#solas x neria lavellan

[roguelioness]

Pharos

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

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

Read on AO3

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

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

Did he miss her?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

He gave you Skyhold, she reminds herself. 

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

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

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

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

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

So much space, she thinks, for one person.

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

“Why are you crying?” Rook asks. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

[inquisimer]

“given your history, i should have known better.” but Neria x Cheese

hndfsjkl I don't know what this is but *throws at you* HERE YA GO

for @dadrunkwriting

~~~

It shouldn’t have been so hard to find sleep in Skyhold. Neria had spent the better part of her life encased in stone walls; there was nothing foreign about the whistle of wind against the fortress or the towering ceilings above her head.

But somewhere along the way, she’d forgotten how to sleep alone.

It started in Kirkwall, where she was originally relegated to the makeshift cot in the back of Anders’ clinic. They’d slept that way, limbs tangled together and sharing a blanket, until she’d scraped together enough funds for a place of her own. Even then, she often found herself sharing: if not with Anders, then with one of the escaped mages who needed a bit more direction before moving on.

With Lavellan, of course, no one slept alone. She’d gravitated toward Rosha pretty quickly and it wasn’t long before the two of them were sharing a bedroll (or an aravel, on their rotation) with Mahanon as well. The three of them slept in a jumble of arms and legs, too warm but comforted, supported, loved.

So though the ambassador had ordered her the finest Orlesian stock for a bed, Neria couldn’t rest. The mattress was soft, the linens softer, the blankets like baby’s breath against her skin. But it was all for naught, with only her own body to warm the space.

That was how she ended up in the kitchens. The cook was bound to notice, eventually, but who was she to question the Inquisitor. It was Neria’s damn fortress, according to Solas. She’d go where she pleased, when she pleased. And right now, that was the end of this table, with an assortment of cheeses spread before her on a cutting board.

She’d stacked cubes of cheddar on top of pepper jack, three or four stacks speared with little toothpicks, standing at attention like the finest of the Inquisition’s troops. In front of them, she’d placed a glob of goat cheese, carved in a roughly approximate humanoid shape, with a strip of salami wrapped about what would be its shoulders.

“You there! There’s a shield in your hand—block with it!” Her voice was already rough from sleep deprivation and she forced it lower in a poor imitation. She nudged the goat cheese commander forward, letting a wisp of mana animate the cheddar troops and making them quake with terror.

“Yes, Commander!” Higher this time, squeaking in just the right place to mock the changing vocal chords of their youngest recruits.

Maker, but she must really be losing it.

The lumpy head of her goat cheese commander crumbled under its own weight and toppled to the cutting board surface. She pinched it between two fingers and popped it in her mouth, only to freeze when she caught sight of a figure in the doorway.

“Couldn’t sleep?” The rumble of Cullen’s voice just confirmed how terrible her own imitation had been. He was dressed as casually as she’d ever seen, in just trousers and a plain white button-up with the sleeves cuffed to his elbows. There was a shadow of scruff across his jawline and the day’s hair gel had worn away, leaving his familiar curls loose about his forehead.

She flushed, with embarrassment and something she’d rather not look at too closely. The table jerked as she forced herself to her feet, sending her toothpick soldiers into a prone position. Cullen’s eyes twinkled with suppressed mirth as she tried to make it look like she hadn’t been childishly playing with her food in a bout of insomnia.

“Given your history I’m not surprised,” he said offhandedly. Neria frowned.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Who do you think Irving groused to when his favorite snack went missing?” Cullen raised a smug eyebrow at her and her blush deepened; she could feel the heat all the way to the tips of her ears. “And who do you think Greagoir complained to about the complaining mages?”

“I knew Solona was lying about having free access, that sneak.” Neria popped one of the stacks into her mouth, catching the toothpick between her teeth as she pulled it out. Cullen’s eyes tracked the movement, lingering on her lips a second longer than was perhaps proper.

“Well, you have free reign here, no sneaking required. Though I might suggest going for it during normal waking hours?”

“Normal waking hours are a myth,” Neria pronounced grandly, hiding her insecurity behind the snark. “I’ll eat cheese whenever I damn well please.”

“Alright, ser poet.” Cullen chuckled, but the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes. They gleamed in the light of the single candle she’d lit, the shadows dancing with concern and care. It was a look that burned her, made her want to run and hide from every emotion that had ever left her scarred.

“Why aren’t you sleeping, Neria?” he asked softly.

She stared down at the cutting board and didn’t answer. She pushed the remaining chunks of cheese around the wooden square, pretending to think but really just hoping he’d give up on this line of questioning.

No dice, unfortunately. A shadow fell over the table; he’d moved closer, close enough for her to identify the worry more readily in his expression. His brow furrowed and his hands jerked upward, hesitant, uncertain, but lightly wrapping around her arms anyway; they gripped more firmly, comforting, when she didn’t flinch away.

A breath escaped her lips in a gentle huff. It felt as though she were in a bubble, filled with the hazy, dream-like feeling that only existed in the hours that could be either late night or early morning. She pressed her forehead against his shoulder, so she wouldn’t have to look at him with her confession.

“It’s so empty,” she whispered, sounding pathetic and broken and shameful. His hands slipped to her back as he pulled her firmly into his embrace. The feel of his arms around her, the beat of his heart against her chest, the warmth from his breath against her hair—something slotted into place in her chest, something she hadn’t quite realized was askew.

Neither of them spoke; tears slipped between her eyelashes and splattered against Cullen’s arm, but he didn’t seem to mind. He rocked her slightly, resting his chin atop her head and humming, low and so soft, she felt it more through her bones than she heard it in her ears.

They stayed like that until the earliest specks of light appeared on the horizon. The cook would be in soon, Neria knew, so she drew back reluctantly, immediately missing the warmth of his skin against her cheek.

The concern hadn’t faded from his face in the slightest. Their bubble was fading, but for now he seemed willing still to overlook the impropriety of the situation. He watched as she swept the remnants of her nighttime escapades into the rubbish bin and sent a cascade of water and soap over the cutting board before replacing it on its hook.

“You could sleep with me,” he blurted. Neria nearly choked; she was sleep deprived and stressed and she must have heard that wrong. Of all people in the Inquisition—

“Not like—not like that,” he hurried on, face as red as hers felt. His blush was endearing and she focused on that, rather than the embarrassingly hopeful skip her heart had taken.

“I just—if you need someone to help you sleep,” he said, one hand reaching up to clasp the back of her neck. The corner of the kitchen floor must have been very interesting, for all the attention he was suddenly giving it.

“I’d…like that,” Neria ventured. Cullen smiled, ever so slightly, then jumped as the faint crow of a rooster reached them from the yard below. He made his excuses and fled, presumably to don his armor before their council.

There were all kinds of questions and misgivings and preoccupations running through her head, but they muted by the fullness in her heart at being held by another living person again. Like a drug, there was little she wouldn’t do to have that on a regular basis.

And wasn’t that a dangerous place to be?

[tabriscadash]

I was asked this on my old blog right as I set about transitioning to this one, so...

The first character I ever fell in love with: for DA:O, dare I say Daveth? What can I say -- I irrationally got incredibly attached to him. otherwise, DEFINITELY Morrigan, and I have crystal clear memories of my first run through Lothering and looking at Morrigan like 😍 the whole time. For DA:2/E, Carver -- unless you count Anders & Justice since I knew of them from Awakening beforehand, in which case probably Justice. For DA:I, it’s a toss-up between Vivienne or Cole -- I technically liked Cole first but SPECIFICALLY in the supporting material (Asunder), and didn’t vibe with him anywhere near as much in the game, AND I got him as a companion after I got Vivienne, so probably Vivienne.

A character that I used to love/like, but now do not: for DA:O, I guess Oghren? I never loved him, but I liked the idea of him because I really liked the dwarves/Orzammar side of DA’s worldbuilding -- but he’s such an unlikeable character that I just.. don’t vibe with him at all. I debate recruiting him every single time now, and I don’t think I ever do his personal quest (in the base game OR Awakening). for DA:2/E, I don’t really have anyone that fits -- but I REALLY wanted to like Merrill and Aveline more than I did, and especially in Aveline’s case, I can’t stand her and genuinely think she’s the unintended, secret Big Bad of the whole game. for DA:I, probably Cole, bc I was really into the idea of a little walking-corpse serial killer animated by a spirit as per the book, but that’s not really the vibe in DA:I, and combined with the somewhat patronising/ableist language and how significantly he is infantilised (including by the fandom) I just got put off him. I do still like him, but not as much.

A ship that I used to love/like, but now do not: for DA:O, I don’t really have one? I guess see my DA:I answer, lol... for DA:2/E, has to be Anders - I don’t think he’s OOC in 2, but I think his writing does so little with him and he feels v. reductive. Where his relationship could be SO interesting and angsty, it instead is written in a really dull and/or cringey way. It would have been nice to see Anders more like the Anders of Awakening near the beginning of the game (rather than random, infrequent and questionably rare snippets), and then see the progression of his relationship with Justice as the game went on -- I want more interesting abominations, PLEASE. for DA:I, listen I cannot express to you HOW EXCITED I was for my planned Lavellan to romance Sera… also I used to be way more tolerant of Cullen x Amell/Surana ships because, like, hey dark ships are fun, right? But since Cullen’s ~wholesome whitewash~ in DA:I, and his fandom clamouring to absolve him of any wrongdoing ever.. it’s boring to me.

My ultimate favourite character™: for DA:O, probably Sten? or Morrigan. They’re both fantastic, and also are significant comfort chars for me. for DA:2/3, honestly, probably my own Hawke -- I feel so hugely proud of her, and can’t imagine I’d enjoy the game anywhere near as much had I not played it as my Hawke. If not her, maybe Sebastian or Carver? for DA:I, I really love Vivienne, as well as Blackwall, and Solas is a great character even if I probably would not say I liked him.

Prettiest character: for DA:O, we all know it’s Zevran. for DA:2/E, I think Aveline -- although her aggressively bland colour-scheme lets her down in a major way (although I respect her dedication to all orange all day every day). There’s just something about her arms -- very Abby from TLOU:2. for DA:I, maybe Josephine? Ser Barris is very pretty, too...

My most hated character: for DA:O, I really didn’t like Alistair, Wynne and Oghren, and of my companions - Oghren is probably my least favourite. He’s vulgar and also profoundly uninteresting. for DA:2/E, it has to be Aveline. There’s just something about ineptitude and a complete, wilful refusal to take accountability for your actions that I can’t stand. It would be okay if it was an intentional character flaw, but the game/narrative treats her like she’s lawful good and it really annoys me. for DA:I, maybe Iron Bull? He was a huge disappointment for me. I also really dislike Sera, Cassandra, and Varric. I’m so sick of Varric - I never want to see him again.

My OTP: for DA:O, I really loved Zevran’s romance -- but I am also very amused by the fact that Leliana got to ‘love’ status with Kallian accidentally, AND I got the ‘love’ glitch for Justice (👀) and Velanna. I do sometimes wonder about an AU where Kallian is forced to make a politically expedient marriage with Nathaniel Howe for diplomatic reasons in order to consolidate her position as Arlessa, and it being an entirely platonic arrangement (it’s not like anyone expects an heir from an infertile Grey Warden) -- and maybe Zev and Nate kiss sometimes, who knows? I also LOVE my Darkspawn Chronicles AU where Kallian and Nelaros are a happy, married couple each hiding their skills with weapons from each other like dumb, cute sweethearts. They shelter Zevran when he fails to kill Alistair and a poly couple evolves. for DA:2/E, I love the IDEA of a Seb romance that isn’t so strictly conditional around the structures that abused him -- he should be allowed to love, chastely or otherwise, but free from the Chantry OR his position as prince/heir. I’d LOVE to actually have a romance with him where you can actually challenge the abuse he’s experienced. for DA:I, Malika doesn’t have a canon romance (although I think when I replay, I’m going to romance Josephine!) but I think Blackwall has an amazing romance. Solas’ is also iconic, it must be said. 

My NOTP: for DA:O, I really dislike Alistair in a shipping capacity; he’s immature and says a lot of misogynistic shit and I don’t think he’s the worst for it, but I don’t really vibe with shipping him, having played the game as a female city elf. for DA:2/E, I wouldn’t say I have one, particularly? although I really dislike Aveline’s relationship with her husband simply because it seems incredibly inappropriate, given that they work together and she has power over him -- and because I dislike her, generally, I don’t feel inclined to do something nice for her. for DA:I, I suppose Sera/Lavellan -- although I’m not AGAINST it, it just really isn’t for me, having attempted it. I also don’t really vibe with Dorian x Iron Bull. Something abt the way the game handled BDSM and their relationship banter specifically I don’t really like.

Favourite episode quest: for DA:O, probs Orzammar/the Deep Roads. I really love the dwarven lore! and, of course, Fort Drakon is really funny, even though it’s not canon in my game iirc. for DA:2/E, maybe the murder mystery with the serial killer, where ultimately Leandra dies? I also really enjoyed all the companion quests. for DA:I, The Descent (just, all of it, lmao) and everything to do with the Avvar. Crestwood also BANGED.

Saddest death: for DA:O, it’s frankly a fucking INJUSTICE that Shianni gets murdered if you make her Bann of the Alienage -- the idea of that happening whilst Kallian is in Amaranthine and unable to protect her :( genuinely very upsetting. I go back and forth on who is made Bann, tbf, so idk how canonical it is: I think maybe Cyrion would get it, but I’m also endeared to Soris holding the position, with Shianni as Hahren. for DA:2/E, Bethany. I wish both twins had had the chance to reach Kirkwall :(. Let Leandra die instead. for DA:I, maybe not the saddest death, but the most memorable for me was that one sleeping dragon in the Hissing Wastes.. leave her alone. Stay out of a womans’ business.

Favourite season game: DA:O!

Least favourite season game: DA:I.

Character that everyone else in the fandom loves, but I hate: for DA:O, Alistair. I cannot deal with his complacency and hypocrisy. for DA:2, I really disliked Merrill but I honestly cannot remember why. DEFINITELY Varric -- I hated how the game forces you to be his best friend, and if you’re low approval, you have to endure these pointless pissy little comments with this little anti-dwarf centrist pissant. After the expedition, I literally have no reason to put up with him, and I NEVER take him out. I hate that he plays the same role in DA:I, too. for DA:I, the Iron Bull was hugely disappointing, and I also really don’t vibe with Cassandra. She just seems very wishy-washy and complacent and hypocritical, and many of her comments about other cultures seem snide for literally no reason other than bigotry. 

My ‘you’re a piece of trash, but you’re still a fave’ fave: for DA:O, lbr probably Sten. Mans is gonna launch a HORRIFYING invasion in the next game iirc and frankly, I’m ok with it. Just wanna see that big bastard again ❤🥵. for DA:2/E, I LOVE Gamlen, ok? for DA:I, I am not sure if I have one.

My ‘beautiful cinnamon roll who deserves better than this’ fave: for DA:O, if any of you so much as LOOK at Velanna wrong, it’s hands. That includes Bioware. I also feel incredibly protective of and sad for Morrigan. for DA:2/E, probably Sebastian -- I feel so sad for him, and so frustrated by the limitations with the game. for DA:I, I’m honestly not sure.. maybe Josephine? I don’t really feel this way about Sera, but I do think she deserves better from the game and its writing, and also from fandom: there are valid criticisms of her, but the hate she gets is not proportional to any valid issues with her -- and gee, I wonder why that is.

My ‘this ship is wrong, nasty, and makes me want to cleanse my soul, but i still love it’ ship: for DA:O, I did use to find Cullen x Surana/Amell intriguing as a dark ship -- I actually hc that Neria Surana is actually Nelaros’ sister, and have dabbled with it as a dark ship. I also am interested in Loghain/Alistair - which each pretends the other is someone else. Alistair is wooby, hate ships are, in general, fun -- so long as we acknowledge that they are, indeed, unhealthy ships. for DA:2/E, I kind of feel like Sebastian romances are, invariably, kind of dark... and, similarly, Anders romances -- especially with certain red Hawkes, The way it ends is, invariably, bordering on fucked up. ALSO Hawkecest is weird and wonderful: GET WITH IT. 

My ‘they’re kind of cute, and I lowkey ship them, but I’m not too invested’ ship: for DA:O, I joked about Velanna x Leliana once and I’ve not been able to stop thinking about it ever since… Velanna x Sigrun is also something that can be so personal. Ariane x Finn is adorable and are paid DUST by Bioware AND fandom. I actually am really into Anora x Nathaniel & NO I will NOT explain myself; it’s a crackship but it’s MY crackship. for DA:2/E, Isabela x Fenris is super cute, but I don’t pay enough attention to them to really have super committed thoughts & feelings on them. for DA:I, Blackwall x Josephine is cute as a background ship; I also think Maryden x Cole is sweet.

[jentrevellan]

SUMMARY: Cullen’s POV to the events of Dragon Age: Inquisition. Cullen x Lyla Lavellan (Mage)! One-sided Solas romance! Some in-game scenes expanded! Plus lots more to come! Reblogs, likes and replies are loved. ^^

**Updated every 2 weeks!**

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-> Read on Ao3 -> Read on FF -> Artwork by @anafigreen​

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN: Letters

The letter sits on my desk, unopened and untouched. I know that writing - it’s clear and crisp and holds many memories and regrets. I’m leaning against the stone wall, staring at it for what seems like an hour until I finally muster the courage to unseal it.

"Dear Mia, I'm still alive. Your loving brother, Cullen" Honestly, is it so difficult? We thought you were dead. Again. If the Inquisition was not on everyone's lips, we would never have heard that their fine commander survived Haven. We've been hearing strange things about the templars lately. I am not sorry you left them. I thought your resignation was implied when you joined the Inquisition, but you meant something more, didn't you? It's a fool's errand asking you to stay safe, but please try. Your loving sister, (see how easy this is?) Mia

I re-read the letter several times, to digest every sentence, every word. The guilt of it all rattles through me, making me grip the hilt of my sword for support as I pace my office. I read it again, just to take in that familiar handwriting and I scrunch it up. I throw it to the floor exasperated. My legs jerk as I hesitate again before swooping down to pick up the letter once more and flatten it on my desk just to read it again. My elation from the memories of Lyla and I sparring before she left for the Western Approach are extinguished as if to remind me that I don’t deserve to be happy. I do not deserve Lyla when I have let so many others down; let my family down. If I’m not careful, I will let Lyla down too and the thought cripples me.

To tell my sister that I have, in-fact, written to her many times over the years only to end up as kindling, would drive her mad with anger. But it is has been so long since I’ve seen any of my siblings, that I find myself struggling to remember their faces, their voices.

I spend the rest of the afternoon mulling over reports, only to re-read Mia’s letter again and again. I know I’m in desperate need of a distraction with the absence that Lyla has left since her mission to the Western Approach. Any day now, a report is due from them and I am anxious to hear any news, feeling useless that we are left in the dark about the unknown.

It’s late in the evening when there’s a gentle knock at the door. For a moment I forget that Lyla is away, and my stomach flips at the thought of seeing her. But Leliana enters the room, a crow on her arm.

“I thought you would still be up,” she says. “I’ve got messages from the Inquisitor.”

“Messages?” I repeat, puzzled.

Leliana tugs out the rolled parchment from the crow’s ankle. “There’s her official report but also another, addressed only to you.”

I stand abruptly, and the crow flaps its wings at my sudden movement. Leliana coos to the bird, stroking it’s chest with a gloved finger.

I take the letter from her outstretched hand, and recognise Lyla’s loopy script reading just ‘Commander Cullen’. I turn it over, noticing the seal is already broken.

“Intercepted?” I ask, glancing at Leliana.

She shakes her head. “I have to check these things, you know. I ought to get her to write in code, really.”

“You’ve read it?”

“Well it was attached to the same bird - I had to check, just incase.”

I sigh, tucking the letter into my pocket, wanting to read it in my own time, alone. But the apprehension of reading her letter is an awful temptation. I can feel it burning in my pocket.

“Cullen, I should talk to you about Inquisitor Lavellan... and you.”

I still, waiting for her to continue, dreading her words.

“Whilst my teasing is all in jest I just need to make sure that… things won’t get complicated if they-”

“They won’t, Leliana,” I cut across.

She inclines her head slightly. “I only mean… does she know about your… headaches?”

“Yes. Although she knows little of how bad they are. I do not want to be a burden.”

Leliana nods. “I don’t want either of you getting hurt. And it’s probably best, for diplomatic reasons, that whatever is going on between you, remains as private as possible.”

“Diplomatic reasons?”

A small smile tugs at the corners of her mouth. “Josephine is negotiating and handling all new queries regarding lineage and betrothals for both you an the Inquisitor. Don’t worry,” she says, as I open my mouth to protest. “Our ambassador is very good at holding them at bay. But in the interests of alliances, I suggest you keep this a private matter, yes?”

“I intend to,” I say, a horrible taste in my mouth, hating the ways of the great game.

She sighs. “I remember during the Blight, Alistair and the Neria falling for each other. Oh, they caused such a great scandal when Alistair refused the Kingship to remain a Warden. We all know he did it to stay with her.”

“I won’t abandon the Inquisition, if that’s what you’re implying,” I say.

“I know that… but you know that Lyla will have to abandon Clan Lavellan if she stays with you?” Leliana says softly. When I don’t reply she turns to leave, handing me the report with the Inquisition seal. “Just be careful. I’ll meet you in the war room in the morning with Josephine so we can discuss this report.”

“Thank you, Leliana,” I say, looking down at the report. She backs out of my office, closing the door softly behind her.

I walk slowly back to my desk, unrolling the neat report and preparing myself for the news. At least I know she is safe, and that gives me a little hope, despite Leliana’s words.

Dear Advisors, It is much worse than we thought. The Grey Wardens are not in their right mind, with Warden mages under complete control of Corypheus, through a Tevinter mage: Erimond. What’s worse, is that those who aren’t possessed are simply following orders, hoping this will stop a future Blight. They are scared and desperate and are congregating at Adamant Fortress, to the west, using blood magic to summon demons.

We have learnt a great deal, but will need to get into Adamant Fortress before Corypheus’ demon army can be summoned by his Warden puppets. In an attempt to secure the Western Approach, we have procured Griffon Wing Keep - Captain Rylen is setting up a base here for the Inquisition.

We are returning to Skyhold as quickly as possible and will be back within the week, Creators permitting. I shall explain more when I arrive.

Signed, Inquisitor Lavellan, Herald of Andraste

I scan the letter several times and immediately begin planning for an inevitable assault. I spend most of the night pouring over maps and documents, writing plans and orders, counting recruits and composing regiments. It’s tedious work, but I’m admittedly pleased for the distraction, knowing that the Inquisition’s army are almost ready. I speak to Blackwall late in the night asking for his opinion, but the man is elusive with his knowledge of Adamant Fortress. Even so, he’s clearly had experience in an army, but I’m too intent on organising a potential assault, that I don’t probe him for more.

I can see light starting to appear on the horizon when I finally get up from my desk and stretch. It’s a few hours before the rest of the keep will awake, and normally I would be meeting Lyla in the training ground for our sparring match.

With a jerk, I reach into my pocket, suddenly remembering her letter. How could I have forgotten? My eyes are heavy and I know I need to sleep before the meeting in a few hours, but to know that she has written to me - just me - greatly lifts my heart. I smile as I climb the ladder, peeling off my armour and standing by the window. Finally, I roll open the letter and read by the faint light of dawn at the window.

Dear Cullen, You’ll have seen my report from the Western Approach to you, Leliana and Josephine by now, but this is not a report. Leliana - I know you’ll read this anyway, but please, this is informal and strictly off-the-record.

It seems so long since I was at Skyhold, saying goodbye to you at the stables. It seems even longer since that soiree. How ridiculous does that sound? Dorian is currently reading this over my shoulder as I write and is scoffing. He’s becoming insufferable.

There is sand everywhere, it’s not even remotely comfortable. I never thought I would miss the cold and snow of Skyhold, but here I am praying to the Creators for snow instead of sand.

Really, what I’m trying to say is that I miss you. And I'm not very good at this. Take care, Lyla

I read the letter again and again, my chest lighter, my tiredness easing. I grin at her words and scan the letter once more before collapsing on my bed into a blissfully dreamless sleep; the letter still clutched in my hand.

True to her word, Lyla returns less than a week after her letters arrived. I’m standing in the war room with Leliana and Josephine, awaiting her arrival. Unlike her usual returns to Skyhold, there is no victory to celebrate, only the nervous apprehension of the battle which is sure to come. I rest my hand on the pommel of my sword at my hip, hoping to keep my hands still. I know, that as soon as Lyla arrives, we will plan straightaway for our departure. There will be little to no time to see her, except as our Commander and Inquisitor selves.

But we are at war, I must remind myself of this. Every moment where we are in the same room is a blessing and I will not forget that. When she finally pushes open the doors with Hawke and Alistair behind her, I cannot even try to smile when I see how exhausted she is.

Still in her travelling gear, her hair is windswept and her nose is pink. Her breeches are faded and stained with sand, dirt and now damp from snow. She smiles faintly as she takes her place opposite us at the table, but I can see the way she’s favouring her right side as she walks, and worry plucks at me.

“Welcome back, Inquisitor,” Josephine says, offering a smile.

“Thank you. Although I fear we will need to depart as soon as possible.” She sighs, running a hand through her hair and looking down at the map. I pass her a roll of parchment with clear drawings of the fortress which she browses over as we each present our updates following her letters.

“Adamant Fortress has stood against the darkspawn since the time of the Second Blight,” Leliana says.

“Fortunately for us, that means it was built before the age of modern siege equipment,” I reply. “A good trebuchet will to major damage to those ancient walls, thanks to our Lady Ambassador.”

Josephine beams. “Lady Seryl of Jader was pleased to lend the Inquisition her soldiers. They will deliver the trebuchets.”

“That is the good news,” Leliana says bluntly.

“… and the bad news?” Lyla prompts.

“Erimond called the ritual at the Western Approach a test. He may already be raising his army of demons in the fortress.”

I point to the plans of the fort on the table. “The Inquisition forces can breach the gate, but if the Wardens already have their demons…”

“Look at these records of Adamant’s construction,” Leliana points to similar drawings of the ones I’ve already seen. “There are choke points we can use to limit the field of battle.”

“That’s good,” I say. “We may not be able to defeat them outright.” My mind is working a mile a minute to plan this down to the tiny detail. I turn to Lyla. “But if we cut off reinforcements, we can care you a path to Warden Commander Clarel.”

Lyla looks away, picking at the hem of her gloves. “Taking this fortress is going to get a lot of good soldiers killed.”

I open my mouth to reply but quickly close it. No matter what I say, it’s not going to help. She speaks the truth, but that is the price of fighting a war for peace. To think of those who may die and the lives they leave behind is a luxury I cannot afford to think about.

“Our soldiers know the risks, Inquisitor,” Josephine says softly. “And they know what they’re fighting for.”

“It will be hard fought, no way around it. But we’ll get that gate open,” I say, confident in the men and women I’ve been training. Knowing that for them, they are itching for a battle, to fight in this war.

Josephine glances behind Lyla to where Hawke and Alistair are talking just outside of the doors. “It’s also possible that some Wardens may be sympathetic to our cause.”

“The warriors may be willing to listen to reason,” Leliana concedes. “Though I doubt they will turn against Clarel directly. The mages however, are slaves to Corypheus. They will fight to the death.”

We fall into a contemplative silence as we digest the news. Lyla doesn’t dare look at any of us, but keeps her head bowed, eyes tracing the maps and plans before her, as if absorbing everything to memory.

“We’ll leave on the morrow,” she says eventually.

The meeting is adjourned and we all swiftly return to our duties. In the main hall, I hesitate as I watch Lyla slowly make her way towards her quarters. She stifles a yawn and I'm loathe to disturb her, but cannot think of a reason why I shouldn’t. I know that to be alone on the eve of departing for battle is the last thing you want.

With my mind made up I hand my reports over to one of my men and head towards the kitchens, which are unusually busy at this late hour. I’m blissfully ignored as the cooks and servants hurry around preparing food for the journey with packs of salted meat and sugary treats. I spot lemon cakes on a stand in the corner, knowing that they were meant to be for a welcoming feast with Lyla’s return.

I manage to slip a few onto a plate, pop them on a silver tray and head out to the wine cellar, pulling out a small bottle of chilled wine with none of the servants noticing me. I slip into Josephine’s office and find it - thankfully - empty. Placing the cakes and wine on her desk, I rummage for some parchment and a quill and scribble a quick note:

Inquisitor, Thought you could use a little something sweet to help you relax before our march to the west. Cullen

I cringe over my clumsy words, not knowing what to say. It makes no sense, but I hope it’s something. Before I back-out, I place the parchment on the tray next to the cakes and sweep out of Josephine’s office, pushing the Inquisitor’s quarters door open with my shoulder. With each step I take up the tower, my feet like stone and the tray appears to get heavier. When I finally stop outside of her closed chamber door, I place the tray down, determined not to knock, incase she is already asleep. However desperate I am to see her, I know that calling on her in the night like this, on the eve of our departure, really isn’t proper.

Kneeling down, I place the tray on the floor outside of the door. I straighten, resist the final urge to knock and back away. As I turn and head towards the stairs back down, a shiver runs up my spine and I freeze on the spot. The door is opening.

“Cullen?” her voice is soft, quiet and questioning.

I don’t reply, I don’t trust myself. But she says my name again and I am compelled to turn and look at her at least. I tell myself not to speak, not to move, just to respond to her questions. Not to bother her.

She stands in the doorway, a hand on the catch. Her light hair tumbles down in soft waves around her face and her lips are parted slightly. To me, she looks so enchanting, dressed so simply in a leather breeches and a loose shirt. There’s a faint smile tugging the corners of her lips as she glances down at the tray by her feet.

“What’s all this?”

I rub the back of my neck, looking anywhere but at her. This was a terrible idea. I should not be here.

“I… I thought… ah, it doesn’t matter.”

“Ah, lemon cakes!”

Lyla picks up the tray and turns to take it with her, but looks at me over her shoulder. “Won’t you join me for a glass?”

Every part of me wants to say yes, to pick her up with the tray and take her to her rooms, but I remain rooted to the spot. Her face falls a little, so instead she carefully puts the tray back down on the floor, steps over it and walks towards me.

“I shouldn’t be here,” I say quietly, when she stops in front of me.

“I know,” she replies softly, leaning up and kissing my cheek.

Something in me snaps and I take her waist, desperate to feel her as close to me as possible: it’s been so many weeks since I helped her onto her horse, even longer since we had kissed on the training ground. My nervousness is replaced by determination as I pull her close, knowing more than anything I want to cherish her, protect her and spend just one night ignoring our responsibilities and those cursed ‘appearances’. Despite this, with restrain I don’t know I had, I pull her into a hug, resting my head on her shoulder, breathing in deeply her light scent of strawberries and sweat.

We’re silent for a few moments before she kisses my temple. “Cullen,” she says, breathlessly. It sends a shiver of desire through me. Oh Maker, this is not good…

“Cullen,” she repeats. “Your-your armour is-ah-”

With a start I pull back. “Sorry!” I exclaim.

Lyla shakes her head, smiling. “Thank you, Cullen. I…” She chews her bottom lip and carefully steps back. “I should… I should go.”

I’m deflated but I know it’s right so I nod. “Me too. I just… needed to make sure you’re alright,” I say lamely.

“I missed you,” she replies, picking the tray up once more. “And not just because you brought me lemon cakes and wine,” she chuckles.

I grin at her and rub my neck. “Well, goodnight, Lyla.”

“Goodnight Cullen.”

The door closes softly and I’m left in the dark corridor knowing that sleep will be hard to come by tonight.

[roguelioness]

Still

“Why do you still love him?”

Cassandra’s voice is like her question, blunt and heavy and direct. Neria looks over her shoulder to find Divine Victoria walking towards her, the pale gold rays of dawn lighting up the symbol on her hat.

It really is such a silly hat. However does Cassandra manage to balance it atop her head?

She waits for the Divine to reach her side. Together, they watch the sunrise, watch the blue-black of the night recede to give way to the lush greens of the landscape. Neria hates Orlais, but she has to admit that they make pretty things.

“He took so much from you,” Cassandra continues in a little over a whisper. There is no one else around them, but they know that it does not mean that they’re alone. “He broke your heart, and then he left you without a word. And then-” Neria’s staring straight ahead of her, but she can feel Cassandra’s gaze drop to where her left arm has been so abruptly cut off. “Yet you believe he is worth loving?”

“I have wondered, about your Andraste,” Neria murmurs, ignoring Cassandra’s furrowed brows. “Just what did she say, what did she do, to catch the eye of your Maker?” She falls into silence again. There are birds close by. Nightingales and robins and larks that sing into the sky. It is a bright sound, a cheerful one, but it makes her heart heavy.

“I wonder how it was for him,” she continues in that murmur. “Waking up to a world so different from all that he’d known. Walking the lands to see his people so changed. Changed in many ways, but still subservient. Still downtrodden. All that he’d fought for…” She looks at Cassandra now - Cassandra her dearest friend, Cassandra who punched trees when she was overcome with allergies, Cassandra who had faithfully protected and defended her all these years. “You think he lied to us all those years - and he did, yes. Omitting the truth is still a lie after all.” Neria closes her eyes, tilts her head back, opens herself up to the warmth of the sun. “But not all of it was a lie.” She can feel tears perched at the edge of her eyes. “Whatever he told me was the truth, even when it pained me to hear it.” She laughs, breaking off into a choked sob. “You look at him and see someone who wants to destroy the world. I see that, too. But I also see what lies beneath - a man so destroyed by his guilt and his shame that he is willing to damn himself to correct it. A man so filled with regret and remorse that he cannot see any other path other than the one before him.”

The tears are falling now, dripping off her chin. Neria feels them fall onto the back of her hands. Her fingers hurt from gripping the balustrade so tightly, but it’s all that’s keeping her together right now. “There are many reasons why I love him, and many reasons why I shouldn’t.” She looks at Cassandra again, her gaze fierce. “But only one reason that matters the most. I love him because he trusts me to find a way to stop him. To save him. And I will.”

She looks back out into the world again. It might be broken, but it is still beautiful. Much like him.

“I will.”

[roguelioness]

What Could Have Been

Inspired by this post and @ma-sulevin​‘s addition 

Her heart’s going to fly clean out of her chest any second.

It certainly feels that way. She stares blankly at the ceiling in the darkness, the last tendrils of the dream slowly unwinding from her mind, slithering back to the void. Her breath is rapid, and shaky, and she’s not surprised to feel wetness on her cheeks.

Reality comes back in inches. It’s so quiet here; the only sound is the wind playing with the trees outside their window. There’s a softness covering her, the flannel blanket that carries the familiar, soothing scent of the laundry detergent that she uses. 

She pushes herself up shakily.  A soft snore on her left has her turning sharply towards the source of the sound; and her heart flips over - in relief or shock, she can’t tell - when her eyes land on the sleeping form of Solas, of her husband, resting on his back with an arm carelessly covering his eyes. As she stares greedily, he snores again, and she makes a low, half-choked sound of disbelief. 

He’s… here. He’s here, by her side, and not-

Her hand moves towards him, unbidden, and she touches his face. Feels the softness of his skin, traces over the freckles dotting his nose. He’s real. He’s real. He’s real. When she rubs a finger against his lips, he stirs, moves his hand away from his face to blink blearily up at her.

“Vhenan?” his voice is thick with sleep, but it still sounds like him. “What’s the matter?”

His concern, even in his half-aware state, breaks open some dam within her. “Oh,” she breathes through her tears. “You’re here. You’re here.”

“Where else would I be?” She can tell he’s fully awake as he sits up next to her, his thigh pressing against hers. He’s awake, and alarmed. His brows are furrowed as he takes in her tears. “What’s wrong?”

“I had a dream-” she hiccups, then cries harder as he wraps his arm around her shoulder. “A bad one.”

He rubs her back, his warmth seeping into her. “Do you want to talk about it?”

She hiccups again, sniffs in a futile attempt to clear her blocked nose. Wordlessly, Solas hands her several tissues, and she takes them gratefully. She blows her nose, once, twice, places the used tissues on her nightstand in favor of the glass of water she keeps there. The liquid soothes her throat, replenishes what she’s lost in sleep-sweat and tears.

“Better?” Solas asks. His long, slender fingers softly massage the base of her neck sending frissions of relief up to her scalp.

“Yes.” She takes in a deep breath. The dream’s coming back to her, faint echoes of the vivid, overwhelming images, but shielded as she is by Solas’ touch, she feels none of the emotions that threatened to drown her. It makes it easier to speak about- it.

“I saw you,” she murmurs, hands fidgeting in her lap. “You were dressed funny. Your face was so… blank. So expressionless,” she shivers. He gently takes one of her hands and holds it between his, silently encouraging her to continue. “You had this- this strange orb. It was pulsing with power, so much power… you gave it to a monster…” she exhales. “Some corrupted magister, I think it was. And- and the monster, he- he used it to kill so many people. He blew up the… I think it was the Temple of Sacred Ashes. It looked like it… and he just- so many people died,” her voice trembles, just a little. “And I- I had a cut on my hand,” she stares at the palm of her left hand, half-surprised to see it smooth and unblemished.  “It oozed green light and it hurt so bad. And- people hated me for it, but- but they also wanted me to fight the monster. So I did… over and over… and it just… hurt.” She describes the breach, that swirling, vengeful vortex in the sky that spat out demons and death. She talks about red lyrium. “It turned normal men into hate-fueled beasts,” she mutters, blinking blankly into the darkness of the room. “They slaughtered everything for no reason. There was so much blood…” She tells him of the giant demon with too-many eyes and too-sly voice, of betrayal and deadly games played from behind masks and veneers, of ancient places lost and rediscovered and then defiled, of dragons tamed and conquered, and of monsters finally slain.

The silence that falls when she’s done feels deafening. Finally, finally, Solas shifts, pulling her between his legs, her back pressed to his chest so she’s enveloped by his arms and legs. She sighs, softly, contentedly; she feels safe, at last. He presses kisses to her temple, over and over, nuzzling his face against hers. 

Something else comes to her. “You left me,” she blurts out, hastily rolling away from him. “You broke my heart, and you left me all alone. And then- and then when I finally found you, you-” she raises her left arm, looks at it. It’s whole, and entirely normal; there are no poisonous green lines snaking up the length of it, no pulsing power in the palm that will burst out in a flash of agonizing pain. “You took my arm,” she whispers, rubbing her left arm with the fingers of her right. “You- you said you were the Dread Wolf, that you were going to destroy the world, and then you amputated me and… and you abandoned me,” the words are heavy with accusation and anger. “You turned your back on me, and you just… walked away.”

He sighs. “Vhenan,” he shifts, attempting to coax her to look in his direction. “Vhenan, you cannot truly be upset with me over something you saw in the Fade.” She staunchly refuses to look at him. He sighs again, shifts till he’s within her line of sight. “No, I have never given an artifact to a corrupt magister. You would know if I had. No-” he forestalls the objection that wants to pour out of her mouth, “not everything you see in the Fade is a memory.” 

She sulks, deliberately turns her head from him. Solas takes in a deep breath, and lets it out slowly. The sound is loud in the quiet of the room. “Vhe-” she jerks her head away from him again. “Vhenan, please.”

“You left me!” she hurls at him again, as though it explains everything.

“It was a dream. I would never leave you.” Slowly, as though he’s attempting to calm a skittish horse, he reaches across the distance between them. She lets him touch her, lets him turn her so she’s facing him once more. “Ar lath ma, Neria. You are my heart, my home. Leaving you would be like depriving myself of air; I would perish.”

Her eyes fill up with tears again; she sniffles. “Promise you’ll stay with me?” she sobs, flinging herself at him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

Solas holds her to him, so tight he’s almost crushing her, but she welcomes the pressure. “I promise.” He waits till the tears stop, stroking her back slowly the entire time, before suggesting they go back to sleep. She agrees, but she doesn’t get any rest.

She’s not really sure if she believes him.

----

Monday

It’s silly to let a dream haunt her so, Neria knows. She’s aware of it, but she can’t seem to stop herself from giving Solas the cold shoulder. Each time he asks her a question, she replies with one-word answers, tersely spoken. Creators bless him, he hasn’t pressed her, hasn’t demanded an explanation for her strange behavior - for it is strange, and out of character for her. Instead, he gives her gentle affection, coming back to her again and again even when she pushes him away. 

She thinks she hates him more for how damn understanding he’s being.

He’s at work, and she’s got the T.V. on as she prepares dinner. It’s some trashy reality show about the heiresses of Orlais; one of them’s getting married, apparently, and to accompany the raucous laughter and the garish opulence of the yacht wedding, fireworks are set off, bursting in the sky in a shower of sparks of blue, red, and green- green, like-

Her fingers turn boneless, and the knife clatters to the floor, but she doesn’t hear it.

She’s there. Arms bound, and the sky is falling, and there are people shouting at her; her heart thunders, she’s so confused, so terrified. There are people shouting at her, strange ghostlike figures with hoods over their heads and viperous green eyes, smoke curling out of their ears and noses and mouths. They scream at her, spit at her, but she can’t hide, there’s nowhere to go, she’s being pulled forward, forward, forward- she doesn’t know what’s going on, but there are soldiers, and she’s running up a snow-covered mountain, amidst bodies charred to the bone, and- it’s horribly, horrifying, it’s wrong, so, so wrong, she knows this, she knows this, but how can she fix this, she can’t- she didn’t cause this, how is she meant to fix this, she tries to shout at the ghosts but they don’t listen, they scream at her over and over and their voices are too high and they hurt her head and her hand is throbbing now, viciously, violently-

an arc of too-green light, and more pain, so much more pain, but the ghosts are pleased-

She can’t breathe, her chest is clogged with the freezing wind and panic and terror- but she can’t stop, can’t stop, this - whatever this is - is too urgent, too important, she has to keep going, has to, it doesn’t matter that no one believes her, it doesn’t matter that everyone hates her, she has to- do- something- and there’s green high up in the sky, so wide and large and massive and it’s scary and she doesn’t want to be here she wants to run away she wants to hide she wants to-

The phone rings, and she’s jolted back to her kitchen, with the sunlight streaming in through the windows, where an advertisement for laundry detergent is playing on the television.

Her heart’s still racing. She picks up the knife from the floor, but she can’t seem to stop her hand from shaking.

Vhenan. Would you mind picking up dinner on your way home?

She half-expects him to refuse. It’s what she would do, were she in his place…

Of course. Is there anything you’re craving?

Damn him. How dare he?

She sinks to the floor, phone clutched to her chest, and cries. She’s not sure why.

----

Tuesday

She can’t stay home. She’s already on edge, but walking into their bedroom makes her too jittery. Makes her feel as though everything is going to come crashing down around her. Desperate for a change of scenery, she texts her best friend.

How ‘bout some coffee? My treat.

Dorian’s quick to reply, as always. Of course. How does three sound? I’ll splurge on the donuts.

They sit by the window in the farthest corner of the room - their usual table. She’s eschewed coffee in favor of some strawberry lemonade - the last thing she needs is caffeine ruining her already fitful sleep.

“So,” Dorian asks, peering at her over the rim of his cup, his moustache quivering slightly. “What’s wrong?”

“What do you mean? We do this all the time.”

He quirks an elegant brow. “You look like death. You have more bags under your eyes than I take on vacation with me, and that would actually be an understatement, not an exaggeration. Something’s clearly got you all shaken up. Did you have a fight with Solas? Do I need to have words with him?”

“No, I-” her hand trembles, and some of her drink spills on her white shirt. “Dammit,” she grabs at a napkin, goes to prevent the stain from setting-

The red liquid is spreading outwards on the cloth. It’s so- red. So angry. So like-

-like blood blooming from a wound-

She’s running through walls lined with red, dark rank-smelling liquid around her feet, the scent of iron and copper in her nose and on her tongue.  There’s too much red, too much, and- there’s a humming sound, loud and haunting and it’s so furious and she doesn’t know why- how dare it be angry when she’s the one who deserves to rage- always that sickening squelch before the red sprays out, she doesn’t want to do it but she does, wants to hurt them the way they’ve hurt everything around her- 

Dorian calls out to her, concern ripe in her voice, and she lifts her head towards the sound, eyes not fully seeing- he was there too, running by her side, running amidst the muck and the filth and the ichor, so desperately optimistic despite the grim and the dark and the bleak

Red, red and dead everywhere- and Solas is here,, too-red and too-sad and too close to death with haunted and hopeless eyes and she can’t bear it, can’t bear it, it’s too much, there’s no hope there’s only fear and despair and she’s helpless as she watches the love of her life die spilling more red than she thought he had and it isn’t fair it isn’t right IT ISN’T RIGHT IT’S TOO MUCH SHE NEEDS TO GET OUT SHE NEEDS TO GET BACK-

“Neria!” she jolts as she’s shaken roughly. Dorian’s looking at her, unsettled but deeply worried. “What’s gotten into you?”

“Dorian-” he mouth is too dry, but the sight of her drink makes her recoil.

“Talk to me, please.”

She does. She tells him everything, then turns to look out of the window as she waits for him to tell her she’s crazy.

He doesn’t.

Instead… “I’ve had dreams like that before,” he confesses quietly. She stares at him, wide-eyed. “They can be… haunting.” There’s so much sympathy in his eyes she can’t quite bear to look at his face.

“How do I get rid of them?” she asks.

“They’ll leave, with time.” He reaches out, covers her hand with his own. “You’re not crazy, if that’s what you’re thinking.”

She’s not convinced. “Thanks, Dorian.”

----

Wednesday

Neria is being kind to herself, as Dorian suggested. The long, tapered candle gives off a pleasant, soothing scent, filling the air with vanilla and lavender. There’s a stack of magazines on the table, a cup of tea by her side, and she’s curled up on the couch with a soft wool throw tucked around her legs.

She hasn’t registered a single word she’s read.

With a deep sigh, she shifts, pulls another issue from the stack. Jostles the table as she does. The candle falls over before she can stop it. The flame touches the paper, which instantly ignites.

There’s a goddamn fire on the table; she knows she should do something, that she needs to put it out, but- she cocks her head to the side and finds herself just staring at it.

Yellow and orange and heat, so much heat it blisters and warps-

Shouting, and screaming, and panic; smoke handing thick and heavy in the air, wood charred black and glowing red, help us, save us- There’s too many of them, too many, what can she do- nothing, nothing, there’s nothing to do, she’s going to die, they’re going to die, everything is going to burn to ash and she can’t do anything- but- wait- she can, she can, she’ll do all she can so he lives- he is everything to her, she won’t lose him, she can’t lose him- it hurts, it’s anguish that shakes her bones, she doesn’t want to leave him, she doesn’t want to die, but there’s nothing else she can do-

she’s scared and terrified and petrified and she wants to curl up and cry. There’s panic in her belly and it’s desperate and gnawing and everything around her is burning, burning, it’s too hot even with all the snow and her fingers blister and her toes blister and her face blisters and she’s screaming and she’s falling and she’s burning and she’s falling-

Warm arms - not hot, but warm, and so familiar and so welcome - wrap around her. Solas’ arms are trembling as he rocks her back and forth, his lips pressed to her forehead.

“Are you okay,” he asks, his voice hoarse, when she finally pulls away from him.

Her throat feels strangely sore. “Yes,” she croaks, then remembers the fire and jerks upright. There’s nothing there; the candle’s been put out, the only victim a few pages half-burned. “You put out the fire?”

“It was a small one,” he murmurs, still unwilling to let go of her. “What happened?”

“I don’t know,” she mumbles.

She knows he isn’t convinced.

----

Thursday

The news feed is uninspiring. There’s a new picture up of Sera and her newest girlfriend at the beach. It’s time for a Widdle fun! the caption exclaims. Photos of Orlesian Fashion Week posted by Vivienne, with little remarks under the designers she admires. A slightly-blurry video of Cullen and his mabari pup; she can’t help but smile at their antics. She scrolls past a banner advert for Rainier’s Furnishings, and she absently makes a note to check it out; Solas could use a new desk and bookshelves for his study.

The Thedas Travels page has a slideshow of pictures. Ten Places You Must See Before You Die, it’s titled. Curious, she checks it out. Boulevard of the Seas in Antiva City, The Winter Palace in Halamshiral, The Argent Spire in Minrathous, Adamant Fortress in the Western Approach...

She stares at the picture of the large, grey-stoned bastion. An Orlesian fortress constructed by dwarves, this relic of the Divine Age stands on the very edge of the Abyssal Rift and once belonged to the Grey Wardens-

Clang of metal striking metal, scent of blood fresh in the air. Ichor on her face, in her hair, on her hands. She’s running again, chasing a ghost, frustration ripe on her tongue- the ground shatters beneath her and now she’s falling, she’s falling and plummeting and dropping and it’s endless and she lands into nightmares and terror and everything is sickly and wrong and makes her skin crawl and the sly voices lick at her ears and make her shudder and cloud her mind and sap her resolve- 

but she’s grim and she’s determined and she punches ahead and she’s a leader and she has to she has to there’s no other choice- until a choice has to be made and she doesn’t want to make it but she has to but she doesn’t and she tumbles out with grief blocking every pore and loss flooding her chest but there’s too many eyes on her to falter so she can’t even cry but that’s all she wants to do is cry and apologize and weep and- what has she done what has she done

When she wakes up, she’s in bed, the covers tucked around her shoulder. Her head throbs viciously. Weakly, she sits up, and finds a cup of warm tea and several chocolate chip cookies waiting for her. 

There’s also a small bottle of aspirin.

She starts to cry again.

----

Friday

It’s a bright, sunny day. There’s not a single cloud in the sky. Outside, she can hear the distant rumble of a motor as someone mows their lawn. There’s faint birdsong drifting in, and the scent of warm spices  from the stove. She’s smiling and humming along to the music in the radio as she pours the batter into a greased pan.

She’s happy, and she’s in love, and she’s going to surprise Solas with his favorite cake. Life is good.

A ballad floats out through the speakers. It’s soft, and sweet, all violins and cellos, and it builds up to something deeper, something that thrums in her veins and fills her blood with desires, until her core aches and throbs-

Come, dance with me before the music stops. It rings so clearly in her head she finds herself turning, seeking him out. Her hand in his. His hand at her waist, heavy and warm. She’s floating across marble, the stars in the sky insignificant in measure to the light in his eyes. Scent of rose and jasmine thick, almost cloying. The rustle of vines as she’s pressed up against the wall, his mouth at her neck, teeth nipping, tongue soothing, fingers drifting under her dress moving slowly upwards, teasing, stroking, there but not quite where she wants him, where she needs him-

Champagne on his tongue, passion on her breath, his gaze locked on her as he pushes into her, slow, steady, filling her so perfectly till he’s hilted as deeply in her body as he is in her heart. Her gaze never leaving his as he begins to move, hips slapping against hers, the sound muffled by the low hum of conversations from below the balcony. The music hangs in the air as he guides her to peak, as he makes lovely, lewd promises against her lips, her legs wrapped around him, trapping him, demanding more, neck bared up in offering, his mouth latched to her pulse-

Close, so close, so high up- she leaps off, soars, dives off the cliff into the sea of pleasure, washes up on the shore sated and breathless- he loves her and she loves him and she wants him and he wants here and it's lovely, beautiful, magnificent-

Solas walks out of the study. 

She strides towards him. Plucks the book from his hands. Pulls him down to her, slides her mouth against his.

He goes willingly with her.

----

Saturday

Elfroot, spindleweed, embrium. They’re growing well in their troughs, the leaves and stems a pleasing, soothing shade of green. She sighs when she sees that the trays in the shaded spot she’d reserved for growing deep mushrooms are empty. Still, she’s quite pleased with the crop of dawn lotus and crystal grace - she might even have enough to send over to Merrill.

She makes her way to the dragonthorn tree. It’s such a strange one, with it’s palmately lobed leaves that shine a deep, glossy green, and large orange-red berries that cluster in groups of two or three. Native to the Forbidden Oasis, it serves as a reminder of that one vacation she’d taken with Solas, just the two of them in a well-hidden paradise away from the rest of the world.

The sun glints off the swaying leaves. The wind whispers into her ear, cools the sweat that’s beaded at the nape of her neck. The scent of the earth hits her, loamy and rich-

The land is lush and verdant, more shades of green than she can count. She moves through grass softer than a dream, trails her fingers along slender, fuzzy leaves, the canopy above her dappled with sunlight. The smell of petrichor mingles with that of herbs, both known and unknown. Flowers bloom, a hundred different colors and sizes and scents. This is paradise unknown. It’s a marvel, and awe swells within her, wonder and amazement that such a place exists… so much beauty, such exquisiteness, then- flashes of gold, towers of red, hulking, misshapen, dead-eyed- pools of red, splashing up her legs, smeared across her face, running down her arm- the air changes from sweet to bitter and and she tramples all that is pretty beneath her feet as she rushes to stop greedy hands from grasping, from drinking- and she despairs that something so marvelous is despoiled, befouled, and she’s angry now, raging at those who would so  pollute and defile so sacred a sanctum-

Something brushes against her arm. It’s a branch, laden with blooming red flowers, and she has, in her daze, clipped it while it was still growing.

Distressed, she takes it with her when she enters the house, places it in a vase filled with water.

The flowers are dead the next morning, withered and sadly drooping. Dry, shrivelled red petals lie scattered across the table.

She carries the ache in her chest all day.

----

Sunday

Neria watches Solas check his wallet, making sure the printout of his boarding pass is safely within. His small green carry-on suitcase is waiting by the door. He shrugs on his coat, checks the time on his watch before looking up at her. “It’s time to leave, I think. I do not expect traffic, but it’s better to be safe.”

She nods.

He crosses over to her, cups her cheek. She nuzzles against his palm. “It is only four days,” he watches her carefully. “Not years. I will be back. I promise.”

“I know,” she replies, but it rings hollow even to her own ears.

He places his luggage in the trunk, and she drives him to the airport. A strange kind of silence fills the air - it feels ominous, almost. Like the Fates are watching the two of them with bated breath. It gives her goosebumps, prickles the back of her neck.

The airport is bustling as it always is, and she parks in the short-term parking. He’s clearly surprised, but makes no comment. “I’ll walk with you,” she explains, and he accepts without question. They share an embrace before he walks away to join the line for the security check. He doesn’t look back, his focus on the screen of his phone.

It slams into her then.

There’s rubble and dirt and ruins of ruins and she’s bloodied and bruised and aching in places she shouldn’t ache, but she wanders around, desperate, despairing; he’s not there- she’s terrified, her skin feels frozen not with the cold but with the lack of his warmth, his essence- he’s not there, she can’t tell where he’s gone, she’s alone- he’s gone, and left her alone, and the loneliness steals her breath and leaves her gasping and her heart bursts into razored shards that pierce through her soul and she can’t breathe, where is he, where is he- she is victorious, triumphant, she should be happy, she can sense it, but instead she’s filled with dread and heartache and there’s a gaping hole in her chest and she’s empty, so empty, and she- she can’t-

“Solas!” she bursts out, loud enough to catch the attention of everyone around her. Her husband turns towards her, a quizzical look on his face. “Don’t go. Please.” There’s a desperate don’t leave me that’s hanging in the air over them.

For a moment, they stare at each other. She doesn’t dare to breathe. 

Solas makes the slightest, most imperceptible nod. It’s enough of a response, and all the air in her lungs whooshes out of her. He picks his way through the crowd, and makes his way to her side.

Tension, that she hadn’t known existed, flows out of her. Neria’s shoulders slump with relief. She feels as though they’ve passed some unknowable test.

“You’ll stay?” she questions, hardly daring to believe.

“I will always be where you are, vhenan.” He takes hold of her hands. “Shall we go home?”

She doesn’t care that he’ll miss his meeting. Doesn’t care that everyone’s looking at them. Doesn’t care that she’s been acting so strange and aloof and afraid all week. 

Because it doesn’t matter, not any more.

He stayed, when she asked him to. And that’s all she needed.

The last of the dream dissipates from her consciousness, leaving only the certainty of his love in its wake.

“Ar lath ma.” She smiles up at him, bright and beatific, rises up on her toes to kiss him. “Let’s go home.”

[roguelioness]

Harden your heart (to a cutting edge)

Solas finds her in the aftermath, blood still dripping thin and viscous from the end of her staff’s blade. The scent of iron lingers in the air, thick and harsh and metallic, coats his throat and lungs as he draws in a shaky breath at the sight before him. Neria has no reaction to his sudden appearance; the entirety of her focus is on the body by her feet.

He follows her gaze. There’s a wide, gaping wound in the center of the belly, revealing muscle and sinew, running deep enough to where he can see the spine. 

The dead elf’s face wears a mask of sneering hatred.

Neria looks up at him when he takes another step into the clearing, a twig snapping beneath his foot. There’s gore in her pale hair, matting the strands. Her eyes are dead and cold in the way grave markers are, her features  terrifyingly blank.

“He was a good friend,” she says, her accent marred by the split lip. Her voice is automated and monotone, devoid of any emotion. “I even loved him, once.” Her tone is chillingly even. 

Her toes are stained red.

“I was fourteen. He’d pull my hair and tease me and when he went hunting he would bring me back berries to share. I left for the Conclave so he would not have to.” The dull thud of her staff hitting the ground goes ignored. The fingers on her prosthetic creak, the sound louder than thunder as she closes them into a fist. 

“He called me a whore. A traitor. Said I sold my soul to the shems.” Her gaze flicks to the body at her nearby, charred beyond recognition. “She claimed I betrayed my people. Told me I deserved to die.”

Neria’s face is still empty, her aura vacant of the compassion that was woven through her being. The pit of his stomach opens up to an endlessly ominous maw.

“They were my clanmates, once.”

There’s so much, so much crimson on her armor. 

“But I must do what needs to be done.”

Her voice is still so lifeless.

“Are you here for me, Dread Wolf?” she asks, head tilted to the side. That same expressionless mask on her face. “Will you take your vengeance on their behalf?”

Five, he counts them, stone-still where they lie, and she stands over them all, battered and bloodied and bruised, with an arrow jutting from between her shoulders. The carmine fletching is a shade lighter than the scarlet-covered shaft.

Her kith, her kin, slain by her hand, slain because-

Laughter bubbles within him, high and hysterical. He turned her away from him, but took those  she called her own. When he twisted them to serve his plans, how did he not see that they would find her on the other side of the line he had inadvertently drawn?

What more vengeance can he take? His retribution is insidious, more sinister than death, having robbed her of the very essence of her nature. His hands clench into fists; his tongue is stuck to the roof of his mouth with shame.

“No,” he says at last; the word comes out thin and reedy but she does not react to this fresh betrayal, does not point out that they championed his cause and died for it and he will not avenge their effort. She doesn’t need to. The words hang over their heads like a guillotine, waiting for a signal for the blade to drop. He knows when it does it will sever whatever bond remains between them.

Neria exhales. A cold wind passes through the clearing, disperses ice over the crimson-soaked blades of grass. It rasps against his skin, sends alarm trickling down his chest.

“Very well.” The blade makes a grotesquely wet, suctioning sound as she slides her weapon into its holster. She turns mechanically, her back to him. Remains still for a second.

If he pulls that arrow out, he wonders, will she bleed? Is there any warmth left in her veins?

Silence glides in like an eclipse, entire and enormous. He cannot even hear her breath. She is a statue, feral, deadly, and he finds himself reaching out for her against his own volition.

She shifts. Moves. Strides away, her gait measured and deliberate.

She does not look at the bodies. She does not look at him.

Dread catches him by the throat, squeezes tight, tighter, leaves him choking in the frost-scattered clearing. Something has changed, he knows, can recognize it in the ebb and flow of the wind. The draft, the puff of air that is the earth’s breath, whispers to him that the person who walked into the clearing bleeds from treachery.

Solas gazes once more upon those who had belonged to Clan Lavellan.

What has he done?

[roguelioness]

A heated confrontation. A tragic mistake.

Now Neria and Solas must put aside their differences and come together to fix what was lost. But will their newfound alliance help them make it out alive?

Chapter 10 - Maybe we’ll open these wounds

The scene fades to black. He can move again.

Solas sprints to where Neria was, frantically calling out for her, breath burning in his lungs, barely able to see for the tears in his eyes. He can’t see her. She’s not there, she’s not there and it can only mean- 

“Solas?”

He lets out a loud, broken, half-sob-gasp, turns so fast on his heel his head spins, but he can see her, she’s there in front of him, she’s there and whole and oh, oh- 

Solas grabs her, drags her into his arms, swallowing her in a hug so tight and entire he knows it must hurt her - but he has to hold her like this, to have one arm around her shoulders and the other around her waist, to bury his face into the crook of her shoulder and feel her. It’s almost as though he’s trying to drag her into him - and if he could, he would, if it will keep her safe and unharmed he will do anything-

[Read more on AO3] [Start from the beginning]

[roguelioness]

How did we get here (my god)

Nothing’s changed from the last time she was here. The curtains with their frayed edges are still the same faded blue, and dust motes ride the beams of light that drift in through the windows. The air is stale, but nothing that opening the windows cannot fix.

Weary, Neria drops off her rucksack on the lone bed. The hut is tiny, inconspicuous, battered by time and weather, barely worth more than a passing glance. Even so, it is her sanctuary, her private sanctum, her escape from a world that grows ever more hostile with each passing day. Here she is alone, but that is what she prefers; her heart and head are too weighed down for company. A few hours of rest, and she can be on her way.

Whatever she does, or does not, it will be too little. Too late.

She is always too late, too far behind, stumbling like a child taking its first steps, and now-

Exhaling, she runs a hand down her face, shaking her head to stop the thought. Kneeling in front of the surprisingly unrusted stove, she places twig after twig in the furnace with careful precision. Neria takes a moment to stare at the stacked pyramid with gritty eyes. A flick of her fingers, and the kindling is aflame, the tongues of red-yellow a suitable enough pyre for her deep-seated hopes. She watches as the tinder begins to blaze, then shuts the grate.

A small groan escapes her as she stands. She rests a hand on the small of her back and stretches, coaxing her stiff muscles to let go of their tension. It does not work.

The kettle is on the stove now, steam slowly rising from the spout. She moves to the bed, sits on the edge, and unpacks her rucksack slowly, unwillingly, but she knows she must be sure.

The letter is dirt-stained and creased, the edges wrinkled. There is no seal, no address, no signature, but the script is a familiar one. She smooths it out carefully, and begins to read.

The kettle starts to whistle quietly; pressure is building up.

You must come to Val Royeaux, immediately. The Nightingale might sing no longer.

Neria crumples up the piece of parchment in her fist. The stub of her arm, slotted into the groove of the prosthetic, throbs. She wills the pain away. It does not work. The silverite fingers close to rest against the rune-inscribed palm. She did not ask it to do so.

The kettle starts to shriek, spitting boiling hot steam into the quiet room.

The Divine is dying, and there is nothing she can do about it.

Her friend is dying, and there is nothing she can do about it.

She covers her face with her hand; the letter falls to the ground.

The kettle’s high-pitched whine grows softer, then comes to a halt altogether.

She looks up. Every nerve is on edge. Mana drifts down her arm, ready to be commanded.

He’s standing there, by the door, arms clasped behind his back. Neria flashes to her feet and stares at him. He shifts under her gaze, and is the first to look away. Solas moves towards the rickety old table, measures out two scoops of the blend of herbs she favors in her tea. His back is to her as he pours the water into the cup.

The air fills with the scent of ginger.

“Ir abelas,” he says. He does not look at her. 

She knows he means it. “I know you are,” her voice reflects her exhaustion. Fatigue and panic both gnaw at her bones, but she has no energy left to fight.

Solas turns on his heel. His armor is gilded, the design strange and intimidating. The rich red cape flutters as a breeze drifts through the open door. “I had no choice-” he tries to explain, but she cuts him off.

“So you claim.”

The tips of his ears turn pink.

The silence is heavy. It blocks her sinuses and clogs up her throat, and her vision starts to blur-

She turns away from him.

“I am sorry,” he says, again, this time in a whisper, “I truly am,” pleading with her to understand.

“What do you want from me?” she asks, her back still to him. The sky outside, robin’s-egg blue when she first entered, is now turning grey at the horizon, she idly notices. “Do not ask me for forgiveness, because I don't know if I have any left to give you.”

“I know,” he replies simply.

“Why are you here, then?” she asks warily, turning to face him. “What are you sorry for?”

He takes a step into the hut, instantly filling it with the force of his presence.

“I am sorry,” he says, and suddenly she feels herself being dragged across the anvil of dread, “because I must ask you to finish your tea.”

Ah. She understands.

How will I put honey in Leliana’s wine without being seen? A young lad had asked, worry in his eyes.

The man before her, jaw taut, face blank, eyes like polished steel - he has found the answer.

"And if I refuse?"

"I cannot let you go to Val Royeaux," his face is still calm and unruffled. His gaze, so infuriatingly even, gives nothing away.

She crosses her arms. Raises her chin defiantly. That he knows of this place means she has been thoroughly betrayed. It is all the more vital that she travels to the Grand Cathedral. "You have no say in that."

His lips pull up into a smile. It is vulpine at the corners, it shows hints of too-long canines. It is not only fear that slides down her spine. "Drink your tea, vhenan."

[roguelioness]

A heated confrontation. A tragic mistake.

Now Neria and Solas must put aside their differences and come together to fix what was lost. But will their newfound alliance help them make it out alive?

Chapter 9 - And though the truth may vary

Solas trails behind Neria silently,  his mind churning. Twice now she has accused him of acting god-like, and the implications of it are unpleasant. Worse, he’s struck by the feeling that she may not be entirely wrong-

Is he behaving like one? Surely not. She is free to pursue the kind of life she desires. As a matter of fact, he has encouraged it. Has he not told her, on multiple occasions, to live well?  He has done nothing to detract from-

Nothing, Dread Wolf? Truly?

“Mostly nothing, then,” he mutters a tad resentfully as he steps through the doorway. “I only wish to keep her safe.”

She lacks an arm. I would not consider that being kept safe.

“It was either the arm or her life!”

[Read more on AO3] [Start at the beginning]

[roguelioness]

A heated confrontation. A tragic mistake.

Now Neria and Solas must put aside their differences and come together to fix what was lost. But will their newfound alliance help them make it out alive?

Chapter 8 - Phantom be still in my heart

It is harder to pull herself to her feet this time. Neria wants nothing more than to remain as she is, curled up on the ground, and allow herself the time she needs to fully understand everything that has just occurred. She has to scale the cliff, she knows, but she is so tired and so emotionally exhausted she can’t- she doesn’t have the energy-

She staggers to her feet, letting out a little grunt of pain as her shoulder sparks with pain. She moves her tunic to the side to find a large bruise - in the shape of a finger - glaring a deep blackened purple back at her. She pokes at it gingerly, hissing as it throbs.

It feels all too real - almost like a warning.

[Read more on AO3] [Start from the beginning]

[roguelioness]

A heated confrontation. A tragic mistake.

Now Neria and Solas must put aside their differences and come together to fix what was lost. But will their newfound alliance help them make it out alive?

Chapter 7 - We’re only alive if we bruise

She remembers this clearing. It is a hidden glen, tucked away in a remote part of the Green Dales. It is a place that her clan visits once a year for Nirathe, the festival where they celebrate all the little joys that life offers.

Homesickness brews beneath her ribs, spreads across them. Everything is perfect, just as she remembers; the aravals decorated with flowers, the ribbons - made from cloth too old and worn to be used for anything else - dyed in bright colors and hung from the trees, the children laughing as they played in the mud. The brook nearby burbled cheerily, even over the bright sounds of conversation, and the scent of food - plentiful and varied in the way it so very rarely was - thickly coated the air.

It’s all so beautifully detailed, right down to the halla stomping and snorting away in their pen, that she forgets that it isn’t real. Vision blurry with tears, Neria takes a step forward when she sees Deshanna, her wizened cheeks pulled up into a full, wide smile-

The ground beneath her foot turns black.

[ Read more on AO3 ] [ Start from the beginning ]

[roguelioness]

A heated confrontation. A tragic mistake.

Now Neria and Solas must put aside their differences and come together to fix what was lost. But will their newfound alliance help them make it out alive?

Chapter 5 - Call me when you wake up

It is dark. Still. The quiet is so concentrated, so intense that she, with her thudding heart and hammering pulse, feels like the worst kind of interloper. A fine, hazy mist swirls around her ankles, brushing up against her calves and shins and leaving numbness in its wake.

Neria looks around. There is nothing here, none of the strange rocks and shapes of the Fade she has walked through, nor any of the many scenes that it has conjured up as part of her dreams. There are no wisps to light up the area, no spirits flitting about - but also no demons to whisper and tempt and taunt.

What is this place so haunted that it repels all visitors?

From the corner of her eye, she spies a body moving towards her. Solas gleams faintly in the muted light, a pale imitation of the bright luminescence of the spirits she’s encountered, and she wonders what it could mean.

[ Read more on AO3 ]  [ Start from the beginning ]

[roguelioness]

A heated confrontation. A tragic mistake.

Now Neria and Solas must put aside their differences and come together to fix what was lost. But will their newfound alliance help them make it out alive?

Chapter 12 - Put all your faults to bed

Neria comes to abruptly, her body thrashing and jerking, flailing as she seeks her balance. When it’s clear that she’s no longer falling - that there’s something solid beneath her - she calms down, her fingers exploring the thin sheet over the bedroll, taking in the softness of it, using the realness of it to ground her. She opens her eyes slowly, making a little sound of complaint as her eyes adjust to the too-bright light, and finds herself staring up at the ceiling of the cottage. The thatch is a yellowed brown, the wooden support beams a deep umber. She takes a deep breath in, hacking violently as the air slides over her strangely raw and tender windpipe.

And she remembers she wasn’t alone.

[Read more on AO3] [Start from the beginning]

[roguelioness]

A heated confrontation. A tragic mistake.

Now Neria and Solas must put aside their differences and come together to fix what was lost. But will their newfound alliance help them make it out alive?

Chapter 6 - While I’m dreaming, I feel you leaving

The Empress of Orlais had a flock of swans with feathers of a gorgeous deep royal blue - obtained through magical means, of course. The flock was tended to by young maidens, all carefully selected for their small hands and delicate fingers - all the better, or so it was claimed, to collect the soft down feathers of the birds.

After Neria’s victory at Halamshiral’s Grand Masquerade, she’d been deemed worthy enough to be assigned a room. Not just a room, but one meant for special guests, and it had included among its many amenities a mattress that had been stuffed to near-bursting with those same feathers. It had been like resting on a cloud, but now - flat on her back and staring up at an inky darkness - she thinks that compared to whatever it is she’s lying on, that down mattress was closer to the hardest granite.

That’s her first thought.

[ Read more on AO3 ]  [ Start from the beginning ]

[roguelioness]

A heated confrontation. A tragic mistake.

Now Neria and Solas must put aside their differences and come together to fix what was lost. But will their newfound alliance help them make it out alive?

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

Chapter 2 - When the ashes hit the ground

The Maker, Lace Harding muses as she idly pokes the campfire, has a strange sense of humor.

She tries not to think too hard about him, though, or of gods in general. The past few years have given her enough reason to be weary of them; she’s encountered enough of them to last her a lifetime.

Poor Neria. Burdened with the weight of having to face and challenge and defeat gods and would-be gods with little respite.

And now, with this newest challenge…

It still boggled the mind to associate the quiet, unassuming elven apostate with the elven god Fen’harel. All that time, right under all their noses, and no one suspected a thing. With the power he commanded, and an army that only seemed to grow by the day, it was only a matter of time before all of Thedas erupted into chaos once more. 

[Read more on AO3] [Start from the beginning]