening, yet Solas still heard Ixchel's scream.

Rage, mind-tearing pain, it shot through him as if it were his own. The Anchor--his magic--responded to her will, but it had already begun its revolt. He felt it reaching for its true master.

He needed to quell its destruction before it was too late, but the other Red Templars had other plans.

-

When she collapsed, a scream trapped behind clenched teeth, he knew they had pushed their luck. He shoved the Iron Bull aside with all his might and reached for the Anchor. She was in utter agony, the Anchor clutched tightly to her chest and her other hand clamped at her elbow as if a tourniquet would cut off the pain--surely she had sustained other injuries from their grueling battle, but there was no time to be delicate.

She fought him as he pulled her hand free, but the very moment he began to siphon the Anchor's building power, she went limp. Her head tipped forward and landed on his shoulder--he felt wetness through his tunic, but whether it was from her sweat, blood, or tears, he did not know.

The hand that held the Anchor gripped his like a vice. He held her just as tightly in return.

Once the magic was pacified, his clinical concern did not leave him. She was shivering, and he pulled her closer with an arm around her shoulders as if that would shelter her--as if it were the cold, and not the pain of his magic undoing her arm atom by atom, that ailed her.

They appraised her other injuries, planned to find a healer, sent their companions to release the Red Templar's prisoners, but Solas never released her hand.

The sound of her sniffle sent him back to the last time she had fallen screaming into the mud, and her companions had comforted her and dried her tears. He found himself wishing that they were here to help her now; this pain, the danger she was in, the harm she had suffered and would suffer aplenty, bore his fingerprints. He should not be the one to comfort her. How could he?

"It's going to kill me," she said, turning his blood to ice with the smallest of voices. "Right?"

His jaw tightened, chewing on answers that all ended in hopeless apologies. He swallowed them all. He could feel her eyes locked on his face, but he could not meet her gaze to offer the truth or comfort this poor young woman deserved.

Comfort he wished to give.

Their brave leader, the hero who stepped up and stepped up and stepped up to every challenge, who threw herself as a shield between danger and the world as if death could not touch her--was so certain that his magic would kill her.

He had so often wanted her words to be right. He wanted the world and even himself to live up to her declarations of how things could and should and would be. But in this, he wanted her to be wrong.

He made a decision.

He brushed her hair behind her ear and left his hand buried in the warmth at the back of her neck, cradling her head like a precious thing.

"It can try," he said.

-

He went in search of her after seeing the healers leave their tent. They may have been able to heal her fractured collarbone, but he worried about the state of the Anchor. Had he truly pacified it? For how long?

It seemed that he had done well enough in saving her from its meltdown, but any relief he felt was stolen away when he overheard her tell Varric how deeply affected she was by the presence of red lyrium.

He could tell by the look on her face as he approached that she did not want to tell him that.

It bothered him to know she would keep her pain from him. It bothered him even more that when he reprimanded her for it, he could tell she was silently calling him a hypocrite. She could not know how small a secret her pains were, compared to the secrets he kept. He could not tell her rationally why he would never tell her what ailed him, and why she should never hide what ailed her.

She wanted to be close to him, she wanted to know him--and he could not allow it. But more than anything he wished to.

"If not me, then speak to Varric," he said. It was meant to put distance between them, but it came out as too-earnest an appeal, and his feet drew him closer despite his words.

She flexed her hand as though the Anchor hurt her again. That was why he reached for her, trailed his fingers across the tear in her palm where his magic was concentrated in a potent well.

There was no excuse for lacing his fingers with hers.

There was no excuse for how his chest tightened when she returned his gentle grip.

His chest was against her back, and he held her gently captive with a touch on her waist.

Acquiescence after acquiescence he was giving her: I will stop prying, I will give you the closeness you want, if you can do the same.

But of course, she had to throw his own hypocrisy in his face. Blessedly the barb was a gentle one.

"You do not know what you ask," she said, and he felt her swallow a laugh.

He spoke his answer into her ear, admiring how it twitched as if she had been tickled. She still had not pulled away, still had not moved to put distance between them again--the dance that he had pulled her into in the first place.

He leaned closer, catching a glint of the golden ink on her cheeks, the tip of her nose. Despite those marks, he had not ever imagined her as one who could be broken... but the danger today had been real. His fear had been real.

In the dark, that fear was magnified. She felt ephemeral beneath his touch; the pulse in her hand was painfully mortal.

Words poured from him, as if they would conjure an immutable truth from her frailty:

“You have an indomitable spirit, Ixchel. Your… Your faith in those around you is as a pole star in the night.”

She sighed, every word putting a weight on her shoulders that he regretted. "Stars die," she rasped.

In that moment, he thought he could accept that truth. His need for her to be resilient, to be a guide, was selfish, his desire for a shared eternity was impossible--and yet there was merit in this moment, and every moment they had together. There was merit in the attempt at heroism, even if she were to fail--glory in a life lived, even if it were to end.

He knew the darkness that haunted her, and he realized now that he loved her not just in spite of it.

Stars die.

“And the best navigators may steer off course," he said, his lips brushing her cheek with every word. It was a truth for a truth, and an offering of peace. He wanted to follow where she would go. In Elvhen, he offered her even more:

“[[Not all those who wander are lost.]]"

When he kissed her, she filled his arms like she had always been there, or as if they were missing pieces who never should have parted. She leaned into his chest with the confidence that he would steady her, welcomed his kiss as something necessary, something precious.

Kissing her was a reminder of everything he had just been willing to accept. Her lips had been torn under dragon's claws long ago, leaving hem twisted and scarred--but still soft. There was no way to touch her face without encountering the harrowing evidence of her brushes with death. Pitted scars, raised markings, sagging skin, every sensation was new, though not unpleasant.

She turned in his arms and held him gently, as conscious of not trapping him as he had been in holding her.

She had kissed him as if they had all the time in the world, as if it were the long-awaited coming-together that would never see them parted. But the way she pressed her head to his chest to listen to his heartbeat, the way her shoulders tensed, the way her breath shuddered on the inhale told him that she knew it would not last.

He had put that fear into her. An apology rose in him, but she cut him off.

“[[You are one who will never learn]],” she mumbled into his sweater. “I know. I know, I know, I know.”

The pain in her voice, her certainty that he would think better of this delicate moment, made him feel as cold as she must think him to be.

She pulled away, and he could not find the strength to hold on to her. To pull her back and deny what she believed to be true.

But he could not.

In putting only this little distance between them he saw what he had not before. The dim glow of the Anchor caught on the edge of every scar and marking, it was reflected in her eyes.

They were not reminders of fleeting danger or distant mortality. They were reminders that he was the one who had shaped this world, and that whatever future harm befell her would bear his ownership.

His thumb brushed her scarred lips once more. An acknowledgement, an apology.

���In another world,” she said wearily into the murk between them. “[[Your love is like a knife in my chest that I twist with my own hand...]] Good night, Solas.”

He took a deep breath to steel himself against the tears that gleamed in her eyes.

“[[Good night, Ixchel. May the Dread Wolf never hear your footsteps.]]”

[queenaeducan]

Var Shiral'vhen - Chapter Three: Echoes

The sight of mages mingling freely at his doorstep stir old memories in Solas's heart. He finds himself still a stranger to the world he now inhabits, catching only glimpses of the familiar in the faces around him.

They had arrived in Redcliffe a humble party of five, and left in numbers beyond his reckoning.

Haven now groans beneath the weight of its new occupants. Mages, young and old, mingle in her snow-lined streets, finding their bearings and reconnecting with faces they had missed in the fog of war.

Solas walks in their midst, yet does not number among them, his plain robes and homemade staff are enough to mark him as an outsider. Instead, he observes, as he has through countless dreams in the past year and change since waking. For their part, they are no more receptive to his presence than the memories, parting around him as though he were not there.

A disarming thought gnaws at him as he recognises that he’s seen this all before. In their eyes, he beholds uncertainty, unsure if they have arrived at their future or another false hope. Others beam with promise so potent spirits press through the Veil to feel their warmth.

Echoes.

Echoes is the word he comforts himself with. Like the farthest ring in a ripple of water resembles the hand that moves the waves.

“Looks good, doesn’t it?” the Herald’s voice resonates with the present, dispelling his stupor with a few warm words. She draws level beside him, her close proximity easy, undaunted. He looks down at her. She looks healthier this morning than she has in several days; her eyes bright and the sides of her head freshly shaved, leaving only a patch at the top that lifts in tight curls. More notably, Redcliffe’s wounds have begun to fold back into her skin, unmaking the memories of the false year. One mark remains, a deeper cut that has the makings of a scar, carved beneath the Carta brand under her right eye. Leaning against the side of a building, she says, “I think they’re settling in nicely.”

(Read the rest on AO3!)

[amaryllislavellan]

Need | 590 Words A study in how words feel as they exit the mouth, or maybe over analyzing is just a defense against really feeling what they mean. (Best if the words he's analyzing are said out loud!)

"Need is such a weak willed word. It’s short, callous, and overall falls fast in the mouth as if you’re trying to hide the vulnerability of yourself behind your front teeth. No. I do not need her."

Need is such a weak willed word. It’s short, callous, and overall falls fast in the mouth as if you’re trying to hide the vulnerability of yourself behind your front teeth.

No.

I do not need her.

I could brace myself against the flowery tones and the roll of my tongue when I say desire. The way the breath escapes in an attempt to flourish the thought, extending it out within the room on heated breath and a softly opened mouth. But that too, would be inaccurate.

I can attempt to articulate my feelings into words but none of them resonate with the way my heart bursts when I see her. The gentle moments we spend together that make my blood burn up through my chest and the air escape my lungs without being exhaled. Her smile traps the air there, held in the embrace of her warmth. Instead of searching for an escape I draw in a deep breath that comes out as a tremble and I fight back against my heart, losing my true purpose. My composure.

I-- I don’t need her.

Perhaps I simply want her. But want is a curt word, ending on a pop. It’s a short term proclamation that ends in a puff of air that resides in the forefront of the mouth. It is a word begrudging of neglect once obtained and my body would not do me the courtesy of abandoning her. With fevered fingers I indulge in tangling in her hair by the fistfull, pulling it back until she makes that golden sound. No. Want is far too small a word.

It falls as short in tone as need.

I can’t begin to define what happens when she looks into my eyes with genuine affection. She trusts me and my council, and I shatter. I shatter into thousands of tiny fragments that reflect back the many truths I have withheld to show me who I am. Who I was? No. The deep pools of trust she gives me--- I feed off of them. I drink it in and spill myself in turn, overflowing with greed. I am her reservoir of knowledge, always guarded and protected by the unseen corners of my mind. But, I find myself allowing the real truth to slip through the dam, like tiny cracks and rivulets that condense on the surface. She’s been clever, and attentive, and strong. I both fear and long for her to see the truth I have laid out for her in tiny admissions.

I refuse to think the word that rushes through my pulse. That rolls my shoulders forward with longing when she comes too close. I will not say the word that makes clever use of its consonants. The word that pushes the admission out of my mouth by forcing the tone across my lower lip held back and then permitted across my upper teeth. It betrays me. The movement of my mouth releases the end of the word in a way that almost vaults the confession faster to her ears. It leaves me open and willing to tell her anything.

I want to tell her everything.

I need to fight this feeling with all of who I am; hide my weakness tight in my throat. I have to rebuild these walls she so easily collapsed and make myself again in iron. I have to find the right words that will force this wall to collect between us. But the thought of losing her--- I.

I don’t want to need her.

[actual-lich-queen]

graphic by bearlytolerable

Chapter 32:   But not even the wisest of men do not always see the truth in front of them, nor do they wish to. -Hahren Sarel

read on Ao3

Excerpt: “Begging your pardon, Herald,” one of the Fereldan soldiers said, “But I could swear I know you from somewhere.”

“Could be, Lieutenant Ilsa.” Ayla answered, already scrapping her bowl, “It wasn’t so long ago I lived in Denerim. Ever buy flowers in the market?”

“Not that I remember.” The soldier who was apparently named Ilsa answered, “Don’t have a place to put ‘em in the barracks.”

“Get your washing done?” Ayla tried again.

“No, army has people for that.” Ilsa said.

“Well, it wouldn’t have been the Pearl, would it?” Ayla was smirking. 

There were several choking sounds around the campfire [...]

[evanhereonearth]

Slowly, as slow as the glacier upon which he sits, Solas pieces himself back together. There is time yet, and he will love her. He will love her with all the brightness she possesses and more. Solas will pour into her every drop of truth he can, every piece of every facet of his soul, store himself in her like secrets, give someone all Solas is. This someone. His someone. His da’lath’in. Because he is Solas, that is the secret. That is the deepest place of his deepest self, the curious spirit, the dreamer, the wondering wanderer. The world forgot him when they remembered Fen’Harel. They remade him in rebellion and betrayal, worked his image from Wisdom into Pride, painted every brushstroke with dread. Perhaps that is why he loves her, one of the myriad reasons. She sought him because she instinctively felt he was like her. Curious and dreaming and wondering, wandering. Forgotten and alone, pasted pieces of someone else’s thoughts sloughing off like dead skin. She is his da’lath’in, and he will love her as long as he can. He will love her forever.

(From a brief Solas POV chapter of my longfic that's back to living rent free in my head after basically being confirmed as canon after all this time.)

I've seen it said that Rook is a better romance option for Solas because unlike Lavellan, they know who he is from the get go. So let me make something clear:

Rook does not know Solas better than Lavellan does. They know his history, his crimes, even his regrets, but what he shows when they talk to him is very much a mask.

Fen'harel is not who Solas is. As dishonest as he was about his past during his time with the Inquisition, he also came the closest to being himself ever since he took a body.

In sappy terms, he hid his deeds and plans from Lavellan, but not his heart. With Rook, it's the opposite.

Who we see in Veilguard is not some kind of "Solas unmasked", it's Solas who has returned to wearing the mask he was allowed to shed for a little while and hide the fact he'd ever worn it.

The raggedy apostate who plays mental chess with Bull, trolls Sera, beats Blackwall at diamondback, who nerds out about magic with Dorian and approves of helping every single hinterlands peasant you encounter, that's the real Solas. Keeping his past a secret is what allowed him to stop being what his service to Mythal and his people made him into, even if for just a little while.

[bishicat]

in his sourdough era

[sky--phantom]

Times other people discussed Solavellan + Times Solas and Lavellan talked about each other (dav)

"I've seen how you look at him. You're in it" - Sera

"Is it my imagination, dear, or have certain... lingering looks passed between you and our Solas?" - Vivienne

"You're real, and it means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can't" - Cole

"The two of you were close. Perhaps he had no choice? He might return at any moment" - Leliana

"How have you been? It seems ages since we've spoken. I know you were cruely disappointed when Solas left" - Vivienne

"Are you hoping for word on Solas? I'm sorry, Inquisitor. I'm afraid I have nothing" - Leliana

"I've been meaning to ask... Solas hasn't come back? Sent word? Anything?" - Thom

"Oh, and Inquisitor? Feels weird, but I'm sorry Solas never came back. Well, no, I'm not, but... I'm sorry he left you." - Sera

"I am not a god, Charter. I am prideful, hotheaded, and foolish, and I am doing what I must. When you report back to the Inquisitor…. Say that I am sorry.” - Solas

"Maybe it's gullible of me, but I know the Inquisitor feels the same: Solas isn't too far gone to bring back" - Varric

"Solas was... important to me. If this statuette helps you understand him, if it uncovers something that... Honestly, I don't know. I wish I did. But this feels like a part of him, and whatever he and I once were... I think... I-I hope... it might help you" - Lavellan

"And when I served the Inquisition, I tried to avoid entanglements" - Solas

"Except for Inquisitor Lavellan" - Rook

"I said that I resolved to do so, not that I succeeded. She's a good woman. Growing close to her was... selfish of me" - Solas

"Do you regret it?" - Rook

"I live with countless regrets. Some of them I have grown to cherish more than my victories" - Solas

"Solas took this path because he thinks he has no choice. But the Inquisitor believes there is another way for him. For them. She could save him, if he would just let her" - Harding

"God of Lies, Dread Wolf, Fen'Harel. They're titles he earned from enemies, followers and fractured history. He and I shared another name: Vhenan" - Lavellan

"You've spoken to him in your dreams. You've felt the power of that mind. His love could burn against me like a bonfire. He seemed so kind, and wise, and sad, and looked at me as if I somehow mattered more than anything around us. For a time... I thought I would have followed anywhere he asked me to" - Lavellan

"Or maybe I'm the prideful one, imagining his broken heart so that I never have to face my folly. That I loved someone who made such grave mistakes. That I might love him still" - Lavellan

"He really made you happy?" - Rook

"Yes, he really did" - Lavellan

"Harding... I am sorry" - Solas

"For what, Solas? Betraying the Inquisitor and breaking her heart?" - Harding

"Is there any chance - any chance at all - that he would listen to reason?" - Lavellan

"Speaking from the heart, Inquisitor?" - Morrigan

"With Elgar'nan and and Ghilan'nain dead, and the Inquisitor finally reunited with her true love... it looked like one of the biggest stories this world had ever seen was finally drawing to a close" - Varric

[abyssal-ilk]

currently obsessed with the idea of elgar'nan and rook being dragged into the regret prison together instead of it just being rook. solas frees himself and traps two of the biggest threats to his plan to bring down the veil in one swoop. with both ghilan'nain and razikale dead, rook and elgar'nan trapped, all he needs to do to bring down the veil is to kill lusacan– which will then allow elgar'nan to fall to the blight as the other evanuris did and allow the veil to collapse. while the rest of rook's team and the factions are scrambling trying to pick up the pieces, elgar'nan and rook are held fast in the prison of regret. both unable to kill each other.

idk! i just think forcing rook and elgar'nan to be around each other for WEEKS as their plans crumble around them and they have both experienced devastating loss (harding/davrin, bellara/neve, and ghilan'nain) is fun to think about. especially considering that they are directly responsible for the other's loss, and have both been betrayed by solas.

[wardensantoineandevka]

I thought I already saw the worst possible Dragon Age takes I could ever possibly see, but then "believing that Solas did actually kill Felassan and blaming him for Felassn's (unproven) death is ableist" came into my view and I was humbled by the depth of possibility of awful takes

[vivispec]

Vhenas

His eyes dropped to his reflection in the rich, red liquid, its scent having taken on the spices she'd added, and warming him even before it met his lips. Sweeter than he preferred, and young in age, but where his people had let depth develop over the span of decades hers had found a way wholly their own, to please the palate.

"It's just as I remember," she sighed.

Solas brings Viera a gift, and the two enjoy it—as well as the company—together.

Fluffuary Day 5: Beverage Break/Date Solas/Viera words: 1,694 tags: solavellan, fluff, brooding solas, rogue lavellan, solas pov, during dai, cw: alcohol

"Solas, is that you?" called her voice from the top of the stairs, pushing aside the sounds of rustling paper that he'd heard upon opening the door. "Hold on, give me a moment. Let me throw something on, before you come up."

He paused where he stood upon the steps, grip tightening its hold of the jug that he carried. The heady aroma of sweet wine within mingled together with his thoughts, diluting whatever deliberation he harbored still of descent. The climb to the Inquisitor's quarters were, as they always had been, harrowing as much as they were humbling. Yet, still he made it, as if it were a compulsion he'd no power to fight. Still he came, pitcher in hand, as if the wisdom he made claims to had fled him.

"Alright," she said after a moments time, and the groaning of her wardrobe. "You surprised me. I didn't think you'd come, considering the hour."

In all honesty he'd surprised himself as well. It wasn't so much that the hour was terribly late, or that such a visit held certain implications—the sun glowed yet upon the horizon out her balcony door, and talk would make the rounds no matter their attempts at discretion. No, what had surprised him had been how helpless he'd been to the impulse that had driven him here.

All it had taken was the sound of that voice, the same that called to him now, as she'd responded to a greeting from Varric outside of the rotunda upon her return. His head had been filled with her then, with the convenient excuse Lady Josephine offered only the final push he'd needed, to send him off the edge. Only that, and all of his better judgment had crumbled to dust.

Any hesitance that lingered still left him when finally he ascended. How often that seemed to be the case, when it came to her. She smiled at him from across the room, hands still busy tying the wrap she'd thrown over her lounging garments, and more at ease than he'd seen her before. Lighter, as if relieved of some great unseen burden. "It appears that you enjoyed your hunting trip," he stated, and her grin seemed to spread as she hummed an affirmation.

"Very much so. It was good, to get back out there with Ilo again. I almost forgot about the Inquisitor for a couple nights." Her eyes returned to the knot, though her cheeks bore still the evidence of her smile. "I even shot down one of the billies myself, alongside some small game."

A feat for her, he knew—she proclaimed herself the tracker, and never the marksman. Such had been the task of her partner, he'd gathered. Her eyes flicked back up as she began to pad towards where he idled, having set his offering on the table beside her couch.

"What'd you bring?"

"Lady Josephine asked that I bring it, once she surmised of my intentions," he admitted, leaning back against the railing as she drew close. "I fear she may have figured them out before even I did."

Viera'vun breathed a laugh. "That sounds like our ambassador." She reached a hand out to take the jug from the table, the already lithe motions of the huntress somehow freer now, and the tilting of her head exposing the slope of her neck. "Did she say what it was?"

Where her wrap bunched at the shoulders he could see unimpeded, down the bare span of her back. Solas cleared his throat, and averted his eyes. "Only that it is wine," he said, "and that you would recognize it."

"Hmm. I wonder if it's another—wait." Her brow knit as she brought it to her nose, and shook her head. "It couldn't be."

Drawing the pitcher to her lips she sipped the wine, letting the drink sit on her tongue a moment before her face split with a grin, and she swallowed.

"Creators, I can't believe it. It is."

He pushed aside the prickle that the title elicited. "And what, exactly, would it be?"

"It's Silthun's wine—my uncle, from my clan. This is from my clan." For a moment she simply stood there, cradling the gift as if it might vanish were she to move. Then, she blinked, and with her breath found motion again. "I'll prepare it for us, if you have a moment. Go get comfortable, it won't take long."

She was off and to the fireplace before he could respond, kneeling down to pour the drink into a pot. He nearly spoke up to offer his help in heating it, as a mage—but then, as he watched her, he recognized the motions as she dipped her fingers into pouches of dried herbs for what they were, a ritual beloved and oft-repeated. Instead he retreated, through the balcony doors and into the cool air of a highland evening, just barely brushed by snow.

It didn't take long for her to join him, placing into his hands a cup warmed by its contents. "Here," she said, pulling her wrap tighter around her shoulders and leaning against the railing. She closed her eyes, inhaling deep its aroma. "Ma ghilana vhenas," she whispered like a prayer, and took a long swig.

'Guide me home'. Her Elven was simple, but its intent was clear. His eyes dropped to his reflection in the rich, red liquid, its scent having taken on the spices she'd added, and warming him even before it met his lips. Sweeter than he preferred, and young in age, but where his people had let depth develop over the span of decades hers had found a way wholly their own, to please the palate.

"It's just as I remember," she sighed. "The hearthkeepers used to make it like this. They'd save it for the coldest stretch of winter, when there was little else to fill our bellies."

He wondered if they'd known where their wayward lethallan found herself when they'd sent it, cold and starved not of food, but of their company. Again she brought it to her lips, closing her eyes on the draw, melting into it. "I cannot say that I've drank it as such before," he said, swirling the cup until its spices reincorporated.

"And? Have the Dalish disappointed you again?"

She may have been teasing him, but there was still a very real bite to her words. "Despite its cloying nature," he bit back, to a roll of her eyes, "it pairs well with the heat and herbs added. They ease its intensity."

"They're not all this sweet. They just know I like this one best."

Such came as no surprise—the Inquisitor was partial to fresh fruit, and juices. "You said it was your uncle who fermented it?"

"Silthun, yes. It's one of the most important jobs of the clan, to find clean water, to brew and ferment for when there is none," she explained. "If you can believe it, the duty might've been mine in another life. My grandfather was manaste'lan first, my mother training to take his place. Silthun only took over because no one else knew how, once they were gone."

It was a difficult image to conjure, knowing her as she was now…but then, how different might she have been, had she been handed an apron and not daggers? Would that passion have carried over, the pride she'd expressed in guiding her clan translated into a different language, one that saw dry throats soothed and laughter on lips? Or would the act have twisted her?

Had she been born for a purpose, an ideal, or molded into that shape? How far was she, from what he'd once been?

"It's strange to think about, isn't it?" she eventually said, reading him as easily as she read the stars, or tracks in the snow. "I've wanted to be a hunter for as long as I can remember, I can't imagine being anything else. But I might have, if a single thing had been different."

"Often the path forks. There is no way of knowing what lies at the end of either side," he said, as if the very thought hadn't haunted him for centuries, as if he hadn't pinpointed the exact moment from whence his greatest regrets stemmed. "Do you believe you would have been happier, in that other world?"

She swirled the dregs of her drink, studying them as if they held the answer. "Maybe," she considered, "I'd still be home. The Chantry wouldn't know my name, and the days would go on like they always did. Warm, sweet wine in the winter." Her eyes strayed from her cup, along the railing and to his wrist. "But I left for a reason. I'd wanted to leave for a long time, to see the world outside my clan. Maybe I could've been happier, or maybe that honor would've been a chain. Maybe, I never would've stepped past the treeline."

Her hand left her cup to creep closer to his, and she looked up to meet his eyes. Inviting, not imposing. Always waiting for him, to make that move. "Besides, I can't say that I regret being here," she continued. "There are people I'd regret never having met, even more."

Despite his reservations, the guilt at having stolen her affections dishonestly, he didn't keep her waiting long. He couldn't, drawn to her nearness like moth to flame, no matter the reality that he might snuff the both of them out in indulging. Her fingers intertwined with his, and as her warmth penetrated deep into his bones he closed his eyes.

"Is there truly any single person, worth that which you have endured?"

The hum she answered with radiated from where they were joined, resonating within the hollow space his sorrow had made inside of him. "I can think of one."

Her shoulder met his, and he leaned to meet her touch with eyes still closed. She couldn't possibly know what it was she was saying, but how he ached to let himself believe it.

How he ached, to think that she might forgive him once she did.

[dreadfutures]

Happy Friday! How about "The black ocean of trees seethes under a fretful night-wind." for Solas or Merrill? Or both!

for @dadrunkwriting

An elven fairytale, in Serault

Rating: G

Pairing: Solas & Merrill

Words: 1200

Modest but airy, with views of the forest—that was the Heron Tower, according to the Marquis. Long-term guests were given rooms in the tower, modestly-furnished, and the Inquisition’s entourage had been placed close together in the center of the tower. It was true that each room had a view of the forest, but none were the view that Solas required: a high vantage point with windows overlooking both the forest to the west, and the marshes to the east.

Everyone spoke of the Applewoods and its Twilight. Everyone overlooked the dormant secrets of the Nahashin.

Solas was not one to turn his back to danger. Hence, while the Marquis’s court fawned over his new, illustrious guests, the simple elven hedge mage made his way to the height of Heron Tower to take the lay of the land.

He reached the observation deck just as the sun was dipping across the horizon, the perfect introduction to the land that would be Solas’s home for the next several months. The Marshes were aflame in the reflect light of dying day, just as he remembered them: an eternity ago, craters left by earth-shattering war burned with dragon fire. The Applewoods—a quaint name for a forest that had stolen so many lives beneath its shadowed boughs—were still and silent, like a predator lying in wait. He knew not what the trees obscured, though the Tirashan had once been part of Andruil’s domain, and he had plenty of guesses.

“Oh!”

Solas startled upon hearing Merrill’s voice behind him, and he ripped his eyes away from the forest to face her. She had just come up the stairs and she hovered on the landing, uncertain if she should leave, but he gave her a gesture of welcome.

“Did you grow bored of the festivities?” Solas asked.

“I didn’t even bother,” she said with a laugh. “Took a nap, had the strangest dream, and… I just had to come up here.”

Merrill joined him at the railing, and as her eyes alighted on the gilded wetlands of the Nahashin, she drew her hands to her chest in awe.

Solas watched her curiously. “Should I be wary of the Fade here? What did you dream?”

“I’ll certainly be more cautious. It’s been a long time since a spirit has reached out to me like that,” Merrill said gravely. “Even after Valor… I’ve always sensed them coming, but this one just appeared in my dream like they were always there.”

“Was it a danger to you?” Solas asked with a frown. “It is indeed concerning that a spirit would find your dreams, as blood magic has kept your mind far from the Fade.”

Merrill nodded, brow wrinkled with concern as well. “It didn’t threaten me,” she said. “It appeared as a halla. A talking halla. A black talking halla. And all it wanted was to tell me a story.”

Solas did not try to hide his bewilderment, and Merrill shrugged helplessly. He had no idea what manner of spirit or being might appear as a black halla, though he thought it did not bode well. He lay a hand on the railing and glanced out at the forest, eyes skimming the Applewoods and delving deeper into the Tirashan to the west, as if he might see the creature there.

“What story did it tell you?” he asked.

She drew his attention from the trees and gestured at the marshes. The burning light of the sunset was swiftly fading, and the reflective patches of the marsh were darkening as if ink had been spilled in them, or oil.

“The halla said that the marshes are Fen’Harel’s dancing footsteps,” she began, sending a chill down his spine. “Long ago, the Forgotten Ones and the Creators were one family. But the Forgotten Ones committed a great offense, and the Creators wanted to cast them out. The Forgotten Ones were powerful and didn’t fear the Creators at all, so they refused to leave. In her wisdom, Mythal enlisted Fen’Harel’s aid. She asked him to lead the Forgotten Ones far away from Elvhenan, so far away that they would never return; in exchange, Mythal offered Fen’Harel a place at her table.

“Fen’Harel agreed, and he insulted the Forgotten Ones and goaded them until they had enough of his antics. They hunted the Dread Wolf across the land, but he was too swift, and their arrows could not pin him down. Arrow after arrow, he dodged out of the way and lead them on chase to the ends of the earth. He led them to a dark place, where they got lost; Fen’Harel was no stranger to the shadows, and he found his way back to Mythal safely, eager to claim the honor and power she had offered him.

“But Mythal did not wish for Fen’Harel to join the family of gods, and the place she offered him at her table was that of a leal hound. He would always be beneath the Creators, accepting whatever scraps of power they gave him. Fen’Harel turned up his nose at the insult and left.

“Fen’Harel thought he’d go back to the Forgotten Ones and lead them out of their darkness, so they and the Creators could resume their squabbles. He set out along the path he had lead them, and he saw the evidence of their chase:

“Every arrow that missed Fen’Harel had struck one of the People instead. Countless elves died by the time the Forgotten Ones lost their quarry, all of them innocent of the Forgotten Ones’ and the Creators’ quarrel. Fen’Harel saw the destruction he had caused, and wept. His paw prints filled with his tears, hiding the bodies and creating the marshes to the east. And that day, Fen’Harel swore he would unmake the gods.”

Merrill’s story was told with none of her usual cheer, and Solas could not decide if that made it easier, or more difficult, to hear his own history twisted through such a farcical lens.

He gripped the jawbone against his chest tightly. Teeth dug into his palm, as painful as the memories.

“Merrill,” he said, so sharply that she took a step back from him, “this land is very, very old, and its soil is soaked in blood. The forest’s thirst has not been sated by the passage of time, and there are many tales of what its denizens will do to find fresh prey.”

She shivered. Solas thought that her eyes held an appropriate amount of fear, considering she could not possibly know the true extent of the danger.

“I know,” she said. “The last thing that halla told me… It said the Masked Andraste will return to her forest. I don’t know what that means, but—”

She was cut off by a sudden gust of wind, a gale, a howling rush of air that buffeted them dangerously close to the balcony’s edge. They both pressed themselves back against the outer wall of the tower for stability, heads turned in search of the source of the unnatural squall.

Their eyes watered against the brunt of it, but they could see the black ocean of trees below them seething under the fretful night-wind.

“—it can’t be good,” Merrill finished.

[ar-ghilas-vir-banal]

I lied. I betrayed you.

Ir abelas, Vhenan.

I will go. And seek atonement.

[cpattersonevans]

Because of the dialogue choices I make, I realized that my Lavellan never actually tells Solas she loves him. Not until the "I loved you, did you really think I wouldn't understand" line in Trespasser.

A part of me feels that her own regret over never telling him the full extent of her feelings, the things that went unsaid until it was too late, contribute a lot to her longing and grief over what they once had that we experience in Veilguard. And that's how I interpret that scene. Not pining. But longing and grief over what they had, over what could have been. Is there more she could have done if she had just been more open with him. Would it have been enough to reach him. Probably not, but what if? A what if that has lingered at the back of her mind for 8 years. Yes she knows what he's done. This doesn't absolve him from his actions, but a big part of grief and regret is blaming yourself for things that are not your fault, or thinking you should have done something different in hindsite.

I know that they could feel what they had was real, but it is always nice hearing it confirmed. Especially for someone who never thought they deserved love in the first place.