#solasmance fanfiction

[citrusai]

their yearning is intertwined, as though there were no spatial or temporal interval between them.

Summary: Inspired by my own dog-gone post about Solas watching his heart through the eyes of Rook, incapable of doing or saying anything to reach out to her. 1.7k words

Warnings: None, but it's more Solas POV obviously. Bittersweet, obviously. No grave Veilguard spoilers but read at your own peril.

A/N: As always, crossposted to ao3. Love u all.

This was not Solas’ plan. It was never his intention to bind Rook to himself, to be trapped in a prison of his own making. The bond was thin, a crumb of a thought floating through the fade, it wasn’t much to go on.

The last thing he’d heard was that Rook was intending to meet a possible ally somewhere in Minrathous. His patience was wearing thin. Had it not been for their meddling, the veil would have been torn, nature restored to balance. And perhaps, Solas could… No. He won’t dwell on that treacherous thought, on the impossible.

The Cobbled Swan is empty, save for Rook sat at a small table. The situation weighs heavy on their mind. They’d been anxious about this, more so when Morrigan and Harding had started speaking about utmost privacy, just you two, we shouldn’t be here for this.

Rook seems to be incapable of sitting still, bouncing their leg as they look around the empty pub. How curious. What kind of person would have an entire establishment shut down? They glance through the window, eyes studying the movement of people living their day to day. A sigh escapes their lips.

A cold hand creeping up behind their ear and down their neck.

“Boo.”

Rook jumps in their seat, hand clutching onto their chest. Their head swivels in the direction of the voice, and they’re even more taken aback. They bow their head in greeting.

“Inquisitor.”

A sound of a raspberry being blown. “Wrong. The inquisition’s been disbanded. It’s Gan’freya now, or Lavellan if you wish to be formal. May I?” The woman gestures towards the chair in front of Rook, and they motion for her to sit.

Gan’freya sits down, folding her arms across her chest, her gaze bears no steeliness and yet it’s not entirely kind. She studies Rook for a moment. Their face, their outfit, the way they hold themselves. Rook notices the glint of metal on her hand, a prosthetic.

“You’re not entirely what I expected.” Rook speaks.

Gan’freya has to hold back an eye roll. “I suppose you expected a saviour, someone who invited you here with words of encouragement.” Her arms slip down to rest on the armchairs. “I’m afraid I don’t have any to spare. If you think what’s going on here in the North is horrid, you have yet to see the scourge released on Southern Thedas.”

“Why ask to see me then?”

“Morrigan and Harding had asked so politely, and what with Varric hiring you on my expense, well.” Her voice trails off, eyes looking out the window. A snort escapes her mouth. “Apologies, I think we both expected something different when you went to disrupt that ritual.”

“Do you think I failed?” Rook’s mouth runs dry, knee bouncing faster and faster.

Gan’freya looks at them, and there’s a hint of pity in her eyes, it’s gone as soon as it had arrived. She reaches her hand out to clasp Rook’s. “No.” She says, voice firm. “Nobody could’ve predicted the consequences.”

There’s a warm roll of familiarity that washes over Rook, but they can’t pinpoint why. They’d heard tales of the Inquisitor, and the stories had brought comfort on the long days chasing the Evanuris and the Venatori. The very stories Varric regaled.

But this felt different. As if a foreign mind had bled into theirs, trying to reach for her through Rook. They zero in on her speaking, shrugging off the sensation. She tells them of a statuette, and in return Rook tells her of what they’ve found.

It’s a glimmer. A foggy window, but Solas knows that figure better than he knows himself these days. Surely, the prison mocks him. Every move, every plan made in his lighthouse, buried under secrecy until Rook seeks him out. But now, the fade ripples and opens itself as if arms outstretched, daring him to confront himself.

Her hair is shorter, and there are bags under her eyes. She is both how he remembers her, and more. Yes, he had watched over her in her dreams, even before the night of the ritual. But seeing her, physically seeing her, through the eyes of Rook, it makes his heart leap into his throat.

The humour in her voice, quick to deflect Rook’s questioning. Always so perceptive to what others want from her, always ready to keep them at arm’s length.

He did not want this for her. Did not want her to follow him, to resign herself to a role she never wanted to begin with.

Herald. Inquisitor. Martyr. A symbol larger than life itself.

When she reached for Rook, when her hand had touched theirs, it’s as if that warmth washed over him too. How he wished he actually did bind that fool to do his bidding, if only to feel the softness of her hand in his once more, even through a proxy body.

The image becomes clearer upon her touch. And the punishment continues. Her pained cry, from when he’d removed the orb from her arm, echoes through the fade. The very sound mocks him, as his gaze falls on her prosthetic arm. He’d saved her, had given her another chance at life, or so he told himself.

His hand reaches for her, and the view ripples in between his fingers like water. His heart hammers in his chest, as if trying to break through skin and flesh and crawl out from the fade into her arms.

The prison echoes with more cries of anguish, the hiss of words in anger, mistakes that had been made before he’d met her. Solas dares not acknowledge them, their very existence a heavy weight upon his shoulder.

So he closes his eyes. His ears tuning into her voice as if it were a guiding melody. Everything else is just noise.

Rook scratches their temple, it feels as if a fog has fallen upon their mind.

“Are you alright?” Gan’freya inquires.

She’s no mage, not well versed in anything arcane, and her brother has been no help what with his speciality being healing. But something about Rook’s behaviour feels odd.

Morrigan had sent word, updates after the ritual was disrupted, when blight had descended upon Thedas once more like a disease. Harding had urged her to meet with them, to alleviate their fears now that Varric was gone. And through Morrigans eluvian she went.

She knew of Rook, in a way. Varric had written enough letters for Gan’freya to make sense of who this person was, what they could do. Yet something about their eyes fighting not to glaze over as they scratch and prod at their temple, fingers moving towards the back of their head, makes her eyes zero in on them with an analytical gaze.

“I am. It’s just…” They place their palms on the table, as if willing their body to still. “Ever since I hit my head when we disrupted the ritual, it’s like there’s this buzzing in my head.”

Her eyes give them a once over. “A concussion, you mean?”

They shake their head. “No it’s like, like something crawling around in there, biting on my brain.”

“What like something controlling you?”

“No..” Rook trails off, eyes cast down at the table, fingers scratching on the surface. “It’s more like... Something’s watching me, or at least trying to.”

“And by someone you mean…”

“Solas.” Rook finishes. “But it’s not constant, sometimes it’s a dull throb, but right now it’s like… Like my brain is on fire, in a way.”

Gan’freya hums, eyes giving Rook a once over. She rises from the table, approaching Rook as her hand reaches for their scalp, a questioning look in her eyes.

“May I?” She asks.

Rook simply nods. Unsure of what her fingers carding through their hair might achieve. Her touch is soothing, in more ways than one. It seems she’s inspecting their wound, fingers gently prodding the scab.

“I’m not oozing, am I?” They jest.

Something between a laugh and a snort escapes her mouth. “No, no you’re fine. No oozing, no bleeding, no tentacles or horns.”

Their body stills, and they hear the rustle of a bag, and a smear of something wet on their scalp. It’s cooling, relaxing almost. They listen to her hum as she layers whatever she’s smearing over their head.

Solas wonders if smell can travel into his prison, the scent of lavender and verbena overwhelming him. He cannot feel her touch, nor feel the balm she’s generously slathering Rook in. But he remembers, remembers how she used to tend to his wounds and his scrapes, how she used to bandage him and place soft kisses upon his scars afterwards.

And now all he has is this. A memory. A faint touch that cannot reach him.

The sting of tears in his eyes, his throat closing up, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’ll be fine.” Her voice, hushed, reverberating through the fade.

A part of him hopes she knows he’s listening in, another doesn’t dare to assume this kindness is aimed towards him.

It’d be so much easier if she had come to the lighthouse. The veil is thin there, he’d have more opportunity to reach out, to engage. But he cannot, he’s resigned to being a backseat passenger.

Solas watches her pull away, a solemn expression on her face, lips downcast in a frown. He’s always hated seeing her like that. The view grows foggier as Rook begins getting up, Solas watches as Gan’freya’s hand slip the jar of the salve she rubbed on them between Rook’s palms.

“You need it more than I do. Whenever you feel an itch just… you know, smear away.”

But there’s something in her voice, a tone that’s indecipherable to Rook, but all too familiar to Solas. There’s no bite, no sadness, but there’s a lilt of knowing. Her eyes catch Rook’s gaze, but it’s as if she’s staring through them, right at Solas.

When they bid their goodbyes, the image blurs altogether. As if it were never there with him to begin with.

And when Rook comes to him in the fade, he tries his hardest to bite back the upturn of the corners of his lips as the all too familiar medicinal smell wafts into the air, paired with something far more familiar, and sweeter.

Just as Rook pretends they did not meet with her under secrecy, Solas pretends he did not watch it through their eyes, hands folded behind his back. Their conversations clipped, filled with jabs and insults. But when they leave, and Solas is alone in his prison once more, the smell remains.

And it sparks a feeling of hope in his chest.

[vir-bellanaris]

With a harsh movement, Elgar'nan parried Lavellan's blow and wrapped his long fingers about the slender column of her neck. He dragged her forward, his putrid breath sickly hot against her face as his cold eyes appraised her.

With a terrible cry, Solas unleashed a torrent of energy on the wouldbe god. Solas' magic hit him square in the chest, the force of the Dread Wolf's anger knocking the wind from Elgar'nan's lungs. He released Lavellan, her body falling and to the ground where she twisted and rolled to her feet.

Solas now stood between her and Elgar'nan. The latter's gaze narrowed in shrewd understanding.

"What a fascinatingly lovely creature, even for a mistake." The blighted god leered from her to Solas. "Tell me, Fen'harel, do you feel more akin to god or wolf when you have her on her knees?"

Solas replied in a tone of deadly calm, though his anger rippled off him in palpable waves. "You're going to die today, Elgar'nan. All memory of you will disappear. Eradicated and forgotten. I will see to it."

I am toying with making a chapter...where Lavellan and Solas fight together with Rook and co against Elgar'nan...cause that should have happened in game ngl

The chapter happened

[acmelxvr]

Take A Seat, Inquisitor

Pairing: Female Lavellan x Solas

Summary: Solas finds the Inquisitor in desperate need of some relaxation in the Winter Palace. And, well, he can provide.

Genre/Tags: Explicit, Canon Compliant, POV Third Person, Spoilers for Dragon Age: Inquisition, Drunk Sex, No Penetration Though, Thigh Riding, Praise, Dirty Talk, Ear Licking, Edging, Orgasm Denial, Biting, Premature Ejaculation, Mentions of Oral Sex

Word Count: 3,900

Notes: This is my first Solas fic so be gentle pls...I also posted it on AO3, you can read it there by clicking this link if you want :3

“And that’s how I ended up hunting wyverns in the Frostbacks with only two pairs of breeches!” All the nobles and Inquisition personnel in the small circle laugh at the lord’s story, some more forced than others. The ball at the Winter Palace wanes into the early hours of the morning now with no end in sight. Although drinks and food are still being served, the massive crowd has thinned into small packs of chattering lords and ladies who would dare not make the faux pas of leaving too early.

“I think I’m going to explore the library.” Lavellan murmurs to Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen. The excuse is enough to dissuade the rest of the crowd from protesting the Inquisitor’s departure from the group, but her three advisors are unconvinced.

“Take me with you.” Cullen pleads through gritted teeth, smiling a bit too wide as he barely follows along to the conversation taking place. Josephine tuts at the Commander but simply nods at Lavellan. 

“Good idea. You might find some of the more intellectual attendees who would be interested in learning more about the Inquisition.” Josephine’s eyes twinkle at the possibilities, and the Inquisitor nods politely.

“Yes, I will most definitely be doing that.” She says flatly, causing Cullen to snort and this time earn a light kick from Leliana that could easily be passed as a stretch of the knee. As Lavellan begins to take her leave, the Spymaster grabs her arm and turns to speak over her shoulder to avoid any eavesdroppers.

“You did well tonight.” She starts. “You are a complete natural at The Game, despite the many forces working against you.” Lavellan smirks at the praise, knowing Leliana probably thought she would trip over her own two feet. “You’ve earned a respite, even just for a few hours before our work starts up again.” The last part she fully whispers, leaning in conspicuously. “For once, I will advise you to not listen to Josephine.” She smiles knowingly before dropping the Inquisitor’s arm. 

Lavellan chuckles. “You read my mind.” She takes small steps through the ballroom towards the vestibule, occasionally saying hello to people she passes. Her mind spins with the possibilities of her alliance with Empress Celene; what it means for the Inquisition, for the Dalish, for herself. The Inquisitor is still deep in thought when she looks up and realizes that her body seemed to auto-pilot her straight into the Grand Library. The guards that used to be stationed near the entrance have disappeared, gone hours ago once the threat against the Empress’s life was neutralized. She worries over this for a moment, before dropping her shoulders and taking a deep breath as she remembers Leliana’s words.

Her fingers trace over the many titles packed into the various shelves, some in languages Lavellan doesn’t even recognize. She smiles softly as she picks up a book by a professor in the Free Marches collecting Dalish songs and tales. She leans against a desk, facing away from the Grand Library entrance, while she flips through the pages and remembers a much simpler time. 

“I figured you’d be hiding in here.” The voice makes her jump, yelp, and drop the book at the same time. She quickly turns with her hand over her hidden dagger strapped to her thigh, only to sigh when Solas snorts with laughter. “The Inquisitor should not be so easily caught off guard.” He exclaims, the two flutes of champagne in each hand shaking as he chuckles to himself.

“Yes, well, forgive me if it pleases you.” She snips, then grimaces when Solas raises his eyebrows slightly at her short tone. “I’m sorry. I had finally escaped from all those people out there…I guess I got a bit caught up in what I was reading.” Her explanation is jumbled, but Solas places the two drinks on the desk before waving her off.

“Do not apologize. I’m certain you’ve had a much busier night than I. I can leave, if you wish.” He points towards one glass as an offering. Lavellan nods gratefully before grabbing the thin spine of the delicate piece and holding it close to her chest.

“Please, stay.” She says. “You’re good company.” Solas smiles and shakes his head as another laugh escapes him. He heads towards the shelf Lavellan previously occupied, now examining the tomes himself.  With his back towards Lavellan, she can’t help but take in Solas’ form. He towers over her a bit and his broad shoulders also help distinguish Solas from the Dalish elves she’s used to. Even in the alienages, Solas stands out as…bigger.

Lavellan coughs, a flush climbing her cheeks as her mind wanders to more depraved thoughts about Solas’ body. Solas was certainly free with his verbal affections, but they had only just started engaging in physical affections recently. Even then, they had only kissed. Lavellan didn’t mind waiting, of course, but it felt as though every time it developed into something more that Solas pulled away. 

Solas clears his throat, bringing the Inquisitor out of her thoughts as though he has eyes on the back of his head and can see how she’s examining him. Or maybe being a mage with a speciality in the Fade lets him read minds. Lavellan’s eyes widen as the drink begins to take hold. Can Solas read minds? She thinks, half seriously. “Inquisitor?” Solas asks.

“Yes!” He turns to fully face her as he holds a book in his hand. “Yes, sorry. Long night.” She mutters, taking another sip. She can feel Solas’s gaze on her as she redirects her vision to a different corner of the room. The shadows dance along the wall as the various candles around the room burn low. There’s a moment of silence, as though Solas is deciding to address the tension in the room. 

“I asked whether you enjoyed your time in the Winter Palace tonight.” Solas leans against the bookshelf, a sly smile gracing his face. “The way you managed to navigate the nobility, the ballroom floor, and an assassination attempt was particularly stunning.” He swirls his beverage in one hand as he flips through his chosen book. Solas’ choice of words cause Lavellan to finally bring her attention back to him. She scrutinizes him for a moment, furrowing her brow as her eyes rake over his stature from head to toe. Finally, she smiles too.

“Solas, are you drunk?” She asks. She giggles as Solas opens his mouth to give a quick retort, but closes it when he realizes he doesn’t have one. He shakes his head in slight embarrassment and drops his eyes as the Inquisitor continues to quietly laugh. “I guess I need to catch up.” Lavellan murmurs as Solas regains his footing in the conversation.

“I will admit to partaking in more drinking than I usually allow myself. All the power, intrigue, danger, sex…” He notices how Lavellan crosses her legs when he pauses. “Well, I suppose it’s nice to go unnoticed for an evening. To engage in behavior that is unbecoming of me.” Lavellan shakes her head, alleviating his fears that she thinks less of him now. “You haven’t answered my original question.” He states, placing his book back on the shelf.

“Enjoyed is not the word I would use.” She pauses, thinking deeply on her answer. “I’m glad I was able to play The Game well enough. It was almost satisfying being able to talk circles around humans.” Solas nods ruefully, staying silent. “But I was on edge the entire time. Constantly waiting for something to go wrong. And when the Grand Duchess was dragged away…” She trails off. 

“Power can be suffocating, sometimes.” Solas finishes Lavellan’s thought. They’ve both finished their drinks at this point, the flush on Lavellan’s face indicating that she’s just as tipsy as Solas is. “There are times when a decision needs to be made. Even the correct choice is never an easy one.” Solas’s expression turns serious, and Lavellan cocks her head.

“So you think I made the right choice? Going with Empress Celene?” She asks. The candles in the Library have dimmed even further as the moon creeps higher above Halamshiral. Solas tilts his head back against the fine wooden shelf, crossing his arms and looking down at the Inquisitor.

“Is my praise necessary for you to feel at ease?” His question makes Lavellan laugh, a true laugh that comes from her stomach. It’s infectious to Solas, a smile creeping onto his face replacing the scowl he had moments before. “Briala and Celene could never have ruled together, and Gaspard is a disaster when it comes to court. In the Fade I’ve seen whole nations crumble because someone would rather force a compromise than make a real decision.” He moves towards Lavellan, all social grace completely lost, and places a hand on her shoulder. “You made a real decision, ma vhenan. They are never easy.” 

Lavellan looks up at Solas, who is only now an arm’s length away. “Ma vhenan?” She restates, teasing Solas now. “That is an odd way to pronounce ‘Inquisitor’, Solas.” Her hand creeps up to rest on top of Solas, the space between the two elves shrinking as he moves to grip her waist.

He rests his forehead against Lavellan’s, rubbing her shoulder with his thumb adoringly. “You looked breathtaking tonight. You were magnificent, awe-inspiring. You’ll forgive me if I drop your title. I couldn’t bear to hide how I feel for you any longer.” He pulls back momentarily to kiss the top of her head, one hand moving to the small of her back. She leans into his touch, and for some minutes the pair is silent, their embrace only betrayed by the soft skitters of someone passing through the hallway.

The trance is broken as Lavellan gives a soft push to Solas. “I should head back now. There are people probably looking for me.” She groans and rolls her shoulders, her muscles tensing back as she recalls what it feels like to have a dozen pairs of eyes on you at all times. She turns to leave, but Solas captures her arm.

“You’ve played your part for the night, vhenan.” Solas pulls Lavellan flush against him, her backside against his groin. Solas forgets his inhibitions as he pulls her collar back to plant a kiss on her neck, making Lavellan gasp. Another kiss and a roll of Solas’s hips makes her groan louder, planting her hands on the desk. “Relax with me. Forget your duty, even for a moment.” Solas’ words cause a small pit of guilt to form in his heart, but it retreats when Lavellan moans again. 

“Josephine would personally see to our executions if we were caught having sex in the Winter Palace.” Lavellan’s skin is practically lit on fire with every single one of Solas’s touches, his fingertips dancing down her waist. “And I think the Orlesian nobility would die from heart attacks if they found two naked elves here.” She turns to face Solas, who stops momentarily to grin wildly, showing his sharp canines.

“I haven’t said anything about being naked.” Their faces are inches apart, both of them breathing heavily as arousal sits heavy in their stomachs. “There are many things one can do to relax without being naked, if their imagination allows it.” Solas whispers in Lavellan’s ear. He pulls away and guides Lavellan to a plush couch in a dark corner, far from any immediate entrance into the library. Solas lets go of her hand and sits on the couch, spreading his legs wide. He leans back on the couch, throwing one arm over the velveteen, and pats his thigh, beckoning Lavellan to sit.

To sit on him.

Lavellan swallows as she takes the sight in. She’s imagined, dreamed of sex with Solas dozens of times, but this was something entirely new. Something she hadn’t even begun to consider, but was still enticing nonetheless. “Is this something you want?” She asks him.

“Yes.” Solas answers so quickly that Lavellan is taken aback. “Nothing would bring me more pleasure right now than to give you pleasure.” He holds out a hand for Lavellan to grab, and tugs her on top of him. “It is selfish of me to admit, but I do not kiss you the way I do solely for your benefit.” He rolls his thigh up causing Lavellan to cover her mouth as she moans. “I do it because I also enjoy it. No, enjoy is too simple of a word.” He turns his head to think while Lavellan grips his shoulders with both hands. “I relish it. Feeling you against me, with only some layers of clothing to separate us…Fenedhis, ma vhenan. You’ve undone me. I haven’t been this overcome with desire in a long time…You make it difficult to control myself.” He plants his hands on her hips. “Let me guide you. Let me show you what I mean. We can reckon with our indulgences in the morning.” 

Solas’ words have Lavellan dripping. she nods, and plants herself fully onto Solas’ thigh, moving her hands to Solas’ neck and jaw. He starts pushing her back and forth against his leg, adjusting the pressure by examining the way her face contorts just so. She moves to cover her eyes but Solas stops her. “You are so beautiful right now, vhenan. Do not think about how you might look, but focus on how you feel.” She obliges Solas and slowly drops her fingers back to his jaw. Solas notices how his words make her quicken the pace, if for a moment. “Ah, so you do need my praise to feel at ease. Very well.” 

Solas keeps one hand on Lavellan’s hips, and moves one to the back of her head, entangling his fingers in her hair and pulling her down so he can whisper to her. She gasps as he presses up into her, causing her to roll her hips on her own. Although she can’t see it, she knows Solas is smiling with pride right now. “Just like that, perfect. You are a natural at this, vhenan.” His lips move against her ear as she forms a rhythm, her moans forming a perfect harmony with Solas as he groans from the pressure building in his own sex. The slight push and pull causes him to rub against the smooth fabric, making him knit his brow in concentration to ensure he somehow doesn’t cum before she does. He can’t remember the last time he did something like this with someone else; and while he’s relieved himself plenty of times since meeting the Inquisitor, he didn’t allow himself to think their relationship would get this far.

Lavellan whines loudly when Solas grinds up against her clit, the wet patch on his thigh exciting him more than before. He pulls Lavellan so that way they’re face to face, and kisses her like it’s the first time. She heaves against him, pressing her chest against his to get a better angle. Solas groans, louder this time as Lavellan’s knee presses up against his erection. Like everything else about Solas, it’s somehow bigger than she expected. “If you keep stopping, Inquisitor, you will inflate my ego. And getting you into this position has made me prideful enough already.”

 He kisses her again, sloppily this time, the alcohol ignoring any expectations of how their first time together would go. Solas presses his tongue against Lavellan’s, his eyes rolling back at the vibration of her moans. He finds her chest with one of his palms, kneading her and finding a nipple with ease. She yelps when he pinches and rolls, her thighs beginning to shake. Lavellan’s pace has quickened to a point where her thighs burn, the strain of muscle mixing with her pleasure. She begins to chant his name, panting and whining when Solas lets go of her nipples and moves his hands to her backside, massaging Lavellan and gripping her with a strength she didn’t know he had. “Do you know how many times I’ve finished thinking of this exact situation? How I’ve dreamed of having you completely?” Lavellan shakes her head. “Thirty four times I’ve spilled myself over my own hand thinking of how beautiful you’d look like this. For the first time in my life, my dreams cannot compare to the real thing.”

Lavellan gains confidence through Solas’s words and leans forward, almost coming in for a kiss but at the last second, she moves past Solas’s lips. Instead, she focuses on his ears; she licks a long strip from his jawline to the tip of his ears, noticing how Solas shivers and making him wonder how the hell she figured that out. She laughs while still moaning and gasping for more. “I knew you were sensitive here. Had to be, because I noticed how you pulled away the first time we kissed when I went to grab you,” She moves her thumb just underneath the other ear, making Solas jump in shock and pleasure. “Here.” She finishes, returning her mouth to latch onto Solas’s helix. She licks a circle around the apex of his damned ears, running her tongue up and down the ridge before returning to his lips. “Imagine what else my mouth can do.” Her breath mixes with his as both of them pant, although Solas does close his eyes momentarily to see the picture she’s painted. 

Solas bites his lip, almost drawing blood by how close he’s come to cumming over himself. Both of them are sweating now, Lavellan’s pristine hair stuck to her forehead. “Fenedhis–” She presses her knee against Solas’ cock again as she moves her clit down onto him, “–Fuck–”, he groans loudly as her pace quickens and she begins to babble quietly in his ear. If someone had walked in on them, Solas was too preoccupied to notice.

“I’m going to–I think I’m gonna–” Solas nods approvingly while Lavellan’s release reaches its peak. Solas closes his eyes, tears forming in the corners as he pleads with himself to hold off for just a bit longer. In a final move of complete desperation and arousal, Solas latches onto Lavellan’s neck.

And bites.

Lavellan yelps and it’s what finally sends her over the edge. She cums on Solas’s thigh, stuttering and gripping onto him while he licks at the marks his teeth had left. Both of them are moaning, although Lavellan has the sense to cover her mouth. When she finally comes down from her orgasm, Solas leans back to examine his work. Lavellan looks down and breathlessly laughs. “I made a bit of a mess.” Is all she says, and Solas lifts her momentarily to examine her handiwork.

Solas’s thigh is so soaked that Lavellan’s juices had even begun to pool next to Solas in those final moments. He smiles softly and pats Lavellan approvingly. “It is an easy enough task to warm my hands and dry my clothes, as I have done before. Do not worry.” Lavellan moves to get up off of Solas and onto her knees in front of him, but he stops her. “As much as the thought entices me, and believe me when I say it does, I’ve stolen enough of your time tonight.” She crinkles her brow in confusion, and gestures towards Solas’s groin where his erection is clearly visible, and pre-cum has even started leaking through his trousers. 

“Ah.” He says, and while he does entertain the thought longer than he should have, he still shakes his head. “This was for you, not for me. And besides,” He stands up and kisses Lavellan. “I can’t imagine there won’t be more opportunities for me to catch up.” Lavellan snorts, giving another kiss to Solas before smoothing down her attire and hair. 

“How do I look?” She asked sarcastically.

“Magnificent.” Solas responds, moving closer to brush her hair with his fingertips. He plants a gentle kiss on her forehead. She seems to be remembering something and laughs; Solas tilts his head in a silent question.

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse like that. I didn’t think ‘fuck’ was even in your vocabulary.” Solas’s cheeks flush red and he coughs in surprise.

“Yes, well…” He stammers underneath Lavellan’s stare. “You bring out a part in me I thought I put away long ago.” Solas smiles lightly. “And that part is inclined to curse, occasionally, when underneath a fascinating woman such as yourself.” This time, Solas is the one to let go. He nods towards the Library entrance, and Lavellan sighs before squeezing his hand and stepping quietly into the hallway. He waits until he can no longer hear her footsteps before sitting down and throwing his head back against the couch. The late hour and sudden physical activity has him utterly spent.

The elf looks down, his cock practically bursting against his leg and begging to be taken care of. “I’m not that depraved.” He murmurs. Solas’s eyes close, and while he tries to think of more important matters, he can’t remove the image of Lavellan on top of him from his mind. The way she bounced on his lap, how her mouth felt against him, makes Solas bite his knuckles to hold back a moan. How she jittered when he marked her, claiming the Inquisitor all for himself as her neck bloomed with purple splotches from his sharp teeth and how quickly her release came from an action that felt as natural to Solas as blinking. Solas breathes in, then out through his nose, attempting to bring himself back to reality, but he can’t help but recall the offer she left on the table before Lavellan took her leave. Her lips would look so pretty wrapped around him, gagging and moaning as she would try to take him all the way, his tip hitting the back of her throat—

Solas jolts suddenly as his orgasm hits him like a slap against the face, the dark stain of cum now spreading down his thigh. Solas bites down hard on his palm, unable to fully hold his voice back as the smallest movement against his trousers prolongs his release even further. When the immense pleasure finally subsides, Solas opens one eye hesitantly to assess the damage. He groans into his hands, a conjured flame able to dry his clothes but not the Orlesian, and definitely expensive, couch.

It’s hours later when the morning sun rises over Halamshiral that the Inquisition takes their leave. Solas blearily rubs his eyes and yawns, although when he catches Lavellan’s smile he can’t help but reciprocate despite his weariness. The Iron Bull looks between the pair before laughing and slapping Solas on the shoulder. “Sleep well?” He asks simply, although Solas knows the Bull well enough to know that his questions are never simple.

“No, I had a long night.” Solas quips, eager to head back to Skyhold and be as far away from the Winter Palace as possible. The unspoken part being that he is more eager to finish what he started mere hours before.

“Yeah? Spend some time cleaning in the library?” The Iron Bull asks, looking at the way Solas and the Inquisitor blanche before guffawing loudly. As he walks away he shakes his head. “You guys are not fucking subtle.” 

[lathbora-virann]

Thinking about potential

✨️Solavellan baby names✨️

for no particular reason don't worry about it and there's so many good options just using already established elvhen words. I've seen a couple used by some amazing artists but not most of them:

 Atish’an (peace)

Bellanaris (eternity)

Dirthara/Dirthera (learn; to tell tales)

Enasal (joy in triumph over loss; a variation of joyful relief)

Halani (help)

Hamin (rest)

Hellathen (noble struggle)

Melana/Melava (time)

Revas (freedom)

Serannas (thanks; gratitude)

Setheneran (land of waking dreams; a place where the Veil is thin)

Shivanas (dedication to duty)

Sulahn'nehn (rejoice; joy)

Suledin (the concept of finding strength in enduring loss or pain)

Sulevin (purpose)

Theneras (dream)

We're really spoilt for choice over here

[aunicorn97]

Just Us

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

He froze for a moment. Her. He turned slowly, unprepared to meet her gaze that held the same sadness he walked away from all those years ago. The same eyes he stared into when he was just Solas, and she was just Aurya. The same eyes he gently wiped tears from when she found out what had happened to her clan, and the same eyes that would crinkle when he made her laugh unexpectedly. 

Did she see the same eyes? The same hesitation they showed when they were together, walking through Skyhold, his hand loosely holding hers, the same embarrassment they held when she teased his long winded tangents. The same shame he’s carried ever since he left her.

“Vhenan,” it comes out. Not a greeting, not a question, but a memory. Their memory. He drops his head in regret, disappointment. She doesn’t hesitate, she climbs the remaining stairs and approaches him, standing in front of his battered and defeated body.

“Solas.” Just Solas. Just Aurya. Hearing her say his name again could almost bring him to his knees, and he can’t look at her again. She kneels to look at him, reaching a hand out to place on his cheek, and he only slightly recoils. His head finally raises to meet hers, and he’s met with the sadness, the sadness he brought to her. Her thumb gently runs along his cheek, over the bruises. “Solas.” A breath, a whisper from her mouth, and he cries. She continues to pet his cheek as his tears fall, absently wiping them away. He’s small, with her.

“I betrayed you, I lied to you.”

“I know.”

“I… Varric…”

“Say it to me.”

“I killed Varric.” He looks into her sad eyes, like a child admitting they stole candy. Her face is unchanging, soft, guarded, searching his face for something.

“I know.” She sits on her knees as sinks to the ground next to her, leaning to her, a child leaning for a hug. 

“You cannot forgive me for all I’ve done,” his forehead rests on her shoulder. Her arms encompass him. He’s small, for her.

“No,” she whispers to him, rubbing his back, “I cannot. Not right now.” He leans back to look at her again. She’s touching his face again, tracing her fingers over the injuries on his face, shaking her head. “But in time, I will.” She doesn’t smile, her mouth in a straight line. “I am here, Solas. I am here walking the dinan’shiral with you.” Her voice is quiet, a whisper, a secret between them.

“I… cannot.” He resolves, not moving to rise. She reaches out to take his hand, her grasp firm and warm. Kind. Secure. Just Aurya holding Solas’ hand. Just Solas.

“It’s time to stop, Vhenan. You have been released, now you must stop.” He drops his gaze again, unwillingness to be swayed by her, because he knows she can. She’s wrapped around him again, hands gently petting the back of his head as she cradles him against her. He cries again. She mumbles reassurance, and promises of atonement into his ear.

“Where I have to go… is terrible. I couldn’t ask you to come with me.” His voice muffled against her.

“Nothing is terrible now that I have you again,” she replies confidently. “Nothing will ever be terrible now that I have you.” 

“Aurya.”

“Solas.” She stands, bringing him up with her, both of their eyes still sad but maybe, with something else now. Not hope, they know better than that, but still something. Now he’s stroking her cheek, eager to touch her, to never let go. The feeling of her skin against his hand could almost bring him to his knees again. “I am here. And you will not be alone. We will make this journey together, from now on.”

He slides the dagger across his skin, the blood pooling in his hand as he looks up at her again. She nods, taking his arm and walking with him towards the tear. She doesn’t look back, as there’s nothing for her to look back for, back to, or back at. She walks confidently next to him as they’re swallowed completely. She looks up at him before complete oblivion.

“Solas,” it’s quiet, a confirmation.

“Aurya,” it’s a whisper, a celebration.

[citree]

Althanis Tilani for @i-dropped-the-chief from their awesome new Solas/oc fic Annī Mirabilis 💚 Go check it out!!

[blightbright]

I'm about to crash into sleep BUT if you've ever wanted what is essentially Solavellan in Silent Hill, you may enjoy catching up to the most recent chapter 22 of my fic, Sea of Frozen Words (currently at 80K, because it's run away from me, but now actually for real has two chapters to go before it's done).

It's not an AU or crossover, it's just that I have no reason to believe the Black City is anything other than DA-flavored Silent Hill, in everything but name. (Plus a lil bit of Lovecraftian R'lyeh, probably?) Anyway, I'm having a delightful time leaning into that right now! I am fueled by sweet romance + existential horror. Happy ending guaranteed but me trying my best to be creepy as fuck before then also guaranteed.

[beccacoffindaffer]

Chapter 5: Wherein a God Rediscovers How to Laugh (Even Gods Need Miracles)

Summary:

The move to Skyhold puts distance between Solas and the new Inquisitor, but neither of them are willing to stay apart from one another for very long.

The move to Skyhold changes things.

The Inquisition is no longer a fledgling movement, operating piecemeal from a tiny village on a mountainside. It’s an organization, growing and coalescing around one person: their newly designated Inquisitor. 

Whether this new title sits easier on her shoulders than the one of Herald, he does not know. The first few weeks after their arrival, he barely sees her. The number of directions in which she is pulled has tripled, and the decisions even heavier. The eyes and expectations of everyone in the keep follow her everywhere she goes, haunting her footsteps.

He is relieved when he hears that Vivienne and Josephine successfully convince her to take the grand bedroom at the top of the tower. She objected to the idea, uncomfortable with being so literally set above others, but Josephine is a diplomat and Vivienne is a courtier. They know the importance of portraying and exhibiting power, even if one does not quite feel it themselves.

He cares less about appearances or posturing in this case and more about the Inquisitor having a place of sanctuary. Where she can distance herself from the constant needs and demands of her position and breathe for a moment. The tower bedroom will allow her to do just that.

He should know. It served exactly that purpose for him once, long ago. 

He is assigned his own quarters that are perfectly sufficient, but it is the rotunda that he truly claims as his own. A desk, a fine chair, a soft couch, soft golden light, and space to think. Accessible to the library without the irritation of all the busy foot traffic. Open all the way to Leliana’s operations on the top floor. Leliana herself is far too clever to let anything slip that might echo down to his ears, but not all her agents are so cautious.

And he is nothing if not a man who values information.

He does not have the opportunity to exchange more than a passing word with her, with the Inquisitor, until she comes upon him with Cassandra and Vivienne in the lower courtyard, arguing about Cole. 

“This thing is not a stray puppy you can make into a pet,” Vivienne says sharply. “It has no business being here.”

A true Circle mage , he thinks. Made from childhood to fear the Fade even as it feeds her its power.

If she’d seen the old world, if she knew the beauty of a world with no Veil, she would not hold such fear, so he cannot be truly angry at her for it. She fears what a being like Cole could do, while Cassandra worries because he is an unknown, unseen variable. 

When the Inquisitor steps into their circle, he cannot help but notice how all three of them turn toward her — even himself. Flowers toward the sun. She looks older, more serious than she had before Haven, her expression strained in a way that is unfamiliar. It is only natural after everything that happened, but he hates it all the same. Misses the humor that glints in her eyes and pulls at her mouth.

He has no way to gauge exactly how much she has changed since the battle and her near-death. She listens the same as always, taking in Vivienne’s and Cassandra’s opinions, asking every question she can think of to better understand. He makes his plea to her, to see Cole for what he truly is and not what fear would make him out to be, but he can’t read her face or tell what she’s thinking. 

“I should hear what Cole has to say for himself,” she says after a moment. “Where is he now?”

Solas turns, ready to point her in the right direction, but there is no need. Her eyes find the young man in the oversized hat almost immediately, flitting between patients around the medical tents, and she heads off toward him. 

He wants to follow her, to listen and know what passes between them, but it is better for him to stay back and give them space. Let her come to whatever decision she feels is right. But he can’t keep himself from watching, and even from this distance, he can see how her face changes as she and Cole talk. Softening, twisting with sympathy as she shadows him between injured soldiers. 

When she finally returns to them, her eyes are bright and there are the faint lines of tear tracks on her cheeks. “Cole stays.”

Vivienne frowns deeply. “I hope you know what you’re doing, Inquisitor.”

“I understand and appreciate your concern, Vivienne,” she says gently. “I take full responsibility for all my decisions here.”

Subject closed, Cassandra and Vivienne head up the steps toward the training grounds and the Great Hall, leaving him and the Inquisitor standing together. Alone.

How can a few weeks of distance feel so wide? So difficult to breach? He isn’t sure what to say, a feeling he is very unfamiliar with, and yet he is also desperate to say something , if only to keep her with him a moment longer.

“I…” He pauses, clears his throat, attempting to collect himself. “I appreciate you allowing Cole to stay.”

“It was an easy decision.” Her gaze drifts toward the boy — not quite spirit, not quite man. “You’re right, Solas. He is very special.”

He traces her profile with his gaze as carefully as if he’d been tasked with painting it. “As are you, Inquisitor, for being able to see that.”

Her mouth twists with displeasure, and for one terrible moment, he wonders if he’s misread what had been growing between them. Or perhaps something has happened in the past few weeks that has turned her heart. Not that he should want her heart for himself — that would be foolish, selfish — but the sudden possibility that she might have given it elsewhere makes him feel carved out and hollow.

“Could you…” She brings her eyes back to him, one hand fidgeting nervously with a tiny loose thread on the side of her leather pants. “I mean, would it be all right if you still called me ‘lethallan’? Or Eralen, even? Not in official settings or anything, but when it’s just the two of us?”

It is a struggle to not let the burst of warmth and relief show on his face. “You do not like being called ‘Inquisitor’?”

She shrugs. “It’s fine enough. I suppose it just doesn’t sound quite right when you say it. Given how…close we’ve become.”

“Whatever you wish me to call you will be gladly done.” He inclines his head as he says it, the shadow of a bow, holding her gaze the entire time, willingly trapping himself in her eyes.

“Inquisitor, there you are!” Leliana’s voice carries down into the lower courtyard from her spot high up on the wall above their heads. “Josie is looking everywhere for you!”

She sighs and forces a brittle smile. “Duty calls once again.”

As she heads for the stairs, he calls out, “Lethallan,” and waits for her to stop and turn back to him before adding, “May I seek you out soon? I would hate to go so long again without getting to speak with you.” 

She smiles, truly smiles, for the first time since she joined him. “I would like that very much.”

***

He means to wait three or even four days before he goes to find her and claim some of her time, but he does not make it that long. The urge to hear her voice again, to be in her presence and breathe her in like fresh air after centuries trapped in a suffocating space, is too strong.

He finds her in a small empty courtyard, a forgotten corner of the keep away from the bustle of the rest of the Inquisition. She’s shed her the overcoat and vest she usually dawns against the snowy cold mountain air, stripped down a sleeveless tunic tucked into the worn-in leather of her pants. She’s wrapped her wrists and the palms of her hands to protect them as she wields her long daggers, flowing through a series of movements against an invisible opponent.

He pauses just inside the door and leans against the stone wall, content to watch the lines of her body as they arc and curve and cut through the air. He’d told her before she was graceful, and he’d meant it fully. It was rare for him to take pleasure in watching someone work with blades — they had always seemed more crude and cumbersome than observing magic — but she is an exception. Bending and twisting as easily as a breeze.

She finishes the form and turns toward him, grinning as she flips the daggers into the sheathes that crisscross her back. “Still awed by my grace, Solas?”

“You say that like a joke, but in truth, I am.” He pushes off the wall and walks toward her, hands clasped behind his back. “You are quite gifted.”

She shakes her head, deflecting his compliment. “Not gifted so much as practiced. Any Dalish who’d grown up bored and needing something to do would likely be just as skilled.”

“I doubt that.” She’s breathing hard from the exertion, and this close to her, he can see her warm breath misting in the cold air, the curve of bare skin across her chest exposed by the neckline of her tunic. “You move your body like a dancer.”

She arches a brow. “You’ve paid a lot of attention to my body, then?” 

He shrugs but does not deny it. “I pride myself on my observational skills. You demonstrate exceptional fluidity.”

“Muscle memory. Nothing more,” she says. Deflecting. Again. Unwilling or unable to acknowledge her own skill. “I’d never be able to cast complex spells and handle a staff as you do.”

He tilts his head, his grin turning just a little bit wicked. “I’m sure you’d handle a staff just fine if given a chance.”

She bursts out into a laugh, bright and full-throated, and the sound of it ringing against the stone walls of the courtyard is enough to make him laugh as well. Which seems to delight her even more.

“He makes innuendos and he laughs.” She takes half a step closer, reducing the distance between them to a foot at most. “I wasn’t sure you were capable of either.”

“It is admittedly quite rare,” he says, and then, softer, adds, “Although it seems to happen more often around you.”

Her smile is triumphant. Incandescent. She does not — cannot — know what a gift it is for him to be able to make her smile like that. To talk and tease with someone. To make them happy, make them laugh. To bring joy instead of doom or dread. To be just a man, talking with a woman, marveling at the light inside her.

He has never experienced it before, so he has not known to miss it. But now that he is here, drinking it in, he is not sure how he will ever be able to stop.

“That might be my greatest achievement yet.”

His eyes are on her lips. On the corner of her mouth that curves ever so slightly higher than its opposite. He’s flooded with the urge to press his lips against that very spot and tightens his hands behind his back. “Greater than Inquisitor?”

“Far greater.” She holds his gaze a moment longer and then looks down, a flush creeping across her cheeks. “I’ve missed you this past month, Solas.”

He has missed her, too — aching, lonely weeks — and yet it surprises him still to hear it from her when she is at the heart of so much. “Surely you are not wanting for company here in Skyhold.”

“No, definitely not. It’s not the same, though.”

“How so?”

She takes a moment, considering, choosing her words with the same deliberate care as always before she finally speaks. 

“Have you ever been around someone who is kind and lovely, but when they look at you, you know that they’re only seeing their idea of you and not who you actually are?”

Her words strike him in the chest, and he cannot speak or even really breathe for several heartbeats. 

Fen’Harel. The Dread Wolf. He Who Hunts Alone. Lord of Tricksters. God of Rebellion. God of Betrayal.

A hundred names over a hundred lifetimes. Thousands and thousands of faces turned toward him — in supplication, in hope, in despair, in revulsion. Even those who loved him and knew him best stopped seeing him . Solas. For one, he became her second, her right hand, her shadow. For the other, he became a general and a symbol and, eventually, a betrayer.

“Yes,” he says roughly. “I am quite familiar with that feeling.”

She tosses him a grateful look as she unbuckles the sheathes and slips them from her shoulders, setting them on the ground. “They all mean well, but sometimes it’s like I’m trapped behind glass.” 

Behind glass. Behind obligations. Behind a mantle you never wanted to bear but had to yoke onto yourself when it became clear that no one else would.

The weight in his chest is so heavy. All he wants to do is set it down, but he can’t.

 And here she is, seeing him, feeling the same.

He watches her scoop her overcoat from the ground and pull it on. “But you do not feel that way around me?”

“No. With you, it’s the opposite.” She eyes him as she buttons up her coat, that teasing grin sneaking back onto her face. When she looks at him like that, he feels it in his whole body. “Sometimes I wish you saw through me less.”

So do I. If I saw you less, maybe you would not haunt my every thought. “I shall take that as a badge of honor.”

She picks up the sheathes and belts, slinging them over one shoulder without bothering to buckle them back on. “Would it be imposing on your time to ask you to walk with me? I’d like to be irresponsible for just a bit longer.”

He could say no. He could make his excuses and return to the main keep. That’s what Fen’Harel would do because there is nothing to gain, no merit in remaining. 

Except perhaps…he might be able to make her laugh again. He might earn another of her smiles. 

He falls into step at her side, murmuring, “I am at your disposal, lethallan.”

It is difficult to find complete solitude in Skyhold, but they manage it. Strolling along the far corners of battlements until they find an empty fortified tower with a hatch that leads to the very top, the highest point in the keep. The wind is sharp and blustery so far up with nothing to block it, but when the two of them stand along the far edge, shoulders touching, all they can see for miles are the snowcapped mountains soaring around them. All they can hear is the wind and the distant cry of a hunting hawk and each other. Two voices, two heartbeats, two breaths fogging against the air. 

It feels as if they are the only people in the entire world.

[cosmiccrushes]

The Potential of a Painting

Solavellan || 2.1k words

on ao3 here!

summary: Lavellan visits the Lighthouse for the first time and finds, upon its walls, something she did not expect.

notes: I'm just obsessed with the idea of the frescoes in the Lighthouse being Solas' venerations to Lavellan. And her having to process that. I cannot stop thinking about it

***

The Inquisitor's boot connects with smooth, flat stone as she steps through the eluvian. 

“Home, sweet, home,” Rook says as they step through the mirror behind her. 

“Is it sweet?” Inquisitor Lenore Lavellan asks, tilting her head thoughtfully at Rook. The idea of Solas having a place, comfortable and safe, to return to after leaving his bloody trail through Thedas stirs her emotions into a muddled brew. Not quite rage, not quite relief. Bitter on her tongue. Telling in the warmth it spreads down her throat, through her stomach. 

Rook shrugs their shoulders. “Eh, it grows on you. Strange to be in a place that keeps expanding and changing as more of us arrive.” 

Strange indeed, Lavellan thinks. That Solas would choose to live in a place capable of transformation when he himself has refused to evolve. She’s heard all about this Fade-touched place from her various reports and letters from Varric. The Lighthouse- where rooms appear to accommodate Rook’s growing team. A place that seems to be made for community, to provide for its occupants. Yes, strange that Solas, who’s chosen to walk his lonely path, would take his rest here. Then again, did the Dread Wolf ever rest? The last decade spent always a step too far behind him would suggest otherwise. Her own restless nights would demand it. 

“So, a tour first? Or,” Rook pauses, “Would you like to see Varric? He's resting in the infirmary.”

Lavellan smiles at Rook’s kindness. It's been many moons since she's seen her dear friend, yet, “Thank you, Rook. But a tour first, I think.” 

Rook nods, sweeping their arm forward. “Right this way.” 

She climbs the steps from the eluvian’s chamber into a wide, circular space. Her gaze is immediately drawn upwards. Her lips part in awe at the beautiful, mysterious contraption spinning in the center of the room. 

Rook is watching her, something of pride in the curve of their mouth. “Yeah, it's breathtaking.” 

“Mmm,” Lavellan hums, rotating in a slow circle, as her gaze hunts hungrily across the low tables and chairs, prowling for signs that Solas was ever here. 

Rook’s voice breaks through her focus. “This is the main entrance hall. We take a lot of our meetings gathered here. The fireplace has a nice ambience for discussing the downfall of ancient elven gods.” Rook shrugs their shoulders playfully. “Since we're already downstairs, let's see the music room first.” 

“Music room?” Lavellan asks sharply, a memory glinting like the edge of a knife before it plunges through her. 

***

“Yes, vhenan, I've been known to dabble in piano.” 

Lavellan stares at him doubtfully. “You? Play piano?” 

Solas gives the tiniest shake of his head and his lips pull at the edges, like he's fighting back a smile. “I've dabbled over the years, yes. Is that hard for you to believe?” 

She leans an elbow atop her balcony, resting her chin in her hand. “It's hard to imagine you dabbling in anything. You seem more of an, ah…” She taps a finger against her bottom lip as she searches for the right word. “A deliberate pursuer of things.” She looks back at Solas. His eyes are fixed on her lips. 

“Ah, yes. I suppose I can be rather decisive in my drives.” His gaze finally lifts to her eyes. “Most of the time.” 

A warmth spreads through her at his words, and she thinks, not for the first time, that perhaps Solas had rather meant to dabble with her. Had stumbled into something far more definitive than he intended.

“Maybe it’s just surprising that you would have a more idle hobby.” 

“I paint, do I not? It is not so far reaching that I might enjoy leisure time with other arts.” 

Lavellan laughs, wide and open-mouthed. “Solas!” She gasps between mirthful breaths. “You don’t dabble in painting. You create-” She shakes her head, picturing the beautiful murals adorning the walls of his room. “Masterpieces,” she says softly. 

Solas stares at her like she’s the sun. Warm and bright, but difficult to look at for too long. He’s always watching her like this. With a reverence and longing that makes her ache. He’s just as likely to reach for her in those moments as he is to turn away, as though afraid she might scorch his skin. 

“Perhaps I can hear you play, when this is all over,” she gestures vaguely at where the sky is torn open, bleeding Fade and demons. 

Solas’ answering smile is brittle and breaking. Like bark peeling off a tree, revealing the growth of something new and harder underneath. Many of Solas’ smiles were like this. It maddened her not to know what they meant. 

“Maybe, vhenan,” he replies, his fingertips reaching to brush gently against her temple, trailing the shape of her vallaslin. It did not feel like the potential of a promise though. More the doleful caress of a decision already made. 

***

“Yep, a music room, complete with a piano!” Rook is saying, striding across the room to reveal a round door in the wall. Lavellan follows them down a long hall, drawing a deep steadying breath through her nose- that she immediately exhales sharply in a quiet gasp as she steps fully into the music room. 

Paint is splashed across every wall. Perilously parallel to the frescoes Solas created in Skyhold. As if sensing the lurking danger, her heartbeat increases its pace. She half expects Solas to look up from one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, old elven endearments on his lips.  

Rook is saying something, but Lavellan cannot hear over the rushing in her ears. For across the walls, is the story of the Inquisition. Just as Solas once painted it in a tower room that smelled of earth and spice. If she could force her lungs to draw breath, would she be able to smell his scent lingering here? 

“Inquisitor? Inquisitor?” Rook's concern is etched across their brows when Lavellan looks at them. “Are you okay?” 

Lavellan nods slowly. “Yes, sorry. I'm just… taking it all in.” 

“Right,” Rook says with the undercurrent of knowing there's something more to it but being tactful enough not to ask. Lavellan's fondness of Rook grows by the moment. 

Rook leads them from the music room, re-entering the central chamber. “I'll show you the upstairs rooms next. It's amazing- everyone has their own chambers, curated specifically to meet their needs. Somehow, the Lighthouse knows what we'll require.” 

Lavellan's footsteps are heavy on the stairs, her mind tumbling through time. She watches her feet lift from step to step in a detached sort of way. She feels weighed down by the past. A past she didn't expect to encounter here. A past someone did not warn her was gaping open here, hemorrhaging from the walls. 

Color at the corner of her vision catches her attention. She turns her head, footsteps faltering as she crests the landing to the second floor. 

Now she's not just weighed down, she is falling. Plummeting to the bottom of a well where she floats, weightless, at the edge of drowning. One mouthful of broken heart away from going under. 

She spins to look out at the other walls on the second floor landing. Every single one of them is a brutal punch to the gut, a glorious blade to the bone. Like a gift wrapped in rose thorns, beautiful and promising but horribly confounding. 

Solas has painted frescoes here too. But these she has never seen. Suspects they were not made to be seen. Solas filled his empty lighthouse with the ghosts of a person still amongst the living. She swallows hard, forces tears not to fall. Would they be from grief or gratitude? She does not know. 

Every painting depicts wolves, an homage to Fen'Harel, one might think. But amongst the wolves, too prominent to be mistaken as anything but a focal point, is her. Bathed in golds and reds, fiery like the rising sun. Hair flowing long around her, like she used to wear it in moments of refuge at Skyhold. A Dalish charm dangling from her neck in the painting closest to her. Her own vallaslin depicted on the charm’s surface. As if Solas plucked it from her brow all those years ago and enshrined it here.   

Rook’s tour is forgotten. Lavellan makes her own way from painting to painting nestled between doorways, gaping at her likeness. Why? Why has Solas painted her here? All these years he has refused to stand before her- or so she thought. How many times has he stood before her portraits? Are they here for his pleasure or his penance? 

She traces a finger down her face in one of the murals. Her hair is flowing around her in this one too. Her hands clasped around the hilt of a sword at her chest, its blade pointed to the ground. A large wolf, his head tilted back in a howl, sits at her feet. She lays her palm against the wolf and a single, strangled sob chokes out of her. 

“Uh, Inquisitor?” She remembers Rook is with her. They are looking back and forth between her and the mural. “Is that you?” Rook asks, bewilderment permeating their question. 

“Yes,” Lavellan states plainly. 

“Oh,” Rook’s head bobs up and down. The upward slant of their eyebrows indicative of how baffling they find this development. “Varric never said-” 

“I’d like to see Varric now.” Lavellan cuts them off, offering a gentle smile to soften her bluntness. 

“Of course, sure, yes.” Rook’s head is still nodding. “Over here.” 

Lavellan exchanges pleasant greetings with Varric, waiting until Rook shuts the door behind them as they exit. Then she turns to Varric and demands, “Why didn't you tell me?”

“Ah, I take it you saw our very own little museum to the Inquisition.” Merriment dances in Varric’s eyes. 

“Varric,” Lavellan says, exasperated with his response. “There are paintings of me everywhere. Maker’s breath, why didn’t you tell me they were here?” 

Varric sighs. “I thought it was best for you to see it for yourself, Lenny.” 

She softens at the nickname. “I suppose I might not have believed you if you’d written to me about it.” 

“I do love a good joke,” Varric smiles dimly. “Although, I’m not sure that would have been a very amusing lie.” 

Lavellan sits on the edge of his bed, taking care not to disturb his injuries. “Then why are you so amused?” 

“Because, Lenny, don’t you see? He can be saved.” Varric says it with a conviction that presses on her heart painfully. 

“Varric, I don’t think-” 

He interrupts her with a raised palm, before she can begin the same argument they've had for the last decade. It's not that she doesn't want to save Solas from himself- that had been her own steadfast conviction ten years ago. But with every body he dropped behind him, every instance he avoided a confrontation with her, Lavellan felt him slip further away. He didn't want to be saved. The Dread Wolf had chosen, and his choice had not been her. She had to choose too. If she could not save him, she would stop him. 

“I trust my gut on this one. I’m right. Chuckles can be pulled back from the ledge, whether he knows it or not.”

“He stabbed you!” Levallen exclaims. 

Varric sighs again. “And I’ll be pissed at him about that when I see him next. But first, you need to knock some sense into him.” 

“Me?” She huffs an incredulous laugh. “Varric, he didn’t listen to me eight years ago. What makes you think he’ll listen now?” 

“Those are veritable venerations to you out there,” Varric implores, pointing at the door, the faintest tinge of vexation in his tone. “That’s not the work of a man who’s given up on what he really wants.” 

“Or perhaps it’s the graveyard where he’s laid to rest the wants he refuses to have,” she says darkly. “Besides, he is trapped in the Fade now. It hardly matters.” 

Varric studies her intently. “Doesn’t it? Do you really think he'll stay quietly locked up there forever?” Varric pauses. “Is that where you really want to leave him?”

“Damn you.” 

“All the way to the Deep Roads if you like, but I’ll still be right.” 

She smiles at her oldest friend. “You really think I can reach him this time?” 

“I think,” Varric says slowly. “He’s spent his last lonely decade painting your portrait to fill the emptiness around him.” Varric softens, voice dropping to a low murmur. “Those paintings aren't a cemetery, Lenny. They're his salvation.” 

Lavellan sinks. Slips beneath the cold, calm surface of her hope. Chokes on a lungful of potential. Varric takes her hand gently in his and squeezes as she weeps for a painting and what it might promise.

[citrusai]

she could melt into my bones. we could be the same creature.

Summary: Multi-chapter Arlathan AU. As Mythal weaponizes wisdom and twists it into pride, Elgar'nan seeks to turn hope into despair. Two perfect weapons, crafted merely to serve their makers, constantly orbiting each other.

Chapter: Prologue, 1.6k words.

Warnings: Suicidal ideation, angst heavy, implied self harm, canon typical violence, slow burn.

a/n: Honestly, no clue how long this is gonna be. I have my outline I just have a problem with length management. As always, crossposted to AO3! header image is lovers in the waves by edvard munch, title is taken from Dorothy Allison's poem "Demon Lover"

She learns that a body is a terrible thing.

It is a needy thing, it needs to be sustained and fed, it bleeds and it aches. It dulls the senses, the pathways of emotion become blurry and difficult to navigate. It is unforgiving.

The first time was all wonder and sensation, the whispers of endless possibility in the physical. Her knees buckled under her, unused to the weight of carrying oneself.

Her limbs feel foreign more often than not, phantoms that move on their own accord. Perhaps that is how she dissociates herself from her corruption. One cannot grieve being twisted from their purpose if they see themselves as merely a possessor of a foreign body.

When Elgar’nan came to her, he came with sweet words and speeches that people cannot live without hope. That her presence would squash everyone’s fears, she is a necessity to the new world. They couldn’t create anew without expectation, without hope.

Hope is a sweet thing, a kind thing. It was in her nature to trust him, to expect the best of his intentions.

Her body was crafted with utmost care and tenderness. Honey blonde curls of hair cascading down her back, her soft full lips and aquiline nose, her eyes the colour of the sun.

Elgar’nan does not mar her face with vallaslin.

His hands tenderly cupped her jaw as he spoke, “Hope should not be chained.”

But she does not need marks on her face as proof of her subjugation. Elgar’nan does not give her a wide breadth of freedom. At first, she is merely decoration. The image of her bathed in light, a proof that even the most sensitive of spirits have chosen to join the new world order.

And what could ever go wrong if hope is there?

So Elgar’nan flaunts her as a paragon of the ideal future. The people who bare his mark clutch her hands and speak in reverence. They speak of the inevitable domination of this earth in his name, they invoke her name when they stand in judgement in front of the Gods, when they venture forth in the name of their leaders, and do not return.

The corruption is gradual. It starts with a name.

“I don’t want a name, I already have a body.” She spoke, wringing her hands nervously.

Elgar’nan tutted in disappointment, “We all chose names. No second in command of mine will walk around nameless. The people need to know who they pray to.”

“I do not want them to pray to me.”

His hand petting her head, fingers playing with the tendrils of hair cascading down her face, “They will do so anyway, da’len.”

Gan’freya. It feels odd in her mouth when she introduces herself now. As if she speaks of someone else. Elgar’nan said it was a name fit for a warrior, and so with a name came a title, with a title came weapons. No general of mine shall be walking around unprepared. The words echo in her head anytime she wields the twin blades.

So badly she wanted to say but I am not a general, I am not a warrior. I am a spirit.

But Elgar’nan is ambitious, and he plots. And when Mythal brings wisdom to court as her advisor he will not be made a fool. He will not let his consort parade herself as above the rest of them, heeding the words of a dog instead of her peers.

He will not let his own creation be unseated by the wolf.

So he seeks to harden her, flowy gowns and gently clasped hands turn into leather armours, daggers strapped to her belt, hands crossed behind her back. The sun in her eyes sets. Hope turns to despair, and across from her wisdom turns into pride.

The people are not allowed to clutch her palms in prayer. They are not allowed to cast their gaze upon her if it is unearned.

The first spill of blood seals her corruption. A part of her thinks this did not mean to happen; I am not made for this. Another part of her feels a sense of freedom at the metallic smell in the air, if the rest of them can die, surely somebody would eventually put her out of her misery.

It had all happened so quickly, an elf proclaiming they will not bend, then a reach of their hand into their pocket and she had flung the dagger before anyone else could react. A gasp of air, then, a spurt of blood onto the beautiful marble floor. Her dagger buried to the hilt in their chest. When she approached the writhing man, their hands reached to grasp hers, muttering something as she stared in disdain.

Elgar’nan was biting back a smile, trying terribly to show indifference. But he was proud of her. Mythal had cast her eyes down, whether in horror or equal indifference as her beloved she would not show. And the wolf stared blankly at the blood pooling on the floor. Gan’freya rolled her shoulders and stepped back into her place next to her creator. She did not dignify anyone else in the room with a glance.

Later, in her chambers Elgar’nan visits her and sings her praises. He speaks of devotion and dedication, of strength. He promotes her, to a sworn protector now. But she must protect him and him alone.

Gan’freya’s actions bring Elgar’nan to an understanding with Mythal. The people need something to fear and somebody to guide them. Hope and wisdom shall nudge them into the arms of their Gods; no one wants to be left to rot after all.

Their presence brings a resolute knowing that the Evanuris will not be challenged.

They do not speak to each other. They do not spend enough time outside of their respective duties to ever have to. What they know of each other in this world, they only know from the lips of their creators. Elgar’nan despises him, and Mythal says she is an example of loyalty.

“Her devotion runs deeper than mere words of encouragement, she does not lecture him, she guides him. As you promised you would guide our people.” Speaks Mythal.

“He seeks to depose us both, he thinks I am a tyrant and you are the harbinger of doom. Even Mythal’s short leash cannot contain him forever. Be wary of him, da’len.” Speaks Elgar’nan.

Yet there is something in their words that is so carefully practiced, so beautifully crafted to poison their minds that it plants something else entirely. Hope and Wisdom did not cross paths often. One brought aspiration, the other knowledge. But they remember each other. Two guiding lights in the dark, for entirely different purposes.

Solas knows better. He knows her destruction is a by-product of her physical being. The same way pride twists and wraps itself around his every action, despair hangs in the air whenever her hand reaches for her blade.

They were not built for this. To pay the price that having a body entailed.

When he took the mark from Mythal, he had reasoned it was a show of loyalty, of devotion. He had carried it proudly, and had wondered how Gan’freya could forsake her maker by not carrying his vallaslin on her body.

Solas quickly realized being bound came in a myriad of forms.

The clothes she wears, tailored and chosen by Elgar’nan. Her hair always cascading down her back, she does not dare to put it up, because Elgar’nan does not like her hiding the gifts he has given her. He takes credit for her very existence, never mind that Hope has existed long before Tyranny. It does not matter to him. He seeks to control her in every way possible, and through her, he will control everyone else.

She is both his shield and his sword. When she strikes down the nonbelievers, she reaffirms his power. When his ambition is called into question her essence is what is used to defend him from his crimes. Would Hope stand beside Tyranny? Would Hope doom the world? No. But the light that hope carries is starting to dim. And the dark fog of despair rolls across the horizon like a grim premonition.

He’s too proud to admit it. Solas is no better.

He may not spill blood in Mythal’s name, not yet, anyway. But his very being feels like it is being burned alive. The subjugation of their kin, the war with the titans, and the endless travels to take siege over another plot of land. It eats at him. Solas may not raise his hand against the people, but his knowledge and the twist of his mouth brings just as much decimation. He tries not to think about it. The sun dimming in Gan’freya’s eyes, the way their sad gazes match each other.

Tries to pretend he doesn’t claw at his face, his forehead feeling like a throbbing scar even though the mark remains. The same way Gan’freya pretends she does not dig her fingers in her own wounds after hard fought battles won in the name of their Gods.

With court politics comes proximity, comes the unavoidable fact that the sword of tyranny and the guard dog of benevolence shall cross paths. They will break bread together, toast to each other’s success, all the while pretending their spirits aren’t screaming underneath all the flesh and bone.

They will not acknowledge each other’s pain, shall not speak of the kinship born of servitude, the guilt and horror clawing at their skin. They will grin and bear it, as the always have.

As they should have.

[psykergirl]

Secret Needs & Desperate Deeds

Ellana gets hit with a trap in an ancient ruin that compels her to seek out her-

Look, you've seen the tags. Ellana gets hit with sex pollen, Solas is there to help. Happy Valentine's Day, Solavellans <3 Pairing: Solas/Female Lavellan Rating: Explicit Tags: Face-Sitting Penis In Vagina Sex Creampie Fen'Harem Made Me Do It Valentine's Day Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot Short One Shot Fuck Or Die Solavellan Smut

[vir-bellanaris]

Lavellan reclined on the lounge, the room dark save for the shifting lights of blueish white wisp spirits hovering in the air. She stroked gentle patterns against Solas’ skin as he lay with his head upon her thighs, her fingers tracing the sharp edge of his ears and down the contours of his neck.

“They’re so beautiful.” She murmured.

Solas nodded in agreement, his eyes never deviating from her upturned face, drinking in her expressions and little sounds of delighted awe.

“Is this what you looked like, before you gained a body?” Lavellan reached out, lifting her finger towards one of the delicate phantasms. Thin tendrils of gossamer light brushed and delicately intertwined with her seeking fingers.

“Of the same ilk. I was much larger, far more sentient than these wisps of intelligence.”

She lowered her gaze to his. The blueish glow illuminated her face, casting her features into sharp relief against the dim backdrop and the orbs of dancing light above her head. “I saw what you once looked like, I think. In one of your frescos.”

“I imagine you did.” He hesitated, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “May I ask your thoughts?”

“Beautiful. You were beautiful. Luminous.” She traced a fingertip across his cheeks, connecting the freckles that lay upon his fair skin in little constellations. “You still are.”

He sat up, enough to touch his nose to hers and give her an affectionate kiss.

She felt the curve of his smile as their lips brushed. She placed her hand against his abdomen, feeling the muscles shifting beneath his tunic. “I’m glad you decided to gain a body.”

Solas watched her, half amused, drinking in each graceful movement, the strands of her long hair cascading down her back and falling over a shoulder as she leant forward. “As am I.” Another light kiss. “Now more so than ever.”

She beamed at him. The radiance of her beauty dimming the waltzing lights above. Solas tucked a finger beneath her jaw, stroking her chin with his thumb. His eyes a dark amethyst as he regarded her, his thumb moved to caress the plump flesh of her bottom lip, watching as her mouth opened slightly in response.

He loved her.

How he loved her.

Every beat of her heart echoed within his own soul. His own spirit, once unbound from notions such as love and lust, now clothed in flesh.

He had never looked at her in such a way, not even in their stolen moments back in Skyhold. She saw his eyes drawn magnetically to her lips, the touch of his fingers causing her blood to quicken.

Drawn by the electricity between the two perhaps, a wisp alighted on Lavellan’s shoulder, tangling soft strands of essence in her hair. Solas released his hold on her chin, grinning as he chuckled quietly. “They seem to be drawn to you.”

“Maybe it’s the energies left over from the anchor.”

“Mm, I postulate more readily it is your aura that draws them.” Solas coaxed the wisp from her shoulder where it obediently drifted into the palm of his hand. He raised it back up and allowed it to float once more amongst its brethren. “Your own spirit is a rare and marvelous force, vhenan.”

“I seem to remember you saying something along those lines long ago.”

“Ah…yes.” Solas’ face fell slightly, the act of remembrance for him eternally bittersweet.

Lavellan slid her touch down his shoulders, taking his hands, speaking softly. “Do you remember our first kiss?”

His lips tilted upwards at the well-worn memory. “Every detail.”

She watched the movement of his lushly curved mouth, studying with loving awe the beauty of his features. “How you said it was ill-considered and impulsive?”

She moved in and pressed a kiss to the healing skin under each of his eyes. Kissed all the freckles scattered across his cheeks like stars.

“Yes.” Solas leaned into her, closing his eyes, inhaling her warm breath as it ghosted across him. He pushed aside the guilt still gnawing at him for what he had done to her, allowed it to be consumed and burned away by her persevering love. “I remember it all.” He caught her chin again, moving her so he could see her eyes. “The way you looked at me across the campfire, ‘lingering’ as Madame de Fer aptly described. The rise and fall of your chest becoming more pronounced whenever I would brush against your body in passing, or when healing your wounds.”

“Solas…”

But he continued. “The ache of wishing to forsake all my plans and just be with you. How much that inferno of desire frightened me.” Solas drew her closer, their noses almost touching. “The scent of your hair, the warmth of your skin, the curve of your body, it all threatened to undo me. Undo everything I had worked countless years towards.”

“Do you still think of us as ill-considered and impulsive?” Lavellan had to ask the question, even if she could see how deeply it affected him, the slight wince and tensing of his features.

Read More here

To Where Your Soul Travels, There Go I - Chapter 6 - MysticAwareness - Dragon Age: Inquisition [Archive of Our Own]

[inquisitorsenchanters]

“I have found you in every life!” Solas insists, warm hands sliding to her cheeks and tilting her chin upwards to meet his gaze. “In every life,” he breathes. “There is not a single you that I have not found. As Wisdom or as Solas. I have found you. I would find you if we were mere energies. I would find you if we were an idea in someone’s head. Nehelania- I would find you in a sea of men because I yearn for you.”

Found an paragraph from a chapter not written yet🥺

If anyone is curious, the fic is called The Shadows of Your Dreams on A03! I have it pinned on my profile!:3

https://archiveofourown.org/works/51836386

[opal-apparition]

Day 1: Letters for @janeuary-month

A Matter of Pride Chapter 3 - OpalApparition - Dragon Age: Inquisition [Archive of Our Own]

Story Summary:

In the glittering halls of a Regency Era Arlathan, Viscount Fen'Harel's calculated campaign against Dalish houses has brought the once-proud Lavellan family to its knees—until an ancient marriage contract forces him to wed the very woman whose life he's systematically destroyed. Sharp-tongued and fiercely intelligent, Ellana Lavellan has no intention of making this easy for the cold, aristocratic man who nearly ruined her family. But as assassination attempts and political intrigue force them closer, their battle of wits may lead to an even more dangerous game: falling in love.

Chapter 3 Excerpt:

The letter was heavy in her hands. Cream-colored vellum sealed with emerald wax bearing the mark of the Viscount and House Fen'Harel—the sight of it alone made her stomach clench. The seal depicted a wolf in profile, head thrown back in a silent howl, surrounded by an intricate pattern of interlocking, wicked, thorns. The craftsmanship was exquisite, each detail rendered with mathematical precision, much like the man himself. Even his seal managed to be both beautiful and vaguely threatening. Ellana broke the seal with fingers that trembled slightly, the morning light catching on the gold leaf of the official letterhead.

She read again, pulling the new regulations closer, skimming the elegant script with growing dismay, willing the words to change their meaning. Lord Fen'Harel's handwriting was as precise and uncompromising as his policies—each letter perfectly formed, each rule laid out with devastating clarity. The latest edict required all trading vessels to submit to additional inspections at designated ports, with hefty fees attached to each inspection. The designated ports, she noted with grim resignation, were all ones where Dalish merchants had traditionally held little influence.

"Have you calculated the impact?" she asked, already running figures in her mind, then on paper. The new quill snapped between her fingers then too, and her hand trembled as she reached for another, doubly aware of the dwindling supply in the drawer. Even such small expenses had to be counted now.

Ultimately calculations were unnecessary though; Ellana could read the answer in the clerk's carefully blank expression.

"Initial estimates suggest a twenty-one percent reduction in our quarterly revenue, my lady. When combined with the previous quarters' losses..."

He didn't need to finish. Ellana could see it clearly enough in the ledgers before her. Five consecutive quarters of decline, each new regulation cutting deeper into their reserves. Their ancient family name still commanded respect in certain, dwindling, circles, but respect alone couldn't pay their contracts or maintain their ships. Or maintain a house.

She stood abruptly, needing to move. The counting house had been her father's sanctuary, and now hers, its walls lined with leather-bound ledgers documenting centuries of trade. Sunlight caught the gold leaf on their spines, a reminder of more prosperous days. She ran her fingers along their worn edges as she paced, taking comfort in their familiar texture.

"My lady," Master Athras spoke again, his voice gentler now. "There are... rumors."

Ellana turned, one eyebrow raised. The clerk had been with them long enough to know she preferred direct speech to delicate hints.

"Some say Lord Fen'Harel bears a particular... antipathy toward Dalish noble houses."

"Antipathy?" Ellana's laugh held no humor. "Is that what they're calling it now? Five new regulations in as many months, each one specifically crafted to dismantle existing trading practices, crushing those that cannot afford new permitting and baseless modification. That's not antipathy, Master Athras. That's warfare."

She paced the length of the counting house. Morning light spilled through tall windows, illuminating the dust motes that danced in her wake. Once, this room had bustled with activity—clerks recording shipments, traders negotiating contracts, sailors reporting on conditions in distant ports. Now it stood nearly empty, the remaining ledgers and papers seeming lost on the great expanse of polished wood.

A different kind of dust caught her eye: a fine coating of white powder along one windowsill. Salt, carried on the wind from the harbor. Even here, a mile inland, the sea made its presence known. The sight sparked a memory: her grandmother standing at these same windows, teaching her to read the weather in the way the salt gathered, in the particular quality of the morning light.

"The proposal goes before the trade council next week," she said, turning back to Master Athlen. "If it passes..."

She didn't need to finish. They both knew what it meant. The Lavellan trading company had already been struggling to maintain their traditional partnerships in the face of changing times. The war with Tevinter had closed several northern ports. Pirates in the Waking Sea had forced them to take longer, costlier routes. New competitors with faster ships had stolen their more impatient clients. And now Lord Fen'Harel's systematic dismantling of their remaining advantages would destroy what little remained of their business. Each blow alone might have been weathered, but together they formed an overwhelming tide.

She pulled another ledger close, this one older, its leather binding worn soft with use. Her father's precise handwriting filled the pages—he had insisted on teaching her himself, despite the whispers that trade was no business for a woman. " Numbers don't care who reads them, da'len ," he'd said, guiding her small hand as she wrote her first column of figures. Now her own handwriting filled these pages, carrying on his legacy even as others abandoned them. No one had expected much of her when Father died. A woman managing trade routes and negotiations? But House Lavellan had no sons, no other prospects but the girl with the stubborn glint in her eye determined to prove everyone wrong.

Was this how it would end? With her?

She returned to her desk, studying the proposal alongside their latest accounts. Each line was perfectly reasoned, every argument for modernization presented with impeccable logic. And yet...

Ellana pulled a fresh sheet of parchment closer. "Please, send word to Captain Theron. I want to see the impact of these regulations firsthand before we proceed. And have someone fetch my riding clothes – I'll need to visit Master Tethras afterward. Send word to him as well, if you will."

The clerk's expression shifted to one of concern. "The keeper of contracts? My lady, surely—"

"There must be precedent for challenging these regulations. Some legal framework we can use." She dipped her quill with perhaps more force than necessary. "Lord Fen'Harel may consider himself above the law, but even he must answer to tradition sometimes."

Master Athras hesitated by her desk. "They say he cares little for tradition. That he considers older methods… primitive in the advent of the new.”

"Then perhaps it's time someone reminded him that those 'primitive' ways built half the trade routes he now seeks to control." Ellana began writing, her script sharp and decisive. "He may have the power to write these regulations, but that doesn't make them just. And it certainly doesn't make them wise."

The morning light strengthened as she worked, casting long shadows across her desk. Each column of figures told the same story—a proud house being systematically dismantled by laws that claimed to serve progress while serving only to consolidate power in the hands of those who already held too much.

She was halfway through her calculations when a shadow fell across her desk. Looking up, she found Master Athras holding out a sealed letter, his expression grave.

"From House Ralaferin, my lady."

Her heart sank. House Ralaferin had been their allies for three generations, their trading partnership old enough to remember when the great crystal spires of Arlathan were still being raised. She broke the wax seal.

The letter was courteous, gracious even, as befit communication between noble houses, even if they were lower gentry such as her own. But beneath the carefully chosen words lay an unmistakable message: House Ralaferin was severing their trade agreements. They cited the changing times, the need to adapt to new markets. They did not mention Lord Fen'Harel's regulations directly, but they didn't need to.

Ellana set the letter down with deliberate care, smoothing its creases as she had seen her father do countless times when receiving difficult news. 

The timing truly couldn't be worse—tonight was Lady Mythal's grand ball, where all of Arlathan's nobility would gather. Once, there would have been at least a dozen Dalish houses in attendance. Now, with so many having withdrawn from society or left to other cities where they faced less disdain, she would likely be the only one. The thought of entering those crystal halls alone made her stomach clench, but perhaps...perhaps she could use the opportunity.

"Well," she said, her voice steady despite the storm of emotions beneath it, "it seems our visit to Master Tethras becomes even more urgent."

"My lady—"

"Please, have my horse readied." She stood, gathering the relevant documents with efficient movements. "And send word to the docks that I'll be inspecting our ships personally this morning, I will need to asses the impact before taking a course of action. I will need to speak with him, make appointment with his office prior to these regulations going into effect, but until I’ve prepared—” Master Athlen’s brows raised. “Are you sure that is wise? “It is not a ploy. Rather I'd like to hear him explain to my face how this proposal is anything but a direct attack on Dalish traditions. Surely..." She smoothed the proposal with careful fingers. "Surely a noble man wouldn't deliberately set out to destroy his own people. There must be some misunderstanding. And if not, if Lord Fen'Harel wishes to destroy us with his regulations, the least I can do is force him to look me in the eye and look the impact on real people while he does it."

The elderly clerk bowed and withdrew, leaving Ellana alone with the morning light and the damning evidence of her family's declining fortunes. She allowed herself one moment – just one – to feel the weight of it all. Then she straightened her spine, lifted her chin, and began preparing for battle.

After all, she thought as she gathered her papers, there was a small shred of hope. Lord Fen'Harel was known for his cutting remarks about those he deemed beneath his station, particularly regarding Dalish traditions. But he was also known for his intelligence. If she could make him understand the impact of his policies, show him the economic realities...

Perhaps he would understand.

You can read the rest on AO3!

(apologies for the late post, I am not great with tumblr and this took some figuring out!)

[freesidexjunkie]

hey uh i see all yall talking abt Elgar'nan possibly being the big bad in dread wolf and i just wanna take a moment to plug the fic I've been working on since august where Elgar'nan is the big bad, post Inquisition. OC Lavellan reluctantly teaming up with Solas again after the end of Trespasser. Very slow burn, very angst and feelings, very story driven.

[biowhore]

Shrike

Solavellan angst, ~3100 words (i think that's the longest one i've done so far!)

Excerpt:

"You chase a dead dream, Fen'Harel," she murmured, closing her weary eyes, "If you'd only wake, you might see the world for what it is now. Appreciate what it has become." "Please, not that name. Not from you." She heard snow crunching underfoot. She felt cold fingers against her cheek. Her heart lurched in her burdened chest, but she refused to open her eyes. "I saw you," he spoke softly, with a longing sort of affection, struggling to stay distant, "And I see you now. Stretching yourself thin, exhausted to your very bones, putting yourself at great risk."

It was always Haven.

Her dreams always took her back there, back to when it was all brand new and she and her friends had no idea what they were doing. Every decision was a guess, a leap of faith, a shaky gamble. But she had loved it. Had loved getting to know everyone, had loved being a source of hope, even if she had little of it herself. She had been held together by wit and snow, getting away with being Herald by the skin of her teeth.

When she dreamed, Haven was empty. There was no birdsong, no chatter, no clank of armor. No footprints, except those of a large wolf, and not always present. She followed them when they appeared in the snow, but they always faded, as if the wolf simply ceased to exist.

The Chantry was hollow, and the wind sang through its bones in a way that almost felt real. Over the years she had wandered through every inch of it slowly, savoring each snowflake, each supply barrel, each speck of dust. All of it was so detailed, but ever so slightly off. As if one were looking though warped glass.

Tonight, she was more exhausted than usual, with her work over the last 9 years expected to be coming to a head very soon. Rather than wander, she sat wearily on part of the stone half-wall that surrounded the chantry and stared up at the memory of the Breach.

Her stump tingled. Strangely, despite returning to Haven as it had been, her arm never returned to what it was. She supposed dreams couldn't give one everything, but a little reprieve from the phantom limb would have been nice. It itched more intensely here. Her right hand closed around the stump, squeezing in a pattern, trying to remind her body yet again of its new form. Malloria sighed, closed her eyes, and listened to the false wind.

With her eyes closed, she felt the snowflakes speckle her dark skin, leaving brief pinpricks of icy cold on her warm face. At times, she reveled in the silence and peace here, and at others she mourned. Tonight, with how tired she was, she was grateful for the somewhat eerie simplicity of the place.

As it often did while she was here, her mind remembered quick flashes of an easy conversation, of surprised kisses, and hands grabbing for more. Her memories were of her senses; the taste of his lips, the timbre of his voice, the feel of his tunic between her fingers, the smell of his skin, and the color of his eyes.

Her face still upturned, and her eyes still closed, her pointed ears flickered at the sound of snow being compacted underfoot. Under four feet, to be exact. Other than the footprints, she had encountered no other sign of this wolf until now. Too tired to hunt, she hoped it might settle for a chat.

She listened to it, turning her head to follow the sound, but it seemed to trickle in from all around her. Pat pat pat, it barely made any sound in the snow, but the hollow and contradictory nature of this version of Haven had anything other than the wind amplified by magnitudes.

"I hope to skip a long line of questioning and ask you directly why you only show yourself now, Hunter," Malloria called out.

There came no answer. She didn't know what she expected. She sighed when the sounds of the wolf trampling the snow morphed into growls that filtered in from all directions, bouncing off the stone of the Chantry and echoing into the ether.

"You're doing to make me get up, aren't you."

The growling faded, as did the sound of the wolf's feet. Suddenly Haven was silent. The false wind had even ceased.

Malloria briefly closed her eyes, steeling herself. When she opened them, the wolf stood directly in her line of sight, perhaps 30 feet away. It was massive and many-eyed, pelt as dark as the night and producing a faint smoke. The eyes did not blink and were of no color. It stood unnervingly still, those many unblinking eyes locked onto her.

She stood, realizing she could feel her heartbeat in her pointed ears. Her hand tensed, preparing to pull for a magical blade.

"Well, Beast?" she asked, low and calm. There was no point in trying to attack it immediately. She wasn't even sure what it was. Its wolf form was dredging up feelings she would rather not address, especially with how tired she was. She needed to focus. If she couldn't do that, she needed to wake up, but her head was starting to feel like it was swimming.

The only reaction she received was that the wolf began walking a wide perimeter around her. The giant paws padded a slow, deliberate rhythm, its head swiveling to keep its monstrous eyes focused upon her. It taunted her openly, trying to intimidate her to run as if she were an anxious doe.

Except Malloria did not run. Not anymore.

She reached into the Fade for a blade to defend herself. Her feet planted into the stone and snow, her whole body tensing in anticipation. The blade came so easily here, in her dreams. It shone like bright cold flame, energy crackling away from it in frenzy. She held it low, as a warning that she was prepared but would allow the creature to leave if it finally thought better of it. The wolf paced behind her now, slowly coming around to her right periphery and her weapon. Her fingers gripped the hilt of the sword like a lifeline – her instincts screaming at her so loudly it was affecting her focus. Her heart raced, her blood ran cold, and her breath quickened to quiet, shallow, pants. She had a terrible feeling about this.

It finally entered her peripheral vision again, dumbfoundedly choosing not to attack within her blind spots. Her ears picked up a sizzling sound as it continued its circuit – acidic saliva was dripping into the snow from its maw, poison steam rising in small tendrils from the ground as it walked. A growl grew within its chest anew, as if it were agitated by something. It continued walking, its eyes still focused on her.

The beast halted in front of her, back at the beginning, hackles raised high, and grinned at her with all its poisoned teeth, "May the Dread Wolf take you." It cursed her with a voice of tumbling stone, bouncing through the Fade like a nightmare.

With an echoing cackle, its body melted and disintegrated into a smoky, ashy, pool, the mess evaporating slowly into the ether of the Fade.

Malloria disengaged, confused, dismissing her sword and flexing her fingers. She blinked slowly at the darkened snow where the thing had been. Her instincts were screaming at her again, that she knew what it was, but her mind fought it. It couldn’t be… she was too strong for that. And then a slow awareness prickled up her spine, spreading across her shoulders as they tensed. Malloria turned slowly, stiffly.

The Dread Wolf was there, standing calmly in the middle of the yard. She surveyed him from feet to ears - he wore the same wolf pelt as last they met, but he had exchanged armor for robes of a dark material she could not name. There were gold embellishments throughout, and a rather important looking dagger secured at his hip. His posture was deceptively guarded, his hands behind his back, as always, but shoulders lax and stance casual. She arrived at his face, and it too was lined in deceit. Feigning calm and collectedness - disinterest, even - but his eyes told her his sorrow, his regret.

Her mind viewed the Dread Wolf as an enemy. She didn't recognize this person, but she saw Solas's eyes. She would always know them, no matter their form.

Malloria blinked, and her Solas stood before her. The dagger and pelt remained, but he now wore the same humble hedge mage robes as when they first met. He bore no other weapons, only himself.

"Hello, Inquisitor," he greeted. He sounded so formal, so foreign. He briefly looked down at himself, keeping his hands behind his back, "Remembering me as I was?"

"Some version of you, anyway. Whatever that may be," it was hard to keep the bitterness out of her voice, "You could have changed yourself to suit me better, for all I know."

"This is your dream. You have... most… of the power here." He spoke carefully.

"If that is true then how are you even here?"

"I said most, not all. And you are weakened, as evidenced by the demon that sought to take you over.”

"Ah. Demon..." She knew her instincts had been right. Her guard was down, and a demon had walked right in. She wondered if it had been scouting her all this time, stalking her, leaving its footprints in the snow as some sort of taunt. All the endless work she had been doing over the years was catching up to her. Little rest, little time for contemplation, as she liked it. It wasn’t safe. She had to shove down the shock that was threatening to overtake her with this realization. Focus. She needed to focus. The Dread Wolf was here.

Malloria slowly looked Solas over, from the placid expression on his face, to his casual stance, and back up again. Stopping at his eyes, she asked, "Did you come here just for that? Just to drive it off?"

"Did I enter your dream just to save you?" he asked softly. His gaze fell to the ground, his head turning to the side. "Yes, I did." He turned to face the Breach, giving her his back. His right hand clasped his left wrist behind his back, still so formal after that confession. For a several moments he said nothing, and Malloria allowed it. She couldn’t bring herself to ask the questions. She didn’t think she wanted to know the answers.

"Why Haven, with the Breach?" he asked, almost casually.

Now it was her turn to pause. To stare at the blasted thing that started them all down this cursed journey.

"Hope," she finally said. Back when it was brightest. Back when there was only one problem to solve, and she was the one who could do it. Her dreams used to be more exciting or fantastical. Faraway lands, distant pasts, incredible adventures. Now, she just wanted peace, even if only for a moment. She hadn't been one for hope at the time. More inclined toward a dark sense of humor. Inside, she had always clung to it though, the thought that she could be something, do something, so much greater than herself. That was what she was supposed to believe, anyway.

He turned his head toward her, then slowly faced her, taking her in again anew, "You've changed."

"People do that, Solas." She took slow steps toward him, circling him and coming to stand at his front. Closer, but not too close. Her hand brushed the pelt mantle just slightly as she passed him; she was amazed at how real it felt, "Change is the nature of the world."

"It didn't use to be."

"So you've said. But it's been many, many ages since your time. Since your people's time.

"Our people."

"My people are not yours," she said with all the conviction of the Inquisitor, the Herald. "You don't even recognize them."

"That is why-" he cut himself off, shaking his head, "You know my path. I will not stray from it. I've done what I came here to do, there is no reason to stay and continue a pointless argument."

"Are you just keeping me alive for some machination of yours?"

He looked at her again and actually appeared wounded, his eyebrows drawn in, his jaw clenched.

"If only I were so detached from you."

If only she could believe that. Malloria sighed with all the weight of over 10 years of separation, of never truly understanding why. And that was the crux of it, wasn't it? Even now she didn't understand. Why? Why? Why had she not been enough? Had she ever been?

"You chase a dead dream, Fen'Harel," she murmured, closing her weary eyes, "If you'd only wake, you might see the world for what it is now. Appreciate what it has become."

"Please, not that name. Not from you."

She heard snow crunching underfoot. She felt cold fingers against her cheek. Her heart lurched in her burdened chest, but she refused to open her eyes.

"I saw you," he spoke softly, with a longing sort of affection, struggling to stay distant, "And I see you now. Stretching yourself thin, exhausted to your very bones, putting yourself at great risk."

His thumb brushed across the high arch of her cheekbone, where part of her vallaslin had been, and she lost her battle against looking at him. Her eyes fluttered open and flooded with his gaze. She felt his intake of breath when she looked at him, obviously as affected by her as she was of him. There was nothing she could say that she had not already said. He would not come home, he would not stop. She had to be the one to stop him. She had to stand against him. She had to build a network. She had to move, and scheme, and toil, and work and work and work... She was tired. But he would not come home.

“Do you know what it was?” she asked, trying weakly to steer the conversation away from the vast void between them.

Solas sighed, his eyes flicking back and forth between hers. “It is a more complex demon… attracted to and influenced by your mind.” Again his thumb ran across her cheekbone, as if to emphasize the point, “But, you know this.”

Did she? Did she truly understand the depth and gravity of her inner emotions? Or had she been shoving them away into a dark corner of her mind, focusing only on what lay in front of her.

Solas’s eyes bore into her, looking at her like he could read everything about her that she wanted to ignore. See all the hard parts of her that she tried to file down into softness. He saw the raw heart beyond the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste. He saw Malloria, and she wished he did not.

Her jaw ached with a rising wave of acceptance. That she had opened the door for this spirit and let it through, to become the thing she couldn’t acknowledge in herself.

“Duty.” Solas named it softly, “Resentment.”

She closed her eyes with the weight of it given life through his words. It was true. She was no longer Malloria, she was a symbol. An idea. She could not hide from it no matter how she longed to. She would chase Solas across Thedas to keep her world alive, and she would forever resent the events that started her on this path.

“I’m so tired, Solas.”

“I know.”

Malloria stared into his eyes, her hand coming up to his own cheek, her bare fingertips roving over the cold skin. His face had begun to blur in her mind over the years, but she always knew the shape and colors of his eyes. Sometimes stormy, melancholic blue, sometimes sensual, prideful purple. But always the same, always Solas.

"Aren't you as well?" she whispered after a moment, "Are you not weary?"

"As I have ever been, ma vhenan."

“And yet…”

“And yet,” he acknowledged. And yet he would continue. And yet she would chase him. And yet they would go on and on in this game of cat and mouse, until the bitter end, whatever shape that took.

Malloria’s composure chipped, her face crumpling briefly with the power of her sorrow threatening to overtake her. Small tears built in the corners of her eyes and she attempted to blink them away.

“Ir abelas, vhenan.” Solas whispered, brushing his thumb under her eye, anticipating the tear that fell there.

 She nodded, trying and failing to say the words without choking, more tears spilling onto her cheeks, “Ir abelas, ma vhenan.”

Solas’s other hand came up to her face and pulled her forward, bridging the small gap between them. The kiss was just as she remembered them, but laced with salt from her tears, and the bitterness of his regret. Their lips still danced together as she remembered, brushing softly, then taking great sips of each other, trying to communicate the incommunicable, trying to take from one another, trying to give to one another what they each thought they needed. His hands fell away from her face and his arms came around her, as if his body would not accept leaving without her. For the moment of their kiss, their souls tangled together and cried out, attempting to fight a fate neither of their hearts would abandon.

They parted slowly, foreheads touching, bodies pressed together, reluctant to return to their respective paths. Solas marching forward and she trailing behind, as a hunter, trying to head him off. For this impossibly small window of time, they could exist outside of those roles they had built for themselves.

Malloira tried to catch her breath, but she felt her heart breaking all over again. She could see nothing but him; not her plans, not her friends, not her life. Only him. She thought she might perish the moment she had to be thrust back into reality. And she knew he knew what she was thinking. How she did didn’t think she could let him go again, even in the Fade. She couldn’t end this, but he could. He could always do the hard things.

"You used tongue again," she whispered onto his lips.

The faintest, lightest little bemused laugh on his lips, a smile, then the echo of his voice as he commanded her, "Wake up."

Malloria sat up straight in her bed, her breaths short and shallow, her heart racing in her chest, her stump on fire. Cold sweat ran in rivulets down her back as her mind caught up with her body. She gripped her stump with her hand, trying to massage it, trying to distract herself from the incessant pain. Her room was dark and cold, as empty as it had ever been.

She still tasted him on her tongue, and somehow, she knew it would be the last piece of him she would ever have.