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lavellane · 8 days ago

Text

very still, without reaching

(ashara lavellan x solas. 2250 words. post-solavellan ending. hurt/comfort. major veilguard spoilers. read on ao3)

The nature of her own regrets become apparent soon enough. Mostly, as they appear to her in the fade, they relate to her regretting so very little.

There are exceptions, of course. She and Solas pass them sometimes on long, silent walks together; small, ugly things carved into barren rock, almost impossible to catch in the shadow of Solas's own towering monuments of despair. But they are there, and Ashara can always sense them before she sees them. Her least favorite recurrence pertains to a rock she threw at some shemlen farmers when she was a girl. They had returned later in the day, but they could not distinguish the difference between Dalish vallaslin , and so chose to take out their vengeance on the whole of her clan, instead.

They had never truly forgiven her. Of all the statues of contrition this place has manifested over the months they've been here, this is the one she can't yet bring herself to face.

But there are, unexpectedly, great works of beauty here, too. Oftentimes she sees herself and Solas carved into the cliff faces, or jutting out of canyons. Old echoes of embraces, stolen kisses, intertwined fingers. She suspects their prison doesn't quite know what to do with these complicated memories, but it does its best to use them against her even so. She had regretted those moments once, after all. Or at least she thought she had. Her time in this place offers an alternative school of thought; that she had never truly regretted the choices leading her down this dinan'shiral of theirs, but rather the heart of her shame is more that she could never truly bring herself to regret them at all.

Once the fade understood this, it course-corrected. Now if she sees those statues at all, it is because she wants to.

Solas has made little progress. It is harder for him, with his regrets so numerous and so at odds with his ego. On a good day he makes her worst mistakes look infinitesimal by comparison. Sometimes he disappears for days on end, wandering aimlessly, pulled one way or another by the compass of his guilt alone. When he returns, as he always does, he says nothing, only holds her very tightly and does not let go.

In all the months (or perhaps even longer) that they've been here, they have spoken very little. More time is needed before either one of them is ready to face that looming conversation. For now, quiet comfort takes priority. For now, sex suffices. For now they sit on the edge of yawning chasms for hours on end, watching the shifting rocks, the starless skies, the shadows in mournful, flittering dance at the edge of their vision, and find solace through a tender silence in which no words are yet necessary. And when he begins to get it in his head that perhaps they are necessary, she stops him with a long, languid kiss until she feels those worries melt away between them.

It is a terrible place he's built, but it is not so terrible facing it together.

And it gets easier still. The nature of the Evanuris' prison was always to contain the regrets of beings who thought themselves gods, but she is not a god, and neither is he. Her regrets are not so insurmountable to overcome, given time, and soon, slowly, she finds the world around her starts to mirror the world inside her. At first, a singular star in the sky. Then, below it, a wisp of elfroot growing between the crack of a barren rock. The fade cannot be mapped by mere cartography or magic, but a learned mage can always find their way with enough discipline. And Ashara was, before stepping through that final rift, a very learned mage.

When Solas departs on his lonely journeys, she cultivates the place in secret. She was never one for dishonesty, and so it's the only real secret she has. She shapes the space sporadically over many months in the image of her late mother's patch of camp among their clan. With some . . . creative liberties here and there. The tent is warm and green like her mother's was, but with all the ample space and utility (and — admittedly — luxury) she had grown accustomed to over her many years as the Inquisitor. Some ugly shemlen cottage wouldn't do, and she never had a full night sleep in her Skyhold quarters, anyway.

She dreams up the smell of incense, and many multicolored rugs, and a bed that's warm but not too soft. Books; a table with two chairs; a big bathtub to share. The small fire pit in the centre might have burned the whole tent down around her were it abiding by the laws of the physical world, but it does not. It abides her.

The hardest part was the damned trees. Several times she nearly lost everything, locked in a seemingly endless standoff against the will of the very prison itself. But Solas made this place to contain monsters, and Ashara need only remind herself that she is not one. She never was. Whether the magic of this place recognises that — or if she truly did best the fade by sheer audacity alone — she couldn't really say. All she knows is that one day the trees stood tall — leafless but very much alive — as if they'd been there all along, and her impossible little clearing was all but complete.

"I've found a place I think you ought to see," she tells Solas soon after, reunited in their usual spot after several long days apart.

He seems especially exhausted this time around. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and breathes deeply. "Then I am yours to guide, as you see fit."

He clings tightly to her hand as she leads them on, aided by the lonely light of her beloved star. Samahl , as she's come to calling it — named after her nephew. Solas would see Samahl too if he ever looked up, but he keeps his eyes defiantly low, avoiding the overhead statues of a handsome, crumbling man with Mythal's vallaslin , whose wounded gaze seem to follow Solas wherever he goes.

He will find it in himself to meet those eyes one day, a long time from now. In the meantime she lifts her head to the sky for both of them, and presses onward through the gloom.

He stops short when he sees the clearing of trees in the distance, bordered by infinite wasteland. Ashara squeezes his fingers with her own and urges him forward. "Come."

"That . . . cannot be."

"It is. Come."

Soon the cracked earth beneath their feet sprouts small, unassuming blades of grass. The riverbed they pass remains as dry as bone, but carries the unmistakable smell of wet earth after recent rain. Closest to the centre of the clearing, Ashara herself notes leaves on trees that were not there the day before.

Solas's brow furrows, and he makes a strange noise when they reach the point where the grass is most concentrated. As it exists now, the grass is too patchy to be called a meadow, and yet it grows strongest and greenest in a perfect circle around her little tent as if it were the sun itself, nourishing by proximity.

The tent glows faintly, lit up by the hearth and candlelight within. But it is a strange glow, which seems to extend to the whole of the outer clearing, cutting through the endless mist and shadow. For months her world has been a haze of muted gray and monochromes. This space, by comparison, bears a subtle vibrancy she might've missed if she hadn't grown so used to its absence.

The violets of his eyes are clearly visible for the first time since they arrived, shining as they scan about the clearing. "How can it be that I feel you so vividly in this place?" he finally whispers, incredulous.

"I made it," she says. "It's mine. Will you come with me a little further? I didn't bring us here to watch grass grow."

She had hoped he might at last be baited into a smile, or a sultry retort, but he only frowns at her with those same sad, uncertain eyes, and takes her hand once more.

"It's much larger inside," she says. "Come."

"As you say."

He has to duck his head to slip inside the tarp, but the interior is as large and spacious as promised. Her fire bathes the walls in bright flickering hues of yellow and orange, and Ashara watches him give an involuntary shiver of pleasure as its warmth passes over and through him. It's a nice sight. Her pyromancy has inspired no shortage of pain and terror over the years, but in truth, it was always watching the relief of her companions faces when she warmed their soup in midwinter that had made her feel the most accomplished.

Maybe she could dream up soup next? There are several potted plants next to her little bed. Elfroot and crystal grace, and some others even she doesn't recognise. Not quite right for soup, and yet . . . Had she put those there? Or has this dream of hers now taken a life of its own? She ponders as much, settling in amid her thick fur blankets, waiting for Solas to compose himself.

"I made this place for you as well," she tells him when he makes no move to join her.

He shakes his head despairingly. "No."

"What?" Ashara scowls. " Yes ."

"No."

" Yes ."

"This cannot be, Ashara," he snaps. "The very will of this domain is such that —"

"I don't know what to tell you. I outwilled it."

He scoffs. "The greatest tyrants of the Evanuris could not outwill it."

"I am not the Evanuris. Neither was your little bird friend, and she flew free."

"That is different. Rook had —"

He stops himself. For a moment he looks briefly shocked, as if struck. And then his features settle. Lips pressed tight, eyes down. He seems impossibly small inside this place, and not just because it's bigger on the inside. The light doesn't touch him quite so eagerly as it touches everything else. His very presence in her room casts a long, misshapen shadow which seems to crawl unnaturally across the floor, cutting through the glow of her fire until it's very nearly pooled at her feet.

A chill follows.

" Varric ." Ashara holds his gaze in silence until he looks at her. "Deiadre had Varric ."

Beside her, a candle flickers. "Yes."

Ashara reminds herself: his regrets made this place. They unmade Skyhold, and nearly the world itself. They will do worse to them both now, if she allows it.

"She had Varric, Solas."

Even in the rapidly dimming light, she can make out the unsteady rise of his chest. "She had Varric," he echoes.

"And you have me."

Solas's face falls. But then the room brighten. A little.

He lets out a long, unsteady breath and closes the distance between them. Her little wooden bed creaks under his weight. She shifts the blankets to better drape over his broad shoulders, and he reaches out in turn, hesitating before resting his hand on her thigh. He leans down to press a kiss to the gooseflesh raised on her clavicle, courtesy of the lingering chill.

"That you would offer such a thing at all is more a testament to you than any clemency I've not earned," he murmurs against her collar. He tilts his head up as if to look upon the room, though his gaze remains soft and steadily focused on her. "This is a gift, asha'era. I did not mean to undermine your efforts, or the feat of having made this. It is perfect, just as you are. But it may not survive my presence."

"Why not? I did."

Now Solas looks away. She cringes; inhabiting the fade has done nothing to improve her eloquence. Quickly she continues, "But even so; if it does not, we'll just have to get over it and bring it back come morning."

"And do you think you'll feel the same a dozen centuries from now? Perpetually warring with my regret?"

"I know which side I'd place my bets in a fight between regret and love."

If he has a retort for that, he's wise enough to keep it to himself.

Time in the fade passes imperceptibly. Surely their kiss lasts days, and what comes after even longer. The candles are less a gauge for the passing minutes but instead the strength of her resolve when his own doubts creep in. When the light flickers, when the incense sours, when the wind outside picks up to a roaring howl; then she focuses her efforts. Her fingers scraping down his chest, a well timed roll of the hips, a kiss with enough tongue to remind him how much he used to enjoy using his own. And still does, apparently.

In the morning — or what, at least, finally feels like morning — the trees have dried up and grass outside their tent is dead. But the tent itself is warm as ever and the air outside feels crisp and fresh and, above her, if she squints, she can make out the faint but ever-present glint of her Samahl in the sky.

The grass will grow back. She will see to it . . .

. . . Tomorrow. This morning, she would sooner crawl back into bed and see to other things.

#datv #datv spoilers #veilguard #dragon age #solavellan #solas #dragon age fic #solavellan fic #oc: ashara #mine: writing #hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiii its time for my One fic per year again <3 #went for a sort of abstract fairytale vibe for this one and im not super confident i pulled it off #so next time i think i'll just write about them fucking and call it a day <3

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