#this is why solas always has his arms behind his back he's white knuckling the entire way through this | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

roseategales · 5 years ago

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100(ISH) WORDS A DAY CHALLENGE: NOVEMBER 2019 — DAY ELEVEN TO TWENTY-FOUR: WHISPER, BITTERSWEET.

rating: explicit. | categories: smut, modern au. | pairing: solavellan. | content warnings: mentions of alcohol. | word count: 2.2k.

author’s notes: idk what i’m doing. is that new tho? this wasn’t supposed to be uhhhh this long or take up two weeks afashfgsas oh well. i may actually end up using this an outline and turn it into a three chapter fic somewhere down the line, with more detail. i have Ideas.

The main venue for tonight’s date is provided courtesy of Josephine.

Spare tickets for a new musical at one of Grande Royeaux’s theatres were given to her by an acquaintance hoping for good graces, and, as she had prior engagements, she passed them to Eludysia to do with as she pleases. It’s another modern retelling of Andraste’s rebellion against Tevinter, focused on her early life and the beginnings of the war she fought. The mythos is thoroughly known throughout Thedas of course. A centerpiece of faith and nations, it’s the subject of innumerable non-fiction and fictionalised works of controversy, so Eludysia had little inclination in carving out time to see it. But it has been weeks since she and Solas last had a night out together, and critics and audiences have raised this one to acclaim; thus, she has persuaded him and they are meeting tonight.

She wears a dress that flows to floor-length, with an asymmetrical neckline and a slit along her left leg, the shade of myrtle leaves. Her hair is bound into a simple side-braid, her makeup done with a subtle hand. Her heels and matching clutch-purse are an off-white colour. The overall effect is one that satisfies—and, she anticipates, is prepared well for the evening.

The show is at eight. In midnight black suit and tie, he picks her up at exactly six. It gives them enough time to have dinner and conversation at a restaurant nearby the theatre. They talk about the usual things: the current affairs of the city, her cases and their successes, his classes and the books he’s read, the new discoveries of the lost Elvhen empire. He tells her she looks beautiful. She jokes that he should wear a suit more often. His hand brushes her palm and she holds it. Their reconnection is natural. Smooth as the dark red wine which fills their glasses and they raise a toast to.

They arrive at the theatre on time to be seated. An usher escorts them to a private box for two, at the side of the stage. Soon, the seats below them are filled, to the very last one. And then the lights fade out. Applause follows. The play begins.

For the next half hour, they relive the times of old through the music of their own day. The tragedy of the story should be dissonant with the vibrancy of the beat, but the presented narrative is instead enriched. It’s something to be appreciated.

By Eludysia’s asking, Solas gives commentary on the historical inaccuracies and creative liberties taken. She’d be lying if she said she doesn’t prefer the deep baritone of his voice to the cast’s, talented though they are. In exchange, he asks for her thoughts. Their seats are side by side, close enough they are still be audible to each other over the orchestra. It’s close enough for their knees to touch, and for their hands to find each other’s after each applause break.

After half an hour, Solas’ hand doesn’t return to Eludysia’s. It drifts.

At first, his placement of it is innocuous—right above where her knee meets his. But then, his fingers trail a line. His touch whisper light, they wander up and up, across the skin bared by the opening of her dress’ slit, up toward her thigh. And he shifts the fabric.

Her breath hitches, of its own accord.

Solas hasn’t even begun.

She glances from the stage—where Andraste’s actress is delivering a conflicted soliloquy on her marriage to Maferath—to where his fingertips trace the curve of her thigh, back and forth. As if awaiting a decision. “Solas… What are you doing?” She asks, like she is unaware of his intent. Like she has to read his expression to glean it.

“I’m observing the show, vhenan,” he says, as if it’s obvious. He toys with her hem, but tenderness rests on his features. “Is there a problem?”

He’s offering an out. Affirming what she wants. One word from her, and he would stop. He wouldn’t question her. If she expressed any discomfort, he would let her push him away to undo it. The night could pass by without incident, and he’d bring her back to her apartment.

His concern cuts at her heart. She loves him. She does.

But the desire for this is mutual. She craves for it as much as he. So, “not at all,” she says, with a sweetened smile.

A smirk lurks at the corner of Solas’ mouth. His ivory hand dips beneath green.

He has knowledge on just how to unravel her seams, in both contexts of speech and touch. That may be the most dangerous part. She adjusts herself to help him push aside the fabric of her underwear, and his fingers are expert; he skims her inner thigh, teases at her folds, strokes slow circles around her clit, effortless. He does it all without looking directly at her, his attention still seemingly on the reenactment of the politics of the Alamarri border to an outsider’s eye. But while she tries to steady her gaze on the same, she grows wet and wanting. Her posture slackens to allow him better access. He slides a finger inside her, two, and she has to bite her lower lip to cage her gasps and moans as her hips seek and seek more and more of him.

He summons a tension Eludysia is driven to chase. She bucks forward, and he evades. She quickens her pace, and he delays his. The discordance of their rhythm is deliberate. It turns her frustrated and impelled to grasp for the cuff of his sleeve to synchronise their movements.

It’s a mistake. He withdraws.

She has to clamp her hand over mouth, muffling a scream of his name.

Distantly, as her head rests on the seat, she realises he’s remarking on the musical.

“…how vital Shartan’s role was in the rebellion. It is refreshing to see it recognised,” breaks through the drumming of the music—through her wild, erratic pulse—Solas’ tone somehow casually academic. He looks at her, wearing a spurious innocence, expectant. “Don’t you think so?”

Breathless, she laughs.

“I think…” What does she think? The only roles she cares about now are the ones she and Solas play. She is feverish, restless. The set of the theatre is reduced to a two-dimensional backdrop, fallen away and out of focus. The script’s pages are lost. She resolves to rewrite. “I think you’re enjoying this too much.”

Solas follows. “I always enjoy giving you what you want, vhenan,” he says, placing a soft kiss behind her ear. “In due time.”

He returns a long, slender finger to hover and drag along her sex. She writhes. The high ceiling is less dizzying to stare at than the stage lights and her mind.

For a fraction of a second, Eludysia weighs a plea on her tongue. Solas might relent. It’d be easy and she’d be satiated. But it occurs to her that if he keeps her on a precipice, there is a chance he will not. And she is rarely one who begs for leniency. If it’s a struggle he hopes for, it’s a struggle he will get. “How long?” she asks, for she has knowledge on Solas too.

He chuckles, shakes his head at her. Rubs patterns on her thigh to soothe. “Be patient.”

“No, no, I meant—” She wets her lips and considers him, and her laugh is of daring impulse. “—how long, do you suppose, until I can touch you the way you’re touching me now?” She ventures and leans toward him, cloying, promising. “How long until your cock will be stroked by my hands, my—”

His thumb presses her clit. Her legs squeeze and her hand flies to her mouth.

“Lest you forget,” Solas warns, the storm-grey of his eyes darkening. He parts her legs; fully revealing the left and more. The way her skirt drapes over her now is almost precarious. “I still have an advantage.”

A whimper escapes her, unhidden. She grips at the edge of her seat to rein herself. “You said you enjoy giving me what I want.”

“Unless what you want is to incite me any more than you have. That will not end well.”

She doesn’t give up. “Why? Will you bend me over and fuck me—”

“Eludysia!”

The thrust of his fingers is as sudden as his hiss. Thought is abandoned and she jolts and buries her face into his shoulder. He moves faster and deeper this time, a furor, that spurs her on and on and on until she is trembling around and beside him, smothering her keens and sobs as pressure builds, pushes her to the edge. She maintains her grip on the seat, knuckles whitening. Her hips press against him, her legs squeeze to snatch him there. Her insides are molten and the sought for high nears—

And Solas retreats again.

Strings of Elven curses tumble from her lips onto his sleeve.

Regretful, Solas calms her. His breathing is irregular, as is hers. The hand working her goes back to gently caressing her thigh, the other cradles the back of her head. He kisses the top of her hair, mumbling an apology, and ascertains if she’s all right. She collects what she has of her strength to nod and articulate an apology as well, in spite of her wound up state, and encircles his arm with hers to reassure.

There’s a sliver of Eludysia still conscious of their surroundings, the possible consequences of their actions; muted in the obscene but present. Applause is heard, a break before the next song. What would happen, if someone were to sight how she and Solas hold each other? She is ragged, covered in a sheen of sweat and her skirt askew. He is stiff and strained, fingers glistening from her slick. The balcony’s marble enclosure hides their misdemeanor, but not their unbelonging embrace.

She draws back, glances at the silhouette of the audience, then at him. “Aren’t you afraid of getting caught?” It’s a genuine question, apart from tricks and tactics. Absurdity underlines their situation like crimson ink. A portrayal of a battleground is just downstairs, and here they are, irreverent, above, with one of their own. All it would take is a slip of her voice, or for someone to look up, or for intermission to arrive. And yet, they go on.

“I calculate my risks,” Solas says, pausing his ministrations to pull at her skirt’s fabric so she is less exposed. He regards her appearance, her visage. “Not unlike you.”

Eludysia can’t help but smirk. “Referring to the dress, or?”

“You had your suspicions on how I’d respond if you chose it, didn’t you?” he sighs and stills, the statement coarsened. “Like you how you had suspicions on how I’d attempt to silence you if you stirred my fantasies.”

“Well,” she says, eyes bright as the purest emeralds, “I enjoy giving you what you like, too.”

“The games we play should frighten us,” he observes, his mouth forming a grim line.

“They would—if we weren’t aware of what we were getting ourselves into.”

“We aren’t always.”

“We’ll work on that,” she promises, and tugs on his arm. Her body is still as sensitive as a livewire, but her words are tender. Earnest.

Solas hums, and he allows himself a smile and the approval. The hand in Eludysia’s hair moves to tip her chin up, closer. “Perhaps you’ll stay quiet, then?”

It’s her turn, now, to shake her head at him. “One day, ma’lath,” she says, with a lilting affection, “you will tire of your need for restraint.”

“Ma vhenan,” he chokes, the endearment a bittersweet sound. Behind his lust, his delectation, his solicitude, is an unnameable despair. He sets it before her and indulges, “that day came when I fell in love with you.”

And so he kisses her roughly. A lash of hunger upon her, his mouth and nipping teeth inflict silken heat, his fingers finding her sex to delve in once more, so she gasps and his tongue can steal its way to entangle with hers. He conducts a new, headier rhythm, strikes in and out in concert with her need, how her hips rise and buck and pursue. He takes her moans, he takes her breath. Her nerves sing, burn, pulse. She becomes lightheaded and begins to seize as he finally, finally delivers unto her a delirium. She pushes away for air, but he keeps a vice-like grasp by the nape of her neck so their lips and her cresting cry remain sealed and secret.

There is a beautiful irony in the paradoxical act; what is meant to restrain is itself a surrender. What should conflict is inseparable. Where does one end and the other emerge?

As Solas releases Eludysia and rights her, she lets her head lay on his shoulder. He doesn’t protest. Oxygen floods her lungs, and in the equilibrium of weightlessness and the sense of gravity, a line from the Chant of Light rings crystalline: —a vision of all worlds, waking and slumbering / spirit and mortal to me appeared.

They don’t wait for intermission. He takes her home. Her dress is ripped, discarded on his bedroom floor with the rest of their clothes. She makes good on her word, strokes him with her hands, her mouth. He then has his way with her; marks her skin like she could eternally be his own. Like they’ll be all right. And together, they relish in their sounds and avowals of love saturating the room through and through.

He doesn’t know Eludysia wakes in the middle of the night to wonder at the profoundness of him and his confession, as she’d done months ago when he came to her door.

#da fic #da:i fanfic #dragon age fic #dragon age inquisition #dragon age inquisition fic #the solavellan archive #solavellan fanfic #solavellan fic #mine.#dragon age.#100 words a day : november 2019.#solas.#inquisitor : eludysia lavellan.#ship : solas & lavellan. in another world.#god this was a lot #i do want to turn it into a full fledged fic one day tho #it'll be fun #probably #my fics.

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thewheezingwyvern · 6 years ago

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Headcanon ask: Solas spending his last minutes in the embrace of Lavellan. After all the plotting, all the bloodshed, all the lies intentionally told to manipulate key figures of the conflict into their proper places, it's down to just him and the woman he can't help but love with every fiber of his being; the woman Solas pushed away, as he knew full well that he won't come out of this alive. MAKE IT ANGSTY 😀

Hahaha so in the end both of us get wounded! :))) Here you are @arkamos-aurelius ! It isn’t much but I hope you like it! xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx Solas x Lavellan xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx The Forest and the SeaIt was selfish. He knew it was selfish. Solas had always found himself awash in the sea of guilt, mired in his failure but he always seemed to find himself caught on the current of her. The tide of Lavellan pulled him in every night, floating through the Fade until he came upon her. She always had her left arm in her dreams, no glowing trail of green to mark her. Another thing that he had taken. Stolen. Night after night he watched from a distance in the very glen where he pushed her away, never letting her see him. But something was different this time. A riptide of desperation so powerful that he found himself moving towards her.“Vhenan.” His hoarse whisper drew her attention and she turned, wild ocean eyes wide in surprise. Full lips hung open as she looked at him, her breath hitching in her chest. Lips that his own mouth crashed against in a need that roared in his blood. A sound of surprise hummed in the back of her throat as she staggered slightly beneath the rush of him. When his arms enfolded her, the longing surged to life between both of them, a meeting of teeth and tongue. Of questions and answers. Of what should have been and what has to be.He clung to her desperately, just as desperately as she clung to him. Solas knew just how selfish this all was but he needed to hold her one last time. Just one more time. Lavellan broke away first, panting for breath, lips kiss swollen. He had missed seeing her like that. Solas felt himself growing heady on the drift of her magic that always seemed to flow around her. “…I had always hoped…that you would find me here.” Her fingers gripped his tunic tighter, “And here you are.”“You know that I cannot stay.”Lavellan’s eyes welled up with tears. Yet another mistake he made and she had to be hurt by this one too. She closed her eyes tightly against the wave of grief and hurt and anger. Silence reigned between them for several moments. Then at last she stilled and her eyes snapped open, piercing blue boring into him.“You could…” Lavellan released his shirt and pulled away from his hold, “You just won’t.”She woke then to an empty bed, a quivering heart, her left arm gone and to tears that she thought she had already finished crying. Lavellan gripped the sheets in a white knuckle grip before throwing her pillow in a fit of rage. It was less satisfying than throwing something harder but it was the only thing in immediate reach. “Garas quenathra?” she whispered to the air, “Why come back to me if you will not stay?” Lavellan silently wondered why just couldn’t let him go knowing that he would never stay. Knowing that he would never change. Then she was reminded of a time long ago when she asked Hahren, “What happens when the forest meets the sea?”“Many things, dalen. The ocean crashes into the trees and the branches snap between the waves. It falls still and for just a moment it is beautiful. But the forest cannot change its course and the ocean is called back by the tide. When they part the sea takes some of the forest with her but she must also leave some of herself behind. When the forest meets the sea they fall in love. But the ocean breaks a piece of the woods and the water that she leaves behind stagnates.”

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #dragon age fanfiction #solas x lavellan #solas dragon age #writing request

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assortedcorn · 6 years ago

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Fire in Her Veins

[Solavellan HELL]

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Processing everything just said to her, Ellana white-knuckled the edge of the wooden table and sighed heavily. She looked at everyone who had stayed beside her all these years and none of them looked happy. The hair on the back of her neck and arms started to stand, a large vein visible on the side of her neck.

They had returned to the place that started it all, Haven. After all, it was Ellana’s favorite place and has always been incredibly special to her. Haven had been completely decimated after the attack so, they all lived underground in the caves. It seemed barbaric, but with the help of many, they turned the tunnels into homes. It looked no different than the outside world or the inside of a cottage, it was home and it was enough.

“We cannot ask you to agree to this in good conscience, my friend.” Cassandra states. “It is entirely up to you.”

Reaching up to touch the scarred and ridged skin above her prosthetic arm, she rubbed the sore flesh tenderly, like she was hugging herself. Ellana still felt the phantom pain every night before bed, it was even worse when she thought of him.

What was she to do?

“Ellana.” Cullen’s voice found her as he took his place next to her. Cullen rests his hand on her back and began to rub small circles, trying to calm her nerves. She looked at him and studied his eyes, his expression, and she knew he understood what she was thinking.

She and Cullen had grown incredibly close since she returned from the Crossroads one arm short and half a heart to match. She’s helped him run a sanctuary for former Templars, watching and aiding in them recovering from Lyrium addiction. It gave her purpose and a distraction from the hell she was going through. Soon enough, Cullen professed his undying loyalty and love for her one night when they were mixing potions. It took her by surprise but she had decided she felt the same way, that she deserved to be happy and to be loved by someone who wouldn’t abandon her. She gave him a friendship he desperately needed and he gave her a future, it was more than she could ask.

“If Leliana were here, you know she would support any decision you’d make.” Josephine made known, trying to reassure her that she can choose whatever path she believes in.

A few moments of silence had passed between them. Ellana had been weighing her options and deciding the outcomes of said options, hoping there was another way.

You know this is the only way, Lavellan.

“Boss, you know the guys and I could do it for you.” Bull suggests, putting his arms across his chest.

Uneasiness began to chip away at her.

How could she possibly do something like this? Would she succeed or would she die trying? If something happened to her, who would help Cullen? Who would write to Cassandra every day? Who would send Leliana homemade sweet treats? All of these unanswered questions made her anxiety spike, along with her pulse. I’m not afraid of him, am I? She questioned herself. He would never see it coming, I have the perfect advantage. She then sucked in a sharp breath of air before speaking.

“No.” Ellana said to Bull, then looked around the room to see her closest friends. “It must be me.”

“With all due respect, ‘cause you know I respect you heaps but don’t ya think he’ll see this coming? You suddenly meeting him after denying multiple requests doesn’t sound fishy to you?” Varric questions.

“I cannot say I have not thought of that myself.” Cassandra admits. “I am sure his spies have been following our every move.”

“I have been taking a drought since that day to cut my connection to the Fade.” Ellana confesses. “To be honest, it has been nice not feeling the nightmares but that is not why I started taking it. He could always follow me there, hear my thoughts, read my mind. Since then, he’s been completely in the dark so to speak.”

“Ellana, I am sorry you had to sever something so special to you.” Josie sighs, sadly. Everyone who knew Ellana, knew she and Solas visited the Fade frequently, they spent a substantial amount of time there. There were countless, vast places he showed her, a myriad of things she learned from him, and it made her heart ache with melancholy thinking of going back. “Do you...believe him redeemable?”

Ellana stares at Josie, hesitant to answer. The thought of him changing his mind and trying to fix it all, it made her want to laugh and cry. He has caused so much damage and hurt or killed thousands of people in Thedas already.

“He is too far gone, Josie.” Ellana felt her lip tremble as her voice broke. This was painful for her, she was not a liar and now she would have to be for the sake of Thedas.

“Love.” Cullen tries to calmly smile at her. “Whatever you decide, I will be right here when you return.”

“I do not deserve you.” Ellana tears up as she caresses his face. If I die, I am going to miss those beautiful amber eyes and that handsome smile.

His hand reached up to touch hers, gently squeezing it before taking it in his own. Using his other hand to cover hers, he begins to speak. “It is I who does not deserve you.”

“Leave the romance for when she comes back alive.” Varric chuckles, half-heartedly.

Squeezing Cullen’s hand back, Ellana could feel searing heat behind her chest and the pins and needles on her neck. She was about to change the course of history and save the world once more, if she could pull it off. Almost immediately, the idea of how she would do it came to her and the less her friends knew, the easier it would be to keep them safe.

“Okay.” She breathes.

“Then it is decided?” Cassandra asks, shocked.

“Are you sure?” Cullen asks, looking intently at her.

“I am sure. I am the only one who can do this, I am the last person he will suspect.” Ellana answers. “I will need all the protection I can get, we will rendezvous in my quarters at dawn.”

“We’ll be ready, kid.” Varric smiles.

“I will make sure we have the best healers available to ensure your safety in the fade.” Josephine adds in, a smile on her face. “We must protect our only hope.”

“Once again she is risking her life for the fate of this world.” Cullen’s tone a little darker now.

“I will be all right, Cullen.” She leans against him, their arms touching along with their hands.

“Are you absolutely certain you are ready?” Cassandra asks, clearly double checking to make sure.

“I am ready.” Ellana answers, strength in her wavering voice. “I am going to kill the Dread Wolf.”

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Posting Part Two tomorrow, if anyone wants to read it! 😁😁

#cullen rutherford #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #love #cullen x mage #cullen rutherford romance #cullen stanton rutherford #cullen rutherford fanfic #solas #solavellan hell #solas x lavellan #solas x female lavellan

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theharellan · 6 years ago

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Not a Beast at All

repost of a thread written on @theshirallen‘s old blog, the first thread set in ian and solas’s beauty & the beast verse. unfinished, but updates will post in thread tag when they’re written.

solas

He’s armed with naught but a hot bowl of water and a towel, hands shaking as he contemplates what he must do. No, what he should do.

A wiser person might turn tail and flee, leave the wolf to bleed out on the floor of his own castle, but he cannot. Not when the only the beast is the only reason he still stands. His hands tighten around the towel, drops of moisture dripping onto the floor, knuckles going a ghostly white. He forces a breath, catching the sticky scent of blood in the air, and draws a few paltry words to his lips.

“You’re hurt,” he says, voice soft. If he closes his eyes and ignores the harsh, staggered breaths he can almost pretend he’s speaking to Teldirthalelan, having caught itself on a bramble on a morning ride. “I can help.” Healing magic has never been his strength, but the herbs tucked under his arm will supplement what his hands cannot heal. They had been left upon a table, otherwise empty, as if waiting for him, but by now he had learned his questions will only be answered by an echo.

His heart hammers against his ribcage, his good sense pleading that he run. He ignores it, and takes a few steps forward to stand at the beast’s side. Fear threatens to blight the atmosphere around him, but he pushes past, maintaining a false sense of security that might keep the creature from taking his hand off. It hums with the familiar, warm fires and hot baths, the feeling of hands threading through his hair– all feelings a wild beast may not be able to relate to, but may lend to a feeling of comfort, so that he may keep his hands.

“I promise.”

the beast

He’s dying.

Or maybe he isn’t, but it feels like he is. He almost hopes that he is.

Breathing comes in labored heaves, each exhale leaves him trembling, disturbs the wounds he has been so careful to protect.

This is not the first time he’s been injured, though it never grows more pleasant. It hurts, and he’s probably going to die. This time, surely. He’s cold all over, all his warmth leaving him to pool against the stone in thick, dark puddles.

He hears the footfalls before the voice, and fear coils in his aching gut, tightening in unbearable urgency as his ears flatten against his skull. Soft words, crooning, gentle. Their intention is understood, even if their exact meaning eludes him. The elf is trying to calm the beast, to sooth the monster so that it does not rise to finish what the forest had begun.

One word lands clearly: help. Said…differently than he has heard it, but he hasheard it before. People screamed it when they caught sight of him, shouted it into the wind before they fled. But this elf speaks it softly, like an offering, and the meaning is understood.

The meaning is understood, but he opens his eyes, wary of the approach. Hesitance slows the elf, though his feet fall in a determined way, and the beast opens his mouth in soundless protest, baring teeth in warning–as though he could ever use them. He can’t, wouldn’t, but no one knows that save for himself. He bares his teeth in warning, heaving his corpse from the floor. His retreat is desperate, agonized and clumsy, ruined leg dragging achingly behind him. Two steps, maybe three, and he has fallen.

The roll of his eyes is wild, fearful, but he cannot lift himself again. The elf’s approach brings with him hands, and hands the beast fears most of all. Hands are heavy, carry weapons, sling stones. But… But hands can fall soft, pushing to tuck hair behind pointed ears, weaving ribbons into braids.

The beast’s breathing eases by a margin, and he remains where he has fallen, and he watches as water drips from the wringing of a towel.

solas

White teeth flash and halt his approach, breath catching in his throat. They are still stained by bear’s blood, bared as if reminding him how small a threat he is.

A chill ghosts up his spine, pricking his skin with gooseflesh, and he contemplates again the prospect of running. Perhaps tell the town his tale, how he had slain the beast– oh, how they would cheer. Somehow, the prospect is less palatable than having his arm snapped off. When he steps forward again, the beast moves, but away from him, limping one, two– by the third its paw slips forward and he crashes to the floor. Haggard breath so loud that Solas cannot hear his own sharp inhales, but a thought hits him louder than the creature’s labored breathing: it fears him, perhaps as keenly as he fears it.

Solas lets out a breath he’s been holding, arm falling to his side. The front of his shirt is dark where he had clutched the towel to his chest, and every errant wind cuts him to the bone. “Moving will only exacerbate your injuries,” he explains, as if it will help.

He closes the distance between them before he has the chance to doubt again, dropping to his knees beside the beast as soft as his trembling allows. The bowl is set aside, clicking against the floor, as his fingers lift to comb through his hairs. Melted snow crowns him, dead leaves still tangled between auburn strands from his attempted flight from the castle. He does not bother to pluck them out as he twists his hair into a bun.

“Please, try not to take off my arm,” he says, lifting the towel from the bowl and wringing it. “It will render your heroics in the woods pointless.”

He places his hand upon the beast, first, brushing his fingers through fur not matted by blood or dirt. When his hand remains firmly attached to his wrist, he braces himself, readying the cloth. “This will sting, but it won’t hurt,” he says in a hushed whisper. The warning is followed by the cloth, damp and warm, pressed firmly against where the bears claws had caught the wolf’s leg.

the beast

The elf kneels, and the beast’s breathing grows shallow, trying to keep the heave of his side from closing the distance between them. He pushes, trying to pull himself up again, to retreat, knowing that even if he manages to drag himself another step, the wall behind him will pin him. He lacks the agility needed to circle back to open space. Even as his weight shifts to his front feet he falls, and where he falls, he lays.

He lays, twisting his head as he watches with wide eyes as the elf ties back tangled hair. His lips curl back as fingers extend.

Don’t touch me.

Don’t–

The touch at his flank is gentle, smoothing fur along its grain, and beneath his skin muscles jump and writhe, instinct pleading with him to try once more at dragging himself away. Streaks of mud and blood along the stone floor mark the path to where he’s fallen, and he knows–the elf seems to know too–that another attempt will worsen his pain. Surrender comes with a sigh, his head falling to land against his front paws. His exhales are marked by soft whimpers–if he cannot frighten himself to safety, perhaps he can beg.

Warm cloth is pressed against his open wound, and his head swivels away, protesting the sharp sensation with a yelp, unwilling and unable to quiet his protests, to still the thrash of his leg as he tries to prevent further discomfort.

Why bother? Why tend to the injury of something so monsterous?

He doesn’t understand.

The elf fears him–he has seen it in his hesitance, in the way he waits for a strike to rebut his advances. Why, then, does he linger, pressing warm cloth against a weeping wound?

solas

The skin beneath his hand twitches, as if his fingers are knives that cut into its skin. Black lips pull back, lupine face twisted fiercely, but the threat doesn’t feel as real. Perhaps it is his head, always in the clouds, too foolish to see the teeth bared at him as a threat. Somehow, he cannot bring himself to see it, pity welling in the places of his heart fear had reined over before.

In his hands the cream-coloured cloth soaks up the weeping wounds, ‘til it almost glows crimson. He dabs at the wound until it will take no more water then dips another in the bowl (he does not even notice that he picked up only one, that a pile of clean cloths sat, as if anticipating his lack of foresight). The beast, to its credit, resigned itself to its fate. It whines like a child, long tail adhering to its back legs, its every angle displaying its discomfort in no uncertain terms.

His other hand continues to smooth its fur. The feeling is far from pleasant, its coat damp from the snow, as riddled with dirt as his is with leaves. He muses that if any soul were brave enough to bathe it, it might look quite handsome. When the fur parts he catches sight of a red undercoat, colours he thought not to see in this castle. Another towel is set aside, not so stained as the last, as the wound ceases its bleeding.

In the air he can feel the sound of questions without answers, and assumes they are his own. Even in his fright, he felt them. When there was nothing stood between him and death but it, he wondered. If not hunger, then what? The questions are borne anew as he works, never quite passing his lips, but shaping his shape. He presses the questions into the beast’s wounds, the sounds in his head urging the wolf’s body to quicken the process it had already been fighting to begin. Beneath his palms he can feel the skin come together, the edges hardening to a crystalline-like edge.

Memories it cannot hope to understand are poured into the gash, of hands pressed against a skinned knee, and the wonder in the eyes of someone who had not realised yet how small his world was. And questions, so many questions: about this castle, about this beast, about himself, questions that hurry to heal the wound so that he might find answers.

the beast?

His surrender washes over him, and he lays in the heap he had fallen into. Keening creeps past his teeth, plaintive pleas to be left alone, before the hands that are so gentle at his thigh change their intention into something more sinister while he lies helpless.

But the fear he tastes is more his own than anything, and that is years of unfamiliar. He’s so used to choking on the fear he inspires, the fear that freezes the hearts of those who see him. When was the last time someone dared to come so close? His own heart drums in his ears, discordant with the sound of another heartbeat–running apace even in the absence of sharp-tasting fear. Soft touches push through his mud-matted pelt and serve to distract him from the stinging dabs at his wounds. His injured leg jolts and quivers, aching through the attentions. He shuts his eyes, disliking the sight of piling towels, saturated with his own blood.

The touch at his gashed thigh changes, and magic sparks the air. The stinging of his wound lessens, flesh drawing together, and his tail thumps in the narrow range it might, curled tight yet against his knees. Distraction deepens, the world around him heavy with queries he cannot quite parse, and memories of tender attentions blur in the haze of his thoughts. Memories that are not his own, but carry with them familiar tones, soft comforts.

Don’t cry, child. It’s only a splinter. I get them, too. I know it hurts. I know they aren’t fun. Let me see it. Let me help. Give me your hand.

It had been the truth–pain, and then relief, lips pressed to a shallow pit in the heel of his thumb, murmured reassurances closing the gap as he had watched with tear-blurred eyes.

The magic at his wound works swiftly, muscle and skin knitting back together in a tight, knotted way.

His eyes open, head and torso twisting around, movement restricted, stiff, pushing his nose closer to his wound. Hands pin his injured leg, but he only wants to see–magic like this is different, but he remembers a mother kissing healing into tattered skin, and what should have taken weeks to mend might be set right in a matter of moments.

solas

A nervous smile cracks his lips, the high-pitched whines are those of an animal, but he feels a familiar kinship in them. The same kinship he might feel with his hart when its antlers tangled in his mother’s laundry. This is a more serious situation, the bears claws had raked deep, though with the blood cleared it does not look nearly so daunting. “I know it hurts,” he hums. “But it won’t forever.”

What does a beat know of forever, he wonders? The animals they keep at home live one moment to the next, always concerned with the immediate, which he supposed is a forever in its own right. Still, he burns with questions, questions a sharp-toothed mouth can never hope to answer. “Why did you save me?” he voices it anyway, the magic in his hands glowing brighter at the sound. Possibilities harden the wound that wept moments ago, the distant hope of finding answers healing broken skin.

A thought that isn’t his own strikes him, soft and yet shocking, as if someone had slapped him with a pillow. He breathes in sharply, straightening to glance over his shoulder at an empty room. On the mantle a porcelain cat that he’s sure wasn’t there before sits, empty eyes glinting at him, but no person. Only himself, and the creature before him. A chill skims his spine, suddenly unable to shake the feeling that they are being observed.

The beast’s twisting distracts him, and in his surprise his hands jerk away from the wound. Where his palms had been a thin scab has formed, not quite what it should be, and when no teeth sink into his wrist, he returns to his work. “Fascinated, are we?” he asks, a tremor wavering what otherwise would have sounded like teasing.

Shock ebbs from his being, melting onto the floor with the snow that they had both dragged in. Where it ebbs, curiosity flows, and the questions come quicker than they did before. Through the small wonders and idle fancies, one sings stronger than the rest, too persistent to pour into his spells and leave it be, but too foolish to speak aloud.

The question is asked in memories half-formed, an answer suggested rather than demanded, as a woman crouches over an unseen child, hair spilling down her back. His mother, but also a stranger’s, her features hidden, awaiting another’s impression to fill in details deliberately withheld, as elvhen minds are wont to do.

the beast?

The question of why hangs heavy in the air, humming through the same soft, soothing tones one might use to calm a fretful steed, or a frightened infant. He knows that tone, the one used when words are not expected to be understood and the speaking is meant only to mitigate the sharp taste of fear that overwhelms the atmosphere.

He knows it from long, long ago.

And he has an answer, hovering in the haze beneath his own fears, his pain. He has an answer, and he shifts his attentions to it with great concentration, pushing his thoughts beyond his discomforts, knowing he will not be heard. How can he be, when the elf recoils from his shift, from the sight of blood-streaked teeth moving closer to his hands?

He had only meant to see. To follow. The forest is full of dangers, dangers he has had time to learn as he makes his home within this ruined castle. And the elf had fled in such fear, worrying more about the beast at his heel than the forest he risked in his flight. And he had followed, knowing. The beast fears bears, fears most things. It had been terrifying, to leap between the bear and the elf, but he knows his size, had hoped…had hoped the bear might fear him the way that most things do. He had hoped that fear would be enough, had not realized that in fear bears respond much the way that everyone does.

Another keen passes his lips, and he rolls his face away, eyes closing as his form shudders, the memory of blows as present and real as though he has only just been struck. The elf’s words wobble, trying to hold their lightness as his fears creep back into the cadence of his speech.

Curiosity rises like a wave, splashing over cold fear in insistent, repetitive pulses until the fear is worn like a stone upon a shore. Smaller, less sharp. Present, but mundane. A question rises, different than the first. Probing and hesitant, as though the elf finds its consideration foolish. He doesn’t know, doesn’t really suspect, but he wonders, and while his hands return to their task–another sting, a quiet yelp–he summons the thought of a concept. Something familiar to him, but…

An empty canvas, a blank page. Recognizable in emotion, in scene–but not something a beast might see. To a beast, what is a mother? To this beast, she is not so unlike this empty form, this question waiting to be filled.

Not so unlike, but then…

He doesn’t remember her hair ever loosed from its knots. But no, he’d pulled it once. He remembers that, so it must have been down before she took to tying it far from his reach. He remembers too, the way she knelt so that their eyes might meet. Their eyes might meet if he could look up, and when she smiled it changed the shape of her face. Her whole face was her smile, creases folding at her eyes until they almost vanished, her lips pulled wide to bare her teeth. Not the way his teeth bare now, but soft, kind. Trying.

Something in his stomach twists. Guilt, sorrow. Aching. He cries again, a different sound for a different pain.

solas

What Solas sees is as plain as day: a beast with teeth the length of his palms, who knows nothing of people, save for the taste of their blood. What he senses, however, is… not so simply explained.

He feels the expected, to an extent. The fear and apprehension, both his own and the wolf’s, still lingers. The threat of harm persists, bitter in the air, even if they seem to have reached an armistice. Solas has seen its fear before in dogs that flee from thunder that shakes the heaven, or in his own steed when he had laid eyes upon the beast. But there is more in the atmosphere than this fear and his own questions, thoughts that do not quite solidify, impressions of memories. His own shape, stumbling through knee-deep snow, and the taste of cold air upon his gums as his lips draw back to bare white fangs.

His heart jumps, and he almost pulls one hand to his mouth before he sees the blood that coats his fingers. His tongue darts out, instead, tasting his own cut where the ice had split his lip open– but no sharp teeth.

Cold creeps up his spine, his heart coming to realisations his mind is not yet ready to define.

But the thought he had pushed forward without detail, the disguised question too foolish to ask aloud, is grasped as though by unseen eyes. Colour drains from the picture, like rain against a windowpane, the hair that spills down the woman’s back turning pale. Paler than his mother’s, even now that it has gone white. The face that turns to smile at him is foreign, even if the emotions she evokes are familiar. As Solas wraps his mind around the thought, his patient shrinks beneath his palms. The sound that tears from its throat is not borne of pain or fear, but something less base. A raw shame that comes from within.

Solas pulls his hands from its skin, his breath caught in his throat. The question drums louder now, still foolish, but stronger. Suddenly the word “beast” does not settle so easily in his mind, and he cannot say how he should refer to what– who– lies before him.

“You…” He stops, swallowing his own words, not speaking again until he can string together a coherent question. “You are no true beast, are you?”

the beast

Hands withdraw from his shaking flank, and the beast heaves with the sound of his aching. The question posed lingers in the air, and he feels its intent more clearly than he hears it–the words are lost in a foggy murk, a language he does not yet possess mastery of obscuring his understanding.

He feels the question, feels the intent penetrate his bones and spark something within their marrow. It feels like hope, if he were so inclined to trust it.

He does not answer the question, merely heaves himself away. Away, back to three feet and a dragging flank, circling away from the elf with what little dignity he might muster. The knuckles of his paw scrape against the stone floor, each grooved dip sending spasms through his wounded thigh, and he can feel the fresh-formed scab crack and falter when movement forces it to yield. He drags himself away, until space exists between himself and the elf, until his bulk blocks the heat of a sudden-roaring fire in an unattended pit. His head hangs low, nose swaying between his forepaws as his tail thumps plaintively against his ankles.

He’s afraid to look up. He fears looking up, when their eyes might meet. Their eyes might meet, and that would answer the question that has so charged the atmosphere. It might–except…except.

His eyes are still those of a beast. His tail against his ankles. His nose between his paws. Their eyes might meet, and his might betray him, and the hope that sparks within his marrow might be smothered as quickly as it had been birthed. He has had enough pain, tonight. He does not think that he could shoulder this, too. Hope, destroyed, will be more agonizing than had it never existed. Another whine, soft and plaintive, sneaks past his teeth.

He gives no answer, merely places space between them. He is too afraid to offer more.

But they are not alone, and where he fails to offer confirmation, the castle rises to do so in his stead. Atop the mantle behind him, he hears the soft, chiming steps of porcelain paws as the cat begins to pace. She does not speak–she is no more inclined to words than he is, now–but she moves, and in moving, she makes herself known.

Across the room, brass sings in the doorway. Sings as the rabbit shifts, paws retreating from where they had braced against the heavy oak.

“There, now. What did I tell you?” They hum, with no effort to hide their delight. It reverberates through his chest, and he lifts his head to watch as they shift, stretching their paws ahead of them before their hind end catches up in a lopsided bounce. As they step away from the door, it begins a slow swing inward, ready to rest against its latch without their weight to prop it open. They hop forward again, more balanced now, before turning to look over their shoulder.

“Excuse you.” The door freezes in its swing, half-open in a sheepish sort of way. The brass rabbit thumps one foot, and their nose wiggles in an aggravated sort of way, but the door yields no further than this. They sigh past their teeth and surrender, seemingly satisfied with half a victory. “I told you he was a clever one, didn’t I? Settle back down, Rosebud. You’re bleeding, again.”

Their words are lost in the same foggy muddle, but their intention is woven clearly into the air around him, and they gesture with both their front paws, in clear instruction. He yields, ears tossed back a little resentfully as he carefully lowers himself to the stones–glad of the warmth at his back as he curls to examine the cracked scab of his injury.

“He isn’t trying to be obtuse.” The rabbit hops closer again, drawing level with the stained water bowl, pawing through the saturated towels in search of a clean one. “I think he’s from very far away. We aren’t speaking a language he knows well–except for what people yell when they chase him off. I’ve been teaching him some, but you’ll have to be patient.”

solas

Solas doesn’t expect a verbal response. He seeks a nod of the head, a wag of its tail, or nothing, even that would help him make sense of the questions swirling in his head. It– they– shrink from him, however, curling pathetically just beyond his reach. The memory that had begun to form dissipates in an instant, and he is left in a torrent of his own thoughts. Unseen walls rise between them, windows shuttered against a storm, and he leans forward on his hands, trying to see past the paws that obscure their face.

“I’m trying to understand,” he presses, frustration sharpening his plea. “I know the face of every woman in my life.” Day in and day out, the same faces, the same people, the same tasks. Today was the first day in his life he had truly felt alive. “Iknow it was not I who thought of her, and if not me…” Then who? Who else but them?

His doubt ebbs, and he remembers questions not his own perched upon his lips. They are not asked with the same curiosity, but sound like weapons. He tries to answer them, pick words out of the pain, but they turn to high-pitched whines in his head. Lips part with intent to answer, only to be cut off by the tinkling of porcelain against stone. His eyes flit up, and painted eyes catch his gaze, then hold it. “I–” Rather than answers, he finds only more questions. They stick in his throat, hoarsely wondering if he was still outside, passed out in the snow. The fire that roars to life, heat licking his cheeks, suggests otherwise.

Ears flick back, and he tears his eyes from the cat to turn towards the door. Another creature stands in the door, made of brass rather than porcelain. Its every movement creaks, elongated ears turning every which way. Solas’s mouth hangs open, and can only watch as it approaches his patient, its very form humming with affection. The sound of metal wings flutter fast behind, as a glass peacock enters, wings spread in hopes of catching a pocket of air. “I thought we had agreed to wait.” It spreads its tail, shapes swirling in meditative twirls that distract from its terse tone. “Give him a moment to answer.”

Solas chokes on his words, even as the rabbit turns to address him with black-bright eyes. Finally, he manages a single word, the least of his questions, but it will do: “Rosebud?”

“A nickname, their idea,” the peacock hums, and the air trills with the sound of its own ideas (names that had not quite stuck). “He is as much a mystery to us as you are.” A comment that comes with meaning deeper than its words, images of a stranger trespassing into safe haven, disrupting the balance it had struggled to bring to this derelict castle.

He. The word strikes Solas suddenly, and he looks back at the wolf-shaped person collapsed by the fire. “So he is no beast.” Though who he is remains to be seen. Whatever he is, whoever he is, one thing is certain. “I would be dead, were it not for you,” he says in a low tone, addressing him and him alone. “Thank you, for saving me.”

the beast

“I did wait.” The rabbit protests, amusement clear as they continue to paw through the soiled rags. They produce one that is almost clean, and they move to push the towel into the elf’s hands, making some attempt at an encouraging expression–no easy feat, with bucked brass teeth. “Here. Try again.”

The beast’s ears cant back, flat against his skull as his legs fold and he lowers himself to the stone floor. It’s cold against his belly, but the fire at his back sends splashes of warmth across his fur. When he trembles now, it has less to do with the snow that drips from damp-clumped fur and more to do with the fear that tightens his gut.

The brass rabbit bounces past, metallic music following in the wake of their paws, and the beast curls, whimpering as the movement tugs half-mended muscles. His nose brushes against the thin scab of his injury, and the scent of blood is harsh against a shallow inhale.

The air in the room takes on a different atmosphere, warmer in ways the fire has not touched. The brass rabbit brings a sense of safety, and the cat that paces on the mantle exudes honesty. From the doorway, calm washes in waves alongside the glass peacock. It settles the beast, who breathes easier–still ragged, still shallow, but easier–and who pulls back from the gash upon his thigh to lay his head against his front feet.

The elf is left to react as well as he might to realizing that a lonely, darkened room has grown suddenly quite crowded and bright. The beast can hear him stumbling over confusion, can feel his questions and incredulities rise and scatter as one certainty takes hold. The atmosphere changes again with his surety, fear losing footholds from his heart. The beast watches him, muzzle pressed against the back of his paws, with ears perked attentively. Gratitude–sincere enough to be felt, to stir affectionate purrs from the porcelain cat–shapes his words. The beast responds with a sigh, pushed slowly through his nose as his tail stirs dust where it thuds against the floor.

He looks up without lifting his face, hesitant in his hope, and allows their eyes to meet.

solas

“Whoever claimed love is patience has clearly never met you,” the peacock says, whistling through a glass beak, its voice somehow fond and frustrated. Fire casts light upon an unfurled tail, moving the coloured shapes like water in sunlight. Solas’s eyes snap to the rabbit, whose lifeless eyes seem to soften under his gaze. he takes the rag in-hand, twisting it between them, the ornament’s suggestion seeming like advice for how to lose a hand. “He means no harm,” hums the peacock, though Solas cannot tell if he speaks of his saviour– or him.

“I don’t suppose you speak,” he wonders to the wolf-shaped boy. “I would like to know your name.” Something tells him ‘Rosebud’ is not the answer. His name feels like a path ruined by a fallen tree, or a bridge broken by a flood. It comes to Solas like a forgotten memory, nagging at the back of his mind. “My name is Solas.”

It is not the name his mother gave him, but the name he chose when he was old enough to know himself. He speaks it now, proud of its meaning, though not to proud to ask questions. There is so much he doesn’t know, so much he assumed. Glass wings squeak against the peacocks body, and he swears he hears laughter barely contained behind its beak. “With that name, you will fit in well, here,” it says. “I am Peace, and they–” A stiff gesture towards the rabbit, “are Love.”

Rather than give him comfort, their names make him wonder if he will be the next ornament in this castle. The thought does not land with as much panic is it likely should, the sound of glass feet upon a hard floor ring like wind chimes, and his heart settles before it truly quickens.

His saviour’s ears perk, the aggression (fear, it was fear) in his stance giving way to something more approachable. Whatever these people had brought with them, it was doing him good. Solas wets the towel in water, then wrings it, before he tries again. “It may still hurt,” he warns, stronger now that he knows his patient can understand language, even if it isn’t the same he speaks. Gently, he presses against the offending wound, magic doing as it will. Possibilities mend the skin together where movement had cracked it, names common and fanciful that might suit the night’s hero. He pours into the wound the minutes he has lived since he was saved, the moments he will live because of him.

#v; ha'era la melava ( beauty & the beast )#not a beast at all ( thread )#theshirallen

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cha0ticmimzy · 6 years ago

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Training

Author’s Note: I have god knows how many drabbles written about Illyvia and Solas, and my other Inquisitors. So, I figured- why not post them? Enjoy!

Word Count: 932

Characters: Solas, Cremisius Aclassi, Illyvia Lavellan

Rating: G

Step, duck, step, slide.

Over and over, Illyvia moved. Training with Krem was always harsh, the lieutenant never once giving her a chance to catch her breath. But it was well worth it, she thought to herself, as she lunged in close, nearly touching his chest, before he moved back.

Distance.

"You're distracted," he called out as he circled her, holding the wooden staff out. It was a simple thing, both ends flat, the body smoothed down. More for practice than anything. She'd been the one to suggest it, claiming she needed help with honing in on skills other than magic. After the fight with Corypheus in Haven, she needed all the help she could gets. The memory of cold fingers closing around her throat, choking the life from her, still haunted her dreams.

"Again." She replied, ignoring his taunt. Stilling, they watched each other, before he lunged forward, moving quickly. She ducked as he swung the staff, rising up quickly to take hold of his free arm and pull, tugging him in close, before the wooden knife Blackwall had carved was pressed to his throat. This close, she could see the gold swirling with the brown in his eyes. Pretty, she thought distantly. "Is this distracted, lieutenant?" She teased softly, watching as his gaze flickered down to her lips before back to her face.

"Good job, Inquisitor," he murmured, and they stayed like that a moment longer before the clearing of a throat made Illyvia's cheeks heat up. Quickly releasing him, she took a few steps back before turning, eyes lighting up at the sight of Solas. She heard Krem sigh behind her, mumbling to himself.

"Solas!" She exclaimed, dropping the knife into the belt around her waist before jogging over to the apostate, a smile curling her lips. "I thought you were working on your mural?"

"Vhenan," he greeted, reaching out to grasp her hand, bringing it to his lips to brush a kiss along her knuckles, his gaze falling upon the mercenary. Amusement danced through him at the way Cremisius shifted, his gaze narrowing. "I was, indeed. But I thought some fresh air would do me good. And I received a show, as well," he continued, glancing down at the blushing Inquisitor. "Enjoy yourself?"

"I-... Asked for Krem's help. I need to... Figure out a way to protect myself in cases that my magic won't work, like with Corypheus." She explained as Krem moved closer, staff tossed over his shoulder casually. His armor was missing, Solas noted, and in place, he wore a simple white tunic shirt. The dark brown beneath it spoke volumes- a subject he would not bring up.

"She's quite good, you know. Quick, smart- her reflexes are ridiculous!" The mercenary gushed, grinning at the girl.

"Oh, I'm aware," Solas replied simply. "Her reflexes are quite... Exquisite." His tone dropped, dripping in honey. A flush crossed Krem's cheeks at the innuendo hidden within his words. "The way she's able to move so easily, it's almost as if she herself were magic personified... Don't you think?" The mage continued, watching in amusement as Krem shifted his weight, subtly rubbing his thighs together. "Illyvia is truly... Remarkable. And her indomitable focus is a sight to see... Especially when it's... Dominated." He finished, feeling the Inquisitor beside him tense, her hand clutching at his sleeve.

"I've no doubt about that," Krem quickly replied, rubbing the back of his neck. "I'll... Leave you two. Call on me if you need more practice, Worship." He quickly left, knuckles white from gripping the staff so hard.

"I like him," Illyvia stated simply, gaze drifting up towards the apostate as he moved away from her, taking up position across from her. "He's kind, and a good teacher, and-... What are you doing?"

A chuckle left his lips. "Magic is not my only talent, lethallan. Come, let us see just what mister Krem has taught you." Brows raising, Illyvia studied him for a moment, much to his curiosity.

Before she lunged, barely giving him a moment to prepare.

He quickly moved to the side, though she followed, turning on her heel and sending her leg up, her torso leaning down. A kick, which he blocked with his forearm. She stumbled back a few steps, and he quickly took advantage of the delay, reaching out to grab her forearm. Tugging her close, his other hand wrapping around her throat, he held her still.

"Careful, da'len," Solas murmured against the tip of her ear, feeling her straighten up, her ear twitching from the contact. "Didn't your hahren ever teach you that the Dread Wolf would eat you?" He finished, feeling her tap his wrist twice with her free hand. Quickly releasing her, a pleased smirk curled his lips as she doubled over, a hand pressed to her chest.

"You're horrid," she gasped out, though when she looked up at him, her lips were pulled back in a fierce grin. One he hadn't seen before- a challenge. It was different, to see the normally gentle mage become a lioness before his very eyes. Icy hues fell upon her lips, the pointed eye teeth that were normally hidden. Pointed, he noted, but not as much as his own. She straightened slowly, before falling back into position.

"Again." The Inquisitor ordered as a crowd began to gather. This confidence, this strength, hidden away- it stole his breath. Made his heart ache. She was getting to close, he was letting her get too close. But he didn't stop. Instead, he fell into position.

"If you insist, vhenan." And she lunged.

#dragon age #dragon age inquisition #da:i #my writing #solas #solas dragon age #solasmance #krem #cremisius aclassi #inquisitor lavellan #illyvia lavellan #the rabbit heart inquisitor

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dergonageloser · 7 years ago

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New chap! I shouldn’t post these at one in the morning but I can’t be stopped

Clouds drifted slowly through the crisp, blue sky, casting shadows across the distant hills. A few clumps of white passed right in front of the blighted, twisting hole, carved into the sky as though it had always been there.

The Breach, Fenris decided, as he stared into the heavens, was an ugly thing. The way it shimmered with an unnatural green, pulsing like it had a heartbeat of its own. It made his skin crawl. He looked down at his gloved hand. Even through the thick, black leather, he could just make out the faint, sickly glow.

Curse this magic, and curse whatever—or whomever—brought about its existence. There were whispers that it was the Maker’s doing, another one of his punishments upon mankind. If that were the case, Fenris would like to have a word with the Maker. Or, even better, set Hawke on him to scold his ear off with colorful, foul language. Perhaps a middle finger or two.

Fenris snorted to himself. If only.

The last time he’d closed a large rift, he’d passed out for nearly five days. The pain still lingered in his mind. He didn’t want to subject himself—or Hawke—to that again, let alone facing the enormity of the Breach. But Fenris seemed to be the only known key to their solution. Or rather, his hand was. Not the first time he’d been valued for his body.

Fenris glanced at the sun. They’d be leaving for the Hinterlands around midday. He’d finished packing for the journey with a few hours to spare, and now busied himself with waiting for Hawke’s return from her errand.

Just a quick pop over to our camp, she’d said, tightening the straps on her boots. Reckon there’s still a few supplies we could use. I’ll be back before you know it.

Though he hadn’t wanted to let her go alone, he took solace in that she’d taken Bean with her. She likely needed the quiet more than they needed the supplies, if he was honest. Haven was a strange place filled with strange people. It wasn’t like Kirkwall, where everyone simply ignored you. The space would do her well.

Still, Fenris wished she’d hurry back. He’d be cross if he had to venture on this diplomatic journey without her.

In the meantime, Fenris meandered around Haven, a scrap of parchment pinched between his fingers with a list scribbled out in his unsteady writing.

At the top of the list, scratched out and re-written a few times, sat an innocent and completely useful thing, elfroot. It was a suitable addition to any supply list, and shouldn’t even really be questioned. In fact, it should be packed as a basic first aid remedy.

And here Fenris was, questioning it, as his markings simmered in his skin.

Anyone would tell him that elfroot was an excellent idea to soothe the irritation his marking wrought, especially if the new mark continued making it worse. And it wasn’t like he couldn’t put up with it, either. Pain from his markings wasn’t new, and he’d never required the use of elfroot to manage it.

But this—

Perhaps that was the problem. Fenris wasn’t the sort to rely on herbs, even the medicinal kind. Surely he needn’t change that aspect about himself over a little discomfort. Even if it had woken him up several times in the past week, drenched in sweat and blankets clenched in his tight grip. If that was the worst it could be, he’d be fine.

And yet, Fenris blinked and stopped in his tracks, finding that his feet had taken him to the apothecary.

He stared at the door, knowing it best that he collected what he came for. But something gave him pause. Pride, perhaps?

Hawke would laugh and simply snatch a few bundles regardless. Why couldn’t he?

“Adan has stepped out for a few hours,” a voice called to him. “He kindly asked me to inform any who might require him.”

Fenris turned to see Solas, standing outside his designated cabin, running his fingers across the wood of his door. He hadn’t even looked up from his work to address Fenris. A pinch in his brow showed deep thought.

Rather than follow up with an explanation, Fenris shook his head and stepped towards him. “Checking for termites?” he asked.

Solas glanced at him. “Merely looking over my security wards,” he responded, tapping the wood twice. It glowed briefly, illuminating a circular rune with arcane designs twisting about in it. “I like knowing when I have visitors.”

“A bell would do,” Fenris told him, flatly.

“Yes, but a bell doesn’t paralyze an unwanted guest,” Solas replied. He gave a final tap to the door before giving Fenris his full attention, a grin on his lips. “Forgive me. Is there something I can help you with?”

Fenris hesitated. A small ache flared in his markings as some sort of response. He suppressed a wince, and shook his head.

“No,” he said. “Just—wandering.”

It wasn’t truly a lie, if he at least believed in it.

Solas looked at him, the furrow in his brow reappearing. Then, he nodded. “Of course. You know where to find me, should you need anything.”

Fenris gave him a curt nod. “Thank you.”

With that, he turned on his heel and strode towards the gates. Ferelden was known for her hillsides teeming with elfroot, even in the winter. A walk around the lake should gift him with a bundle or two at the least.

Outside the village, the lake—well, pond, really—sat frozen just a few paces away. The thick ice glistened in the sun, making him squint even from this distance.

A thought—a childish, almost gleeful one—occurred to him. Elves weren’t known for their bodily weight—or, rather, lack thereof—and Fenris had never taken the time to test the stability of a frozen pond. Hawke had told him stories of how she and her siblings once tied sharpened scraps of metal to their boots and stumbled their way across the ice. Fenris had not believed her, as ice was not a thing to be walked upon. It was cold, slippery, and a nuisance at best.

Fenris gave the pond a second look. Maybe—

A flurry of movement, just to the south of the pond, caught his eye. He turned his head, and his stomach dropped. His foot pushed off the ground in a force of panic.

A soldier and a civilian woman, hobbling towards the gate. Draped between them, one leg dragging bloodied and useless, was Hawke. Her head hung low, as though she tried to focus on moving her working leg. Bean followed behind them, pacing around like he wanted to help but was unsure how.

Fenris’ eyes landed on the injured leg, and his eyes widened. An arrow, through the back of her thigh. The sharpened head poked through the blood-soaked fabric of her breeches.

“What happened?” Fenris demanded as he approached.

Hawke lifted her head. She blinked at him, a weak smile struggling to show against her flushed, greenish cheeks.

“Oh, Fenris,” she said as her supports paused before Fenris. He gestured to the woman to give him Hawke’s arm. “Funny story, actually. I found these two lovebirds—” she nodded to the woman and the soldier as Fenris carefully wrapped her arm around his neck, “—snogging behind a tree. It was so romantic—”

“I believe he was asking about the arrow,” the woman retorted. She gently eased Hawke’s weight onto Fenris as they continued their path to the gates.

“By the Maker, Janice, I think you’re right,” Hawke shot back, brows raised in feigned shock.

Janice huffed, but the soldier spoke up.

“There’ve been sightings of bandits patrolling this mountain,” he explained, shifting Hawke a little so he could at Fenris. “Odds are, she had a run-in with one of them.”

Fenris suppressed a sigh. Of course it would be Hawke. “Did they say who they were?”

Hawke snorted. “It’s not like they introduced themselves before they—fuck!” she hissed. Fenris looked down to see that her injured leg had brushed against a root sticking out of the ground.

“Sorry,” Fenris mumbled, then to Janice, he said, “Go find Adan, tell him to meet us at our quarters.”

Janice nodded and jogged ahead.

Hawke yelped again. Her fingers dug into Fenris’ shoulder.

“Hold you leg up,” the soldier told Hawke.

“I told you, I can’t!” Hawke snapped. “Bit of an arrow in the way you bloody dunce.”

Their entrance onto Haven grounds attracted some attention. Another couple of soldiers stepped forward to assist, each of them waved away by Hawke until one particularly bold woman lifted the injured leg by the calf and carefully held it above the ground. It was the strangest sort of three-wheeled procession that hobbled on one side and swore a lot.

“I hate archers,” Hawke wheezed.

Fenris wrapped his fingers around the hand she clutched his shoulder with, and lightly stroked her knuckles.

A few hobbles and many curses later, Fenris carefully lowered Hawke onto the small bed they shared. Her breath came in harsh bursts, and her fingers dug into his sleeves. She leaned back against the wall, eyes shut and jaw clenched. Bean jumped on the bed and curled up next to her, nudging her hand to lay on his head.

Fenris placed his hands on either side of her neck, his thumb running across her jaw. Her eyes opened just enough to squint through. He smiled.

“This cannot be your first arrow, Hawke,” Fenris said, taking her attention from the soldier—Pendrick, was his name—and, hopefully, the worst of the pain.

A snort slipped past her lips. “You were there for the last three,” she retorted, her voice tight and small. “And this one doesn’t hurt any less of a bitch than the others.”

Fenris blinked. He remembered each of the three occasions she mentioned, but—

“There were more?” he said, more of a flat statement than a question.

“Of course there were—fuck!” Her fingers dug deeper, pinching his skin. Bean whined, licked at uninjured leg.

The door opened, and Adan, the ever-joyful alchemist, stepped through with an armful of flasks and gauze. Ducking under his arm, of course, was Varric.

“What’d you do this time, Hawke?” Varric asked, a beam of a grin on his lips as he strode inside and planted himself in front of the bed. He saw the arrow, knelt down to study it. “Ooh,” he muttered, following with a low whistle. “That’s a barbed broadhead. Gonna take some time to get out.”

Adan pushed past him, mumbling something under his breath about his job description.

Fenris turned back to Hawke. “Lay back,” he said. To Varric, “Hold her leg up.”

“You got it.”

Hawke bit back a groan as she slowly lowered herself down on the bed, her leg awkwardly propped in the air. Fenris found one of Hawke’s belts discarded on the floor. He picked it up and wound it around her leg, just above the arrow, and lightly tightened it. Hawke hissed, even as she waved away his concerns.

“Tell me about these other incidents,” Fenris said, drawing her gaze to him. Adan deposited his tools on the bedside table, murmuring to himself things Fenris didn’t bother to decipher. “How old were you the first time you were shot?”

Hawke puffed her cheeks. Perhaps it was counterintuitive to talk about prior injuries, but she exhaled slowly. “Fifteen,” she replied, voice strained. “No—sixteen? Around there.”

Adan approached, a pair of pliers and a hedge trimmer in hand. Hawke swallowed.

“Hold her still,” Adan instructed.

Fenris climbed onto the bed, careful not to jostle her. One hand, he rested on her shoulder, firm and gentle. The other gripped her hand, thumb drawing circles across her skin.

“How did it happen?” Fenris asked her. “Not this current one—when you were fifteen.”

A moment passed before she wrenched her gaze from what the alchemist was doing.

“Target practice,” Hawke answered. She turned her head until she could stubbornly stare at Bean, who kept licking the wet patch of fabric on her breeches. “I goaded Carver into a bet. Said his aim was worse with a bow than his—well, when he pissed.”

“So he shot you.”

“No on purpose. He was aiming for a tree.” She grit her teeth when Adan pinched the arrow between his fingers. “I wasn’t even that closeto it.” Air rushed through her nose. “Proved my point though.”

Adan lined the hedge trimmer with the arrow. A sharp crack, quickly followed by a yelp and a colorful string of curses, and the top half of the arrow fell into Varric’s waiting hands.

Adan adjusted Hawke’s leg, pushing it towards her chest for a better angle. “And now for the fun part,” he muttered.

Hawke croaked out a laugh. “If this is fun for you, you should look into some of the Qunari—er—intercourse rituals. Much more than your average bondage.”

“I do not recall telling you that,” Fenris said.

“Overheard some of the Stens back in Kirkwall,” she replied, looking away as Varric and Fenris gently braced her leg. “They gossip more than a Chantry Sister.”

Varric laughed. “You and Isabela spied on them?”

“Eavesdropping and spying are two separate things—”

Conversation quickly ceased when Adan started slipping the rest of the arrow through the back of her thigh. The beginning of a scream fell from Hawke’s mouth, but she clenched her teeth together to bite it back. Her fingers bunched into the blankets around her. Bean whined.

A long moment later, the arrow was freed, and Fenris covered the wounds with clean rags and pressed down on each side while Varric started wrapping the bandages around.

Hawke’s chest heaved, but she managed to grit out a remark. “We may have to delay the trip,” she said. “Maybe by a few hours.”

Fenris gave her a flat look. “You are not going to the Hinterlands.”

“Of course I am,” she replied, peeling her eyes open to glare at him. “I can’t just stay here with this lot.”

Adan looked up from his work of cleaning the pieces of the arrow. “And which lot is that?” he asked, deadpan.

“Oh hush, you like people even less than I do.”

Varric tied the bandages in a simple knot to hold them in place. “I think the elf is right,” he said. “Only a proper mage healer could get you in top shape in time. And we’re lacking in that field.” He gave Hawke a sly grin. “Looks like you’re stuck with normal, non-magical mending.”

Hawke huffed and let her head fall back onto the mattress. Bean took that as a sign to start licking her face, which she didn’t bother protesting.

Then, the door opened, and in walked Cassandra.

Hawke groaned, loud enough to be pointed. “And my day was going so well.”

Cassandra ignored her as she approached the bed, taking in Hawke’s state with a frown. “What happened?” she asked.

Before anyone could answer, Hawke raised her hand, holding it above her head.

“Soldier boy was snogging on duty!” she blurted out, as though she were a tattling child. “Didn’t think he’d get caught, but he did!”

Pendrick spluttered, cheeks reddening when Cassandra looked his way. “I-I wasn’t—!” he tried. “I wasn’t on duty, I have the dawn watch!”

“Ah-hah!” Hawke pointed a finger at him. “So you admit to your snoggery!”

Cassandra made a noise mixed of frustration and disgust, somewhere in the back of her throat.

Fenris took pity. “Hawke went to retrieve our supplies,” he said, looking up from where he knelt on the bed. “She was attacked. Ser Pendrick suggested it was bandits.”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes and turned to Hawke. “What did they look like?” she asked.

“If I’d seen them,” Hawke replied with a snort. “I doubt I would’ve been shot—oh blast it woman!” she yelped as Cassandra took the injured leg in her hands, peering at the bandages that slowly soaked in blood.

“Just the one archer?” Cassandra asked. “Did they use poison?”

“They were behind me,” Hawke bit out. “But I was blessed to have only been shot once, now please put my leg down.”

“If there was poison, we’d already be seeing some the effects,” Adan spoke up from the corner he’d taken up. “None so far.”

Varric picked up the broken piece of arrow with the head and held it up to Cassandra.

“Recognize it?” he asked.

Cassandra took it from him, gently setting Hawke’s leg down. Hawke let out a breath.

After a quiet moment of studying the arrowhead, turning it this way and that, Cassandra answered, “I do. But Leliana will know more.”

Varric nodded. “As far as I know, there’s only a few blacksmiths this far south that make these,” he said. “Lady Nightingale can track it from there.”

Cassandra made an affirmative noise and looked back to Hawke. “You will stay here to heal,” she told Hawke. “Since we do not know if this was random or targeted, you’ll be assigned a guard until we return. In the meantime, we’ll send a few scouts to search for the bandits.”

Hawke rolled her eyes. “A guard? Can’t I just, I dunno, hitch a wagon to ride with you?”

“No.”

Fenris, quietly, was glad for the suggestion of a guard. Even if Cassandra hadn’t mentioned it, he certainly would have, regardless of Hawke’s protests. As Hawke argued more with Cassandra, Fenris leaned back until he rested against the wall. His markings pinched again.

This meant he’d have to negotiate for the Inquisition without Hawke, a prospect that only sparked dread in him. Her experience from Kirkwall couldn’t possibly be priced, from her gophering between the Viscount and the Arishok to her butting heads against Meredith. And though she possessed a tongue fouler than most, she had a knack for sweet talking nearly anyone she met.

But, then, perhaps it was safer for her in Haven.

Fenris closed his eyes. The journey would take up to a week, perhaps more. It would be the longest he spent without Hawke at his side in years.

Bean whined, echoing his thoughts.

“—alright, that’s it, crippled and in pain here,” Hawke snapped, waving her arm at the room. “Shoo!”

Cassandra narrowed her eyes, but turned to Fenris and Varric. “Be ready to leave in three hours,” she told them promptly. “Pack light.” And with that, she swept out of the room, the arrowhead still grasped in her hands.

A sigh fell from Fenris’ lips as their cabin emptied of everyone save for Varric, who gave Hawke a smile.

“Seeker will want some written reports about this,” he told her. “Think you can manage?”

Hawke sent him a baleful look. “It’s not like I’ll be doing anything for the foreseeable future. I’m going to need ample amounts of elfroot though.”

“Done. Adan said he was about to restock, I’ll go see if he can brew up a tonic or two.” Varric turned to leave, but paused to look at Fenris.

The door clicked shut behind him, and they were left with only the sound of a crackling fire. Sunlight poured in through the window, making short of the noon shadows. Fenris turned to look at Hawke, who had curled on her good side to stare at the wall. Her mouth pressed into a thin line and her shoulders were stiff. Some of it could be attributed to pain, but rest…

Fenris gently laid his hand on her ankle. She didn’t respond, only closing her eyes. Still, her body relaxed, just a little.

An hour before Fenris was supposed to leave, he found himself with Hawke’s legs propped up in his lap while Bean pressed into Hawke’s side. Comfortable and quiet. She’d finally allowed herself to take the elfroot, and the stiffness from before had disappeared. Now she lightly dozed, her soft breaths soothing Fenris. A few locks of her hair fell into her face when she turned her head in her sleep. He soaked up every bit of it to save for the trip.

His markings, he’d noted, had quieted for a time, making him think that perhaps he just needed to relax. Even before the new mark, the lyrium in his marking had always been agitated by stress. Hawke could vouch, having witnessed the worst of his behavior aligning with the events surrounding it—Hadrianna came to mind before he quickly banished the thought. If he could manage his own stress, would medicine be necessary?

The list from earlier sat crumpled in his pocket. He fished around for it, careful not to move Hawke’s legs.

Each item had been crossed off, all except for the one. Fenris glanced at Hawke’s injury.

He reached for a piece of charcoal sitting on the nearby table, and drew a line through elfroot. She’d need it more than he.

A rustling of sheets, and Fenris turned his head to see Hawke peering at him through lidded eyes.

“Got your list all done?” she asked, her voice rasped from sleep.

Fenris set aside the parchment. “All that’s left is to unpack what’s yours,” he replied.

She let her head fall back without a word. He knew the look on her face, the one that appeared neutral even as her lips turned downward. Words collected on her tongue, though she made no motion to speak them aloud. Likely the same ones he’d been thinking about as she’d slept.

He’d make a little easier for her, if he could.

“I will return,” he said, softly, running his hand across her uninjured leg. “The Hinterlands may be vast, but not far.”

“Far enough,” Hawke murmured. She shifted a little, finding a more comfortable position. “I was supposed to be there with you.”

Fenris hummed. “This will not be the only diplomatic quest we are sent on,” he said. “There will be more, if Lady Cassandra has anything to say about it.”

Hawke looked at him, an unreadable expression passing over her features. But then, it passed, and she smiled.

“Make sure you bring back a souvenir,” she told him. She reached for his hand. “It’s been a long time since I’ve seen that part of Ferelden.”

Fenris took her hand between both of his. “Of course.”

#fenris #fenris: herald of andraste #fenhawke #f!hawke #custom hawke #dragon age #dragon age 2 #dragon age: inquisition #it's a been a while bc i've been moving and that takes up a lot more time than one would exptect #but i finished a chapter!#go me!

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cloudgazercadash · 7 years ago

Text

the direct aftermath of this thread, after her conversation with ian thora seeks out solas.

Magic swells in the air, and in Ian’s wake the smell of ozone lingers. It stinks like the ground after a storm, and she can almost taste his anger he had kept in a tightly curled fist. Tears sting the corners of Thora’s eyes now that she is alone, which she swipes furiously from her eyes. In silence, she scolds herself, forbidding a single tear to run down her cheek. She stands rooted to the floor, afraid that if she were to go to her balcony she’d catch sight of a red wolf darting through Skyhold’s gates, and the emotions of the last few minutes would boil over in the worst possible way.

Ian had bid her rest, and for a moment she wants to listen, but she sees the red wolf again in her mind’s eye: fur haggard, feet bruised, canine teeth bared in frustration, and-- Solas.

Someone should tell him Ian had returned safely, and she doubts any guard that he passed on his way in or out would think to seek Solas out. She abandons her quarters, eager to allow time for the magic to dissipate. The Well’s voices swirl inside her head, whispering words in an ancient tongue she cannot yet comprehend, and won’t, not until the present is seen to.

When she comes upon the rotunda she finds it empty. Space has been cleared for a new mural, the scaffolding shifted so that he might reach, but the artist is nowhere to be found. She tries not to panic as she looks, bile rising in her throat she she fights off thoughts that she had driven them both off. The denizens of Skyhold hail her as she approaches, and all she can afford them is a brief, forced smile before she continues on her way.

She finds him at last by the healing tents (it should have been obvious, she thinks, with Ian so occupied by his own troubles). He kneels upon wet grass, sleeves pulled up to his elbows, one hand waving over an elven woman’s forehead. Her eyes are closed in fitful sleep, muttering words too quiet for Thora to hear. Magic glows in Solas’s palm, gentle, and the woman’s brow smooths, as though her nightmare had been replaced with a sweet dream. Solas’s expression changes, as well, a look of concentration melting into exhaustion.

Thora clears her throat as he straightens, and his head snaps in her direction. Despite his weariness he manages a smile. “I did not expect your company.”

“Yeah, uh, do you-- do you have a minute?” She casts a sideways look at the injured and wonders if it is selfish to ask, having no way of knowing who had yet to be tended to. “It can wait, this is more important.”

Solas nods, however. “Your timing is impeccable, I was about to rest a while, and allow my magic a chance to rejuvenate.” He turns to a washbasin and dips his arms in, elbow-deep. Blood seems to melt from his skin, water lifting the stains in the grooves of his palms. When he lifts them out his hands are steaming, and clean enough that the sleeves of his sweater can be puled back down over his forearms. She waits, shifting between her feet as Solas observes a ritual of his own. He reaches for a half-empty cup and tosses back its contents, face twisting as he swallows. “Eugh, cold tea,” he shivers. “Somehow it is worse than when it is warm.”

“Then why drink it?” Solas looks at her with a crestfallen expression, and it is only then she realises that had been meant for her amusement.

Still, it isn’t his nature to refuse a question. “That would be a waste,” he mutters. “And it stabilises my magic in a manner less forceful than lyrium, if given time.” He sets aside the now-empty cup, then gestures towards the stairs that lead up to the barracks. “I sense you would prefer privacy?” Solas pauses, awaiting the anticipated nod before they proceed.

She is silent during the ascent, her brain turning Ian’s words over in her head, wondering (panicking) about some elf a century from now telling the tale of Cadash the Crook, who had blundered into a temple and stolen history from the hands of the elves. Her stomach pinches, and her throat closes, and she chastises herself for being so selfish. For thinking first of how she will be perceived.

“Your steps are heavy,” Solas notes. “What’s on your mind, my friend?”

Thora smiles at the endearment, no matter how small it may be, but she dies quickly when she remembers what she found him to say. “I thought you should know: Ian returned, albeit briefly.” She glances up in time to catch the frown impressed into Solas’s features.

“I expected--” He stops himself. “I heard his howl not long ago, I had hoped it marked his return.” At the top of the steps he approaches the parapets, hands clasping behind his back. Perhaps this trick worded wonders amongst humans and fellow elves, but with his back to her his hands are not far below her eye level. It’s hard not to notice how his knuckles glow white when one hand squeezes the other. She hesitates, then reaches out to touch his wrist with her unmarked hand. A smile curls the corner of his lips, but even from here she notices how it does not meet his eyes. For all the Inquisition’s observations of his dour nature, he wore his joy proudly. His genuine smiles are always unguarded. “Do you know why he is not here to tell me this himself?”

Their reunions had always been almost sickeningly sweet, enough to make Cadri gag when she witnessed them. She smiles as she remembers the first time she saw Ian launch himself at Solas upon their return (and how Solas had caught him every time since the first time), but again the smile is brief, fading before she responds. “He came to me. To talk about what happened in the Temple of Mythal. About the Well.” Thora winces at the mere mention, anticipating another reproach. For now, however, Solas holds his tongue, though she notes how one hand briefly squeezes the other.

“I see,” he says, as if she had explained everything.

“He wasn’t happy.”

“I suspect not.”

Thora draws level with Solas, resting her elbow against the stone. Over the wall she spies another regiment of soldiers returning from the Wilds, bearing the telltale signs of a hard-fought battle. She breathes out heavy, and her breath rises before her eyes in a puff of vapor. “I’d never seen him so angry. I knew reversing the rite makes everything he feels more powerful, but-- I guess sometimes I forget it’s possible for him to even get angry.”

“I suspect this would have angered him, regardless, and rightly so.”

“You wanted to make him mad?”

“No, never,” he answers quickly, before she can accuse him of worse. “But his anger is preferable to the alternative.”

“I’d say so,” she says with a nod. “The voices are... well, sometimes they’re almost too much for me, and given everything he’s going through I don’t think he could take it.”

For a moment she receives no response. The wind that blows down from the Frostbacks chills her, and if she didn’t know better she’d say Solas summoned it. Suddenly he seems cold, the same frustration she had felt in Ian. Quieter, more restrained, but the same. “I disagree. No one present at that moment was more qualified than Ian, in heritage and in education, as well as fortitude.”

Her stomach drops, and all she can do is sputter for a minute before she finds words. “You said--”

“I said I did not want Ian to drink from the Well, not that preventing him from drinking was the right thing to do, nor even the best thing to do.” Thora’s mouth goes dry and she swallows hard (or tries to). A flicker of anger lights in her stomach, which she clenches to douse it. That spark will do nothing but burn if stoked here, and she still has enemies to use it on.

“Then why tell me to drink it?” she asks in a quiet voice.

“I did not say that, either,” he responds, voice dropping until it barely rises above the wind.

“Now you’re just being ridiculous,” she sighs. His lips curl, but this time it isn’t fondly. “Not me, not you, not Ian, not Morrigan.” Thora counts off on her fingers. “Who, then?”

“Preferably speaking? No one. The knowledge the Well holds is vast, but itis not worth the cost. Practically speaking...” Solas falters, failing to finish his own thought, allowing it to dangle endlessly until she gives up on hearing an answer.

“I don’t get it.” There’s a lot about this she doesn’t get, some of which she’s afraid to ask. “You always talk about history, remembering the past, what’s in this Well that you think deserves to be forgotten?” ‘And how do you know about it?’ is the question she desperately wants to ask, but she holds her tongue, fearing it will sound too much like an accusation.

“It is not about the knowledge, but the cost of said knowledge.” As he speaks his voice steadily rises, and she sees his hands tighten once more. “Did you hear what Abelas said? You are bound forever to the will of Mythal!” he snaps, his gentle melancholy gone in a flash.

“But--” Her stomach drops, feeling like she had been slapped. “I thought you didn’t believe in the Elvhen gods.” She remembers conversations held at her heel, the Seeker and the Apostate sharing words of faith. People, he had said. He believed in people. Those words had filled her with hope, and she wondered if it meant he believed in them.

“I do not believe they were gods, but-- I believe that they existed!” His confession falls like stones form his lips, and all she can do is stare open-mouthed, watching his brow come together. “Nor do I believe that anyone with such power over the hearts and souls of others could ever be wholly benevolent.” Hands unlink, and one runs over his head as if combing through a long-abandoned mane of hair. Solas moves from her side, pacing along the battlements and back again, only allowing her brief glimpses of his expression. His brows and lips twist into an ugly frown, but behind the frustration there is despair, and resignation. “You are Mythal’s creature, now-- it is done.” There is a finality to that sentence that traps air in Thora’s throat, and she forces herself to breath in through her nose, out through her mouth. In through her nose, out-- “Can you see why I did not want such a fate for you? For Ian?” he asks, turning on a naked heel to gesture emphatically in her direction.

Thora goes silent, sucking on her teeth. “I--” She wants to cry, and the lump in her throat swells until she swears she could choke to death on it. “I don’t-- I’ve never known anything about belonging to any god, good or bad.” For a moment it’s all she can think to say, and she feels stupid for saying it.

“Consider yourself blessed in that regard.”

His blunt reply almost inspires laughter, but all she can do is breathe. She thinks of the brand upon Ian’s forehead, and the scars she’s glimpsed on his wrists. She touches her own brand, her cheek hot beneath her fingers. “... You were trying to protect him.”

“A charitable reading of my motivations.” The fury melts from him, the rigidity in his shoulders slackening. “I fear I was merely protecting myself from the idea of anyone controlling him, and instead I became guilty of it myself.” Solas stops in his tracks, back turned to Thora. His face is hidden, but his head bows and she can imagine the look on his face.

She thinks of Ian’s accusation, of how he compared this sin to the undoing of the Rite of Tranquility. It draws goose pimples to the surface of her skin. She doesn’t speak it, instead passing it off as a sudden chill. “We both did what we thought was right. That’s all we can do. If it turns out we were wrong, we’ll figure out why, and do better next time.”

Solas turns, and for the first time since he’d said hello, his smile is genuine. The corners of his eyes wrinkle with age and gratitude, the sight of them bringing a grin to her face despite the lingering urge to sob. “Thank you, Thora. I shall remember those words of wisdom in the days to come.”

“It’s about time I taught you something.”

“You already have, more times than you could imagine. You are as much of an inspiration to myself as you are to the rest of the Inquisition.” His eyes return to the horizon as he speaks (away from her, thankfully, for she feels her whole face blushing from the compliment).

“Please,” she snorts. A lull follows, his words still mulling around in her head, digesting like a heavy meal. All this time she had assumed logic was paramount to Solas’s worldview, even during Ian’s Tranquility he had approached her with practical reasons as to why she ought to pursue a reversal. Love had never passed his lips, even if it had been on both their minds. She wonders if it has always been this way, if his heart has always led him, as it led her (as it led Ian). If that is what it takes for an elf to be listened to, in order to be taken seriously. Another wave of guilt passes over her as she remembers the anguish on Ian’s face as he tried to explain everything. She looks up, towards the mountains, foolishly hoping she might see a wolf ready to hear her apology.

Instead, she sees Solas swaying in her corner vision, looking as though she’s searching for the same. “I should thank you, as well. I feel like I’ve learned a lot, even if I”m leaving with more questions.”

He smirks half-heartedly. “I would have thought you accustomed to this by now.” Another silence passes between them. Down below the gates open to accept the newest soldiers back into Skyhold’s waiting arms. Among them, no doubt, will be inured soldiers, men, women, and others in need of Solas’s skills. Thora opens her mouth, ready to suggest this to Solas when he cuts in before her first syllable. “Allow me one last piece of advice?”

“Go ahead.”

“Before-- you said you did not believe in Ian’s capabilities to withstand the Well’s contents, and I disagreed. I would feel remiss if I did not offer this to you: few have ever believed in Ian, and thus few have seen what he is capable of. The Hero of Ferelden before you saw it, and he got them through the Blight.” Her heart breaks to think of her passing, the first hero Thora’s ever really had. To invoke her memory was manipulative, but it ensures she won’t forget his words any time soon. “My advice is simple: learn to believe in him, especially on days he cannot do so for himself. In time, you will com to regret every day you spent underestimating him.”

Solas moves from her side, placing his had upon her back in passing. “You have my gratitude for coming to me, it could not have been easy. Rest, please. The Inquisition shall have need of its Inquisitor soon enough.”

He leaves her alone on the battlements, her eyes fixed upon the horizon, waiting for Ian’s return.

#we all deserve a second chance ( solas )#( my writing )#v; once more unto the breach #what pride has wrought ( quest )#[ this is how i rp with myself i guess ]

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irlaimsaaralath · 7 years ago

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#12 for one word prompts! :)

The prompt was “seasons.” Thank you for prompting!

The spring equinox had only just passed, and the days had yet to lengthen into a balance of light and dark. Nights bore a lingering chill, while the first hints of green were sprouting from the waking earth and unfurling from their winter hiding places. Standing just outside the tent flap, Niyera hugged her cloak closer about her thin arms, and each breath curled tendrils of white along the edges of her hood before they disappeared into the air. She desperately wanted the chill to be gone, and she longed to run barefoot through sun-warmed grass.

A wedge of light fell across her back along with a push of heat, and her shadow stretched out before her, narrow and straight, as another larger rose to eclipse it. “Come, asha'lan. It is too chilly to linger outside,” the voice at her back said, and without glancing over her shoulder, she answered. “Mamae, when will it be warm again? I’m tired of being cooped up all day,” Niyera groused as she finally looked over her shoulder to her mother, who stood with a temperate smile on her lips. “Soon enough, da'lin. Don’t be so impatient. Everything comes in its own time,” her mother replied as she held open the tent flap. WIth a huff of discontent, the young girl ducked under her mother’s arm and disappeared inside.

Humid and hot, the setting of the sun had done nothing to lessen the intense heat of the day. The bonfires that dotted the open field did nothing for it either, though she was out of reach of their flames. Besides, she had kindled her own fire. A fierce spark of jealousy and anger burned in her chest, and it was more than enough to paint a swath of red across the bridge of her nose and her cheeks. Right down her neck the heavy flush went, disappearing beneath the neckline of her dark green linen blouse. Not that anyone could see it in the darkness, as she was sitting a goodly distance away from the celebrations, slouched in the grass. Staring at a pair of figures dancing around the nearest bonfire, she pinched off blade after blade of grass, twisting and grinding it between her fingers before throwing it to the ground.

So lost in her own dismal thoughts, she failed to see the figure skirting closer to her along the edge of the field. “Why are you hiding out here?” her mother’s voice came through the darkness, and though surprised, Niyera didn’t stir outwardly. She also didn’t speak, but instead ripped up a whole fistful of grass before tossing it down again. The elder elf regarded her daughter with bright viridian eyes from beneath a shock of black hair and silently sat in the grass at her side. Long moments passed, and the scent of broken green hung in the air. Finally, the adolescent Niyera spoke, and when she did, her mother could hear the tremor of tears in her voice though she couldn’t see them. “Why doesn’t he want to dance with me, Mamae?” The woman tucked a silky lock of white hair behind her daughter’s ear as she spoke, “Because you do not flatter him as she does. He doesn’t yet realize the value of a mate that will tell him what he needs to hear rather than what he wants to hear.” The younger elf glanced at her mother, and the elder brushed her tears away with a thumb. “Don’t waste your tears, da’lin. You deserve better than a match made on such tenuous foundations.”

A hollow rustling sound filled her ears as the Keeper spoke, but the words were swept away with the leaves as the wind bustled by them. “Are you listening, Niyera?” the elf’s stern voice snapped, dragging her from her reverie, and she turned her viridian eyes up to meet his. “Yes, you’re telling me you’re not willing to do anything for her. We haven’t exhausted all the options. The shems might-,” and the Keeper’s raised hand silenced her protests. Her jaw set as she ground her teeth together so hard that she heard them squeak. “That is not the case at all. You must trust me when I tell you that there is nothing more tha-,” and his voice drew off when she cut a vicious glare up at him before turning her back and retreating to her family’s tent. Once inside, she went immediately to her mother’s cot and knelt down beside it. Niyera took her mother’s hand in her own. “Mamae,” she whispered, and when the elder turned her head, she smiled at her daughter.

The young woman pressed her cheek against the back of her mother’s hand and refused to look away from the other’s eyes as she spoke. “The Keeper will not permit me to seek assistance elsewhere. He insists that there is nothing else to be found,” she said, her voice strained and careful with a mixture of sadness and anger. “If only I were older, if I were Keeper, I’d-,” and the touch of the elder’s fingers on her lips silenced her. Her mother smiled, as she always did, and said, “Do not wish your life away, da’lin. The years will come quickly enough and seem much too short when they’ve gone.” The woman, whose black hair was streaked now with white, coughed harshly, wincing before she settled again. “I am but a season, and like them, my time has come and passed. It’s the way of Nature.” Niyera closed her eyes when she kissed her mother’s knuckles and whispered, “Ar lath ma, Mamae.”

Standing atop Skyhold’s battlements, a fierce gust of wind raked across the mountains, stirring flakes of snow from their beds and tossing them into her hair and eyelashes. The last light of day was dwindling among the peaks of the range, splintering into shades of gold, pink, and crimson before being swallowed up by the encroaching indigo of nightfall. She sighed, her breath a fist of white on the air that died before it was fully formed. Her nose and cheeks were red with the touch of the wind, and she huddled down into her cloak, wrapping her arms about herself from beneath. Sometimes, she thought she heard her mother’s voice on the winds. In spring, when the first subtle breezes stirred the scents of green and growing things, she heard her say, “Don’t be impatient. All things in their own time.” In the summer, when the wind was a blessing amid the stifling and sweltering heat, she heard, “Build on solid foundations. Seek the spoils that are not easily won.” In autumn, as the leaves spiraled from their moorings in the trees to tumble along the ground, she heard, “Savor life. Do not wish yourself hurriedly through, but value all experiences for they are like seasons. They come, they pass, and then they come again. The same but different. This is the nature of things.”

From behind, a strong and lithe pair of arms encircled her waist, blanketing heat against her back. The scent of sandalwood and parchment came with the embrace, and Solas pressed a kiss into her hair before settling his chin on her shoulder. “You should come in, vhenan. It is far too cold for sunset watching this evening.” His voice was warm against her ear, and it sent a tenuous shiver through her. She smiled, resting her hands over his where they clasped on her hip. “Soon, I promise. Go on in. I’ll be there presently.” Her lover regarded her silently for a moment before he deposited another kiss on the crown of her head. “As you like, ma lath,” was his response, and he disappeared back inside. Solas often knew when not to press a matter, and thankfully, he judged this moment accurately. Though, in a way, she was certain he’d have understood, but all the same, she didn’t want to have to explain that she couldn’t come inside because she was listening. She didn’t want to seem mad. She took in a deep breath of the frigid air and held it, savoring the sting of it in her lungs before she exhaled. She closed her eyes, shutting out the gilding light of the fading day that cast golden shadows across the mountainside. And, she listened.

She heard it before she felt it; a howl of wind coursed through the snowy peaks surrounding Skyhold. The way it echoed back to itself sounded like a pack of wolves baying at the full moon. It was haunting and beautiful and chilling. When at last the gust reached her, she wasn’t prepared for it. It rocked her back on her heels as she nearly lost her balance, but a hand on the stone railing steadied her. She listened beyond the bluster of it in her ears, past the whistling, past the howl. Beneath it all, she heard what she’d been waiting for; her mother’s voice rang in her mind as clearly as if she were standing at her side. From beneath the lost years under which it had been buried, the memory surfaced. In the winter, her mother used to tell her, “Don’t go running off into the drifts. You never know how deep they might be. Before you know it, you’ll be in over your head.” Niyera, of course, always argued, but her mother persisted. “The winter is devious, da’lin. To look at, the snow is beauty and stillness, but once trapped, the ice lulls you and steals your will. In its cold arms, you will think yourself falling into a peaceful sleep, though it will be death that claims you. Beware, da’lin, of dangers that don pretty masks.”

At her back, a wedge of light fell across her, and she heard Solas’s voice. “Vhenan?” Opening her eyes, she tugged up the collar of her cloak and turned. “Coming, ma lath,” was her answer.

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auds-art · 7 years ago

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Elysian Dream: Ch 1. The Breaking of the Veil

When the Veil is broken--and not by Solas--merging two worlds, and Elandrine Lavellan is caught in the middle, how will she navigate the new life she is thrust into? How will Fen'Harel discover who is behind this unsettling magic, all while protecting Lavellan from malevolent forces and juggling his new identity as the god of the Underworld?

It was late, that much she knew. Deshanna would be expecting her, would have been expecting her hours ago. She could see the Keeper, her old hands time-worn but strong, brown fingers wrapped tightly around her staff as she sat by the fire, probably going between annoyance and worry, not allowing any of the clan to begin the spring celebration until she returned. Yet here she was—napping in a field.

Elandrine sat up slowly, sighing. She ran her hands over her face, and then looked up at the sky through a half-squinted eye. Growing close to dusk. She should have been back shortly after noon, returning with the batch of Arbor Blessing needed, and yet… she had seen the field filled so high with soft grass, swaying gently in the soft breeze, and had been overcome. If her exploration and journey with magic had taught her anything these last three decades, it was to listen to her intuition. Lately, she had been sleeping so much. She had been Fade-treading what must have been two-thirds of the day.

She couldn’t explain it. The Fade—well—it wasn’t exactly calling to her, per se, but it had been…coming closer. The walls of the Veil were slipping; she could feel it with every breath, with the wind in the trees, and the pollen in the air. She felt it as she did her daily ablutions in the wild river beside their current encampment. It made her drowsy, as if the Fade itself were beckoning.

The young elvhen woman shook her head to clear it. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if the fog was in her mind or surrounding her. She turned to her left, where she had laid her bundle of Arbor Blessing, but it was nowhere to be found. Frowning, she felt her spine prick with the first inkling that something was not as it should be. The air was cold, colder than it should have been. Yes, it was only the first day of spring—well, tonight would be—but it was positively frosty. Elandrine stood, really looking at the trees that loomed overhead, and loom they did. These were not her trees. These were not the woods she had roamed and loved these past three months since her clan had arrived near the Exalted Plains. They had come to bury an elder who had passed quietly in his sleep, but had stayed for trade and love of the land. These were not the trees she knew.

A low, rumbling growl made her turn sharply. A wolf, and not the faithful guardian that had adopted her clan, so to speak. Their guardian was a large black wolf, lavender eyes clear and bright and intelligent. Deshanna had known that wolf was a guardian the moment he had appeared. Her wise eyes, so deep and sagacious, had glimpsed the large quadruped one night outside camp, and had drawn Elandrine aside.

‘That is a Guardian,’ the Keeper had whispered, a knobby knuckle gesturing deep into the woods of the north. To Elandrine, he had looked simply like the largest wolf she had ever seen. It wasn’t until her elder and teacher had placed her wizened hands over her eyes, made her seek with her magic, that she had felt the difference. Power. Indescribable power. Elandrine had shaken her head, unable to believe.

‘But Keeper…they have not walked this plane for eons. Not since the Emerald Knights.’

Deashanna had winked then, never revealing all, the knowledge she held within. ‘That is the tale that is told. If our enemies do not know of our most trusted allies, if they are secret, are they not a stronger ally?’

And so she had learned, when she was very young, that myth was not always true, and that her people were kept in ignorance for their own safety. And the knowledge had troubled her, as it had Deshanna. She could see it weigh upon her Keeper, knowledge and secret and heartache. It was the price, Deshanna had said, the price a Keeper paid.

This was most decidedly not their Guardian. This wolf was slender, white and…not alone. Elandrine searched the grass around her for her staff, but it, too, was gone. Fenedhis. She jumped to her feet and stumbled. She was no longer wearing her wrappings and tough leather armor. She was dressed in, what appeared to be, a gauze dress that hung in loose, transparent drapes about herself.

Panic later, she thought as she spun, her arm arcing behind her and casting a blinding flash of light. Flowers sprung up around her, and the grass grew lush, gleaming in the coming twilight.

“Panic now!” she exclaimed, moving with blinding speed for the nearest tree. Though swift, she knew she could not outrun a pack of wolves. She could sense the hostility from them, could feel their anger. Something was not right; they were bespelled.

Elandrine lunged for the lowest branch, grabbed it, and hoisted herself up, trying to keep her skirts from getting in the way of her ascent. If pressed, a wolf could scale low branches of a tree. So, up she went, climbing higher and higher with trembling hands. Her stomach was clenched, making her feel ill—or was that magic she felt pouring all around her, soaking up the atmosphere like wine soaking a cloth until it overflowed, rivulets running and spilling everywhere. The Veil—she could not feel the Veil. It was as if magic were air. Suddenly, she was very aware that this was not her world. She was not meant to be here.

Holding in a sob, more of shock and fear than sorrow, Elandrine clutched to the smooth bark of the tree, watching the wolves prowl below. They growled, snarled, snapped at one another. They were very much cursed; Elandrine could feel it. There was madness upon them.

“—ersa!”

Elandrine grew still, hearing the woman’s deep voice. It sounded…it sounded so similar. “Careful!” she called back, her eyes bright in the growing darkness. “There are enchanted wolves!”

“Persa?” she heard the voice cry again. She could feel the magic approaching long before she could see the cloaked figure. Such magic! The cloak, for that was all she could see, was a deep green but seemed to emanate a golden glow. The figure thrust their hand forward, palm first, and a shock of energy shot outwards. The wolves howled, staggered, bayed once, and suddenly crumpled into dry wheat.

Elandrine felt relief wash over her. Another mage! Perhaps another Dalish—someone who could tell her what was going on.

Below, the figure looked up, their face cloaked in shadow. Upon seeing Elandrine, they sighed in relief, and threw back the hood of their cloak.

“Deshanna!” Elandrine cried, only to stop herself. No. This woman looked like Deshanna, but Deshanna from forty or fifty years prior—a Deshanna full of motherly youth.

“‘Deshanna?’” The woman queried, holding out a hand, indicating that Elandrine should come down. “You have never called me such. Is this a new way of speaking ‘mother?’”

“Mother…?” Elandrine said softly, climbing down with ease, her drapings no longer a hindrance.

“Demeter to some,” the lithe figure replied, standing taller than Deshanna had in decades. Elandrine accepted her proffered hand, helping her down. The elf shook her head, retracting her hand slowly.

“I don’t know a Demeter, but you look like my Deshanna.”

Demeter tilted her head, regarding Elandrine with a puzzled expression. “Persa, what are you on about? You don’t know your own mother?” The older woman reached out and, the way mothers do, put her hand against Elandrine’s forehead, determining her temperature. She shook her head once, and ran her fingers through her ‘daughter’s’ hair. “You are under some strange magic; I can feel it. A difference. It has been an uncommon day, Daughter. Come. Let us return home, and I shall endeavor to determine our little conundrum.”

Elandrine hesitated. She was alone in a strange world, without friend or weapon, and this woman looked like Deshanna and felt…well, trustworthy, she supposed. There was an aura of calm about her. Elandrine took a breath and took the hand that was being held out to her. Together, they walked through the growing twilight.

“What did you mean—”

“Hush, girl,” Demeter said gently. “I feel my brother is close, and I would rather avoid him, if possible.”

A bellowing laugh trumpeted from their left, some feet away. Demeter sighed, her shoulders visibly sagging, and she glanced over at a figure emerging from the shadows. He was tall, thick in the chest and arm, wearing similar robes to Elandrine, but shorter, stopping mid-thigh and crossing only over one portion of his chest. He had a beard that curled about his chin, with curls to match at his temples. His face, though clearly aged, was oddly youthful, save for the smile lines crinkling about his eyes.

“Zeus,” Demeter said blandly, not batting an eye.

“Demeter,” he rejoined merrily, his smile blindingly white in the coming dark. “And Persephone! How you’ve grown. Last I saw, you were barely able to meet my knee!”

Elandrine quietly stepped closer to Demeter, who in turn wrapped her arm around her shoulder.

“What do you want, brother-mine?”

Zeus, still smiling, somehow seemed less jovial. “Surely you felt it, sister-consort.”

Demeter heaved a sigh. “Do not call me your consort.” He held up his hands in apology, and she continued. “Yes, I felt it. That is why we are here and not home on Olympus. Persephone disappeared, and I had to find her.”

“My, my,” Zeus said, his eyes, at once the color of a storm and a cloudless sky, turning to bore into Elandrine. “And what was my daughter up to, I wonder?”

Demeter squeezing her hand was not the only sign to remain silent on the matter. The elf cleared her throat, and tried to seem as docile as possible. “I was…casting flowers for spring,” she said, remembering the flowers that had appeared behind her when she tried to cast magic.

“Ah!” Zeus said, slapping his hard stomach. “Yes, in the commotion, I almost forgot. Spring! No wonder you had slipped away.”

Demeter smiled at Elandrine, and she felt the knot in her stomach lessen slightly. What was she going to say to Demeter when they were alone? What was there to say? Hello, I’m from another world, I think, where I am an elf and you are an elf, and we live in a clan called Lavellan of the Dalish?

Yet, the more she wondered what to say, the harder it was to draw on her past. Demeter…Demeter had been important in the clan. Had she always been called Demeter, or was that new? And she was…who was she? First? What did that mean, again?

The ball that had formed in her stomach turned cold. It was slipping away, as if it had been a dream, yet she could—for the life of her—not remember anything from this world either. She felt…empty.

As if sensing her distress, Demeter cut Zeus off mid-sentence about the ever-sweet scent of flowers. “Brother, we are weary for our beds. Can we discuss this, and what it was that happened, tomorrow?”

Zeus let out his boom of a laugh, head thrown back, completely abandoned to the guffaw. “Yes! That is what I meant to say. I am meeting tomorrow with our other siblings to discuss that burst of magic I felt.”

“Like a wave,” Demeter said softly, “crashing over all and sundry.”

Zeus nodded, rubbing the back of his neck thoughtfully. “Yes, exactly what Poseidon said.” He paused, frowning slightly. “Have you seen Hades? I can’t find the bugger hiding any which way, neither in Hell nor Heaven.” When Demeter shook her head, he sighed. “Ah, tomorrow. We shall meet in our clearing—you remember the one, I trust,” he said, with a cheeky grin. Demeter colored slightly in the cheek and inclined her head once, not giving rise to his allusion to their past.

With another cackle, he was gone in a flash of violent light, leaving nothing but a scorched patch of earth where he stood. Demeter clucked her tongue in chastisement, and waved her hand. The grass grew where it had been scorched. Elandrine waved her own fingers at the spot, and a few flowers grew—daffodils, hyacinth and gladiolus. Demeter smiled at her daughter, and drew her under the shelter of her cloak.

When the older woman removed it, they were suddenly standing in a marble room, cheerfully lit by a roaring fire beneath a large mantle. There were two beds in the room, and between them was a window, curtained with sheer swathes of fabric, letting stars peek through as they billowed in the soft breeze, carrying with it the scent of honey and milk. Exhaustion hit Elandrine like a slap to the face. She almost didn’t notice Demeter leading her to one of the beds and helping her down.

“We’ll speak tomorrow,” Demeter said softly as she wrapped her tenderly in the silken sheets of the bed. Elandrine nodded, her eyelids so heavy she couldn’t keep them up. With a soft sigh, she drifted off immediately. Here, her dreams were hazy, a mix of fantasy and memory, swathed in cotton. A figure stood off to the side, always hidden, unseen, but there, in the corner of her eye. If she hadn’t known better, she might have said he was calling her. Just before she woke, she saw a pair of lavender eyes, deep set, heavy with years and years, yet youthful.

Her mother’s hand woke her, sweeping softly through her hair. They were no longer in the room with the fireplace, but in the clearing where she had awoken the day before, surrounded now by flowers of all varieties, sun warm on her skin. Her head was in Demeter’s lap, and her mother was gazing upon her fondly.

“Tell me Persa,” she said, her voice a murmur of warmth. “Tell me what happened yesterday and what you remember.”

“Less and less,” Elandrine said, not wanting to get up. She was safe here. She was comfortable. The scent of fresh bread surrounded her, reminding her of home. She trusted the woman who held her, knew she loved her dearly. “It’s all a blur now. But I know I am not from…here.”

“Olympus?”

“Yes,” Elandrine continued, “if that is where we are now. I remember…you were the head of our family, but you were older.”

“I grow older as the year turns, my love,” Demeter said, gentle still, her fingers still running through Elandrine’s hair so tenderly.

“Yes, but you were always older. I…I do not think I was your daughter, though you very much acted like a mother to me.”

“But here, you are my daughter.”

Elandrine nodded, gazing up at the woman with kind eyes, the face of a mother. “Here, I am. I can feel that. It has something to do with the magic that spilled.”

Demeter sighed, her expression becoming cloudy. “I thought as much. I wonder if it is a curse upon us. Yet, the air hums like magic as it never did before. Never have I felt this power, this raw energy. Not since…” She shook her head, not completing the thought.

“Not since when, Mother?”

Perhaps because of the moniker, or the innocence in her voice, Demeter was obliged to elaborate. “Not since the Titans. Not since Cronus walked the land, and Chaos was the rule, not Order as your father has created.”

“Chaos,” Elandrine said softly. The word was…familiar. Cronus. A figure flashed through her mind, looming and dreadful. Her grandfather, here anyway. A beautiful beast who ate his children and filled creation, his wife, Rhea, with dread.

The knowledge was unbidden and somewhat shocking. Elandrine gazed up at Demeter and shook her head. “This bodes ill.”

“Hush, child,” Demeter said, not unkindly. She was gazing ahead, alert. She motioned for the young woman to sit up, and so Elandrine did. The air fizzled with electricity, and like a shot of blinding light, there suddenly stood Zeus, smoke seeming to curl up from beneath his feet as if he had, yet again, scorched the earth. His figure was larger than life—he filled up the whole clearing with his energy, laughing, male, volatile, yet with a sense of order. He was not necessarily good, but he certainly wasn’t wicked or evil.

“Demeter! I see you have brought our lovely daughter.” He said it with a smile, but Elandrine could sense the warning—Demeter had not asked to bring her, and that was a disrespect.

“If you like, she may return home. We were simply waiting for you and the others to arrive, brother.”

Appeased at being asked, he shook his head. “Nay, let the girl stay. She is old enough, is she not?”

Before another word could be said, the earth began to tremble. There was a noise unlike any Elandrine had heard before, and the earth split tumultuously. A man emerged, looking very much like his brother, Zeus, yet…wilder. His beard was not as kempt. His eyes did not convey a sense of order and justice, but…there was a touch of beast there. Otherwise, he might have been Zeus’ twin. That was how she knew he was Zeus’ brother, Elandrine justified to herself.

“Poseidon!” Zeus clapped his brother’s forearm in a tight brace. “Right on time.”

“Where are the others?” he asked gruffly, his eyes flicking only briefly to Demeter and Elandrine.

“Coming; Hera is fetching Hestia.”

“Has fetched,” a calm, feminine voice corrected. Out stepped a woman more elegant that Elandrine thought a woman had a right to be. She was tall, statuesque, with silver hair and golden eyes that gleamed. Her robes were crimson and gold, and the diadem on her head was so familiar. With her was another, just as statuesque, but softer somehow. Quieter. The same energy did not radiate from Hestia as fiercely as it did from Hera.

“Wife!” Zeus cried, grinning. “Prompt as ever.”

“Husband,” Hera said, inclining her head. Was there warmth in the tone, or was that anger? Elandrine could not tell.

“Where is Hades?” Poseidon demanded, folding thick forearms across his chest impatiently.

“I’m here,” a voice said, and it shook Elandrine. It was deep, smooth, like music. She finally understood what others meant when they said a voice could be silk—for his was.

“And where have you been? I could not find you yesterday,” Poseidon complained.

The figure emerged from where he had been reclining, unseen, against a tree. He wore deep grey robes, and they seemed to whisper as he moved. His skin pale, but with a golden tone to it. His face was chiseled, handsome yet detached. He was gazing over at his brothers, and unlike those two, had no beard, no curls atop his head. There was something very otherworldly about him—and so familiar. She had seen those eyes before.

“I…was not myself yesterday. Forgive me, Dirtha—Poseidon.”

“Yes, about that,” Zeus said, gazing at the newest addition to the group. “You and your niece were both missing yesterday.”

“Persephone was just preparing for spring,” Demeter cut in, defending her daughter. Elandrine remained silent, somewhat stunned by the presence of whom she could only assume was Hades.

A shiver ran up Elandrine’s back, and she turned her gaze slowly back to Hades. He was staring at her now, fixated, his gaze boring and intense. She swallowed, her heart fluttering. This was…new.

“—the magic was sudden.”

“Was it the Titans?” Poseidon asked, his voice gruff.

Hera shook her head, gazing over at her husband. “Zeus and I both checked on their restraints yesterday. They were untouched.”

“Stronger, if anything,” Zeus added, rubbing his chin through his beard. “I thought it might have originated in the Underworld, but Hades can remember nothing.”

“Like me,” Elandrine said, frowning. She looked again to Hades, and he was still staring at her. She swallowed whatever words she had been about to say. How could she speak under such a penetrating gaze?

“And the animals,” Demeter said. “I found Persa surrounded by enchanted wolves. If they could not get to her soon, I believe they would have begun to tear themselves to pieces.”

“Wolves?” Hera asked, frowning. “Has Artemis mentioned anything else about more woodland creatures?”

Zeus shook his head. “No, but I could not call her back from her hunt. We shall ask her upon her return this eve.”

Hades shrunk back slightly, frowning. Elandrine noticed, but tried not to stare. He was intimidating. She did was almost afraid to draw his attention, even if she craved it.

“I have sent Apollo and Ersa out to seek its epicenter. Dionysus is meditating on the answer.”

“What of Hecate, brother?” Hestia asked softly, her voice gentle and kind.

“Hermes is seeking her,” Zeus supplied. “I could not summon her. It worries me.”

“We will find the answer, husband,” Hera said. Zeus looked to his consort and nodded, his gaze serious.

“Until then, I recommend none leave Olympus without my leave.” He paused, then smiled. “Except, of course, Hades. You have a job to do, brother. We mustn’t forget that.”

“As you always seek to remind me,” Hades said, though his voice was patient, unperturbed.

“What of Spring?” Demeter demanded, touching her daughter’s shoulder. Zeus sighed and threw his hands into the air.

“Spring must come, of course.” He snorted. “Return by dusk each day, daughter.”

Elandrine, realizing they were speaking of her, nodded. “I shall.”

The gods were disappearing one by one. Her mother stood, looking up to the sky, judging the time. Elandrine felt a prickle again, and glanced back at Hades. He was the last to leave, and even as he faded into the shadow that surrounded them, his eyes lingered on her. It made her…uncomfortable, but she wasn’t sure if it was such a bad feeling.

“Come,” Demeter said, extending her hand to her daughter. “We have a few hours for you to work, and much to do.”

Elandrine took her mother’s hand and stood, yet still, she could feel his eyes, watching.

#Dragon Age #Dragon Age fan fiction #Dragon Age Fanfic #DA Fanfic #Solavellan #AU #Greek mythology crossover #Rated M for possible sex in later chapters #I hope this readmore works

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trvelyans-archive · 5 years ago

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the distance traveled & that which has yet to be

a commission for the lovely @bluekaddis of their oc lizabeth trevelyan and cullen post-tresspasser !!! angst is my Jam and i was very excited to work on this piece (poor lizzie has been through the ringer) and i’m very pleased with out it turned out. thank you for trusting me with your gal !!! learning more about her was a delight and i hope you enjoy this sweet little moment between your babies <3

cullen/inquisitor, hurt/comfort, 2100 words.

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The Inquisitor’s quarters remain as they left them.

One of Lizzie’s first bows hangs on a plaque above the fireplace; a couple of her sketches sit dusty in ornate golden frames on her desk, on her bedside tables. It’s just as drafty and cold as Cullen remembers. It’s just as safe.

Yet he hurries to shut the balcony doors anyway while Lizzie sets down their bags on the bed, the mattress protesting loudly as she sits down next to them. When he’s sure the doors are pulled shut, enough that they won’t be thrown open in the wind like they have been in the past, he turns around, wiping his hands on the front of his pants, and smiles at her.

“It’s good to be back, isn’t it?” he says softly as he wanders towards her, late night sun slanting across the stone floor in muted orange stripes. “I was sorely missing our usual daily routine while we were in Orlais…”

Lizzie nods and smiles but says nothing further, brushing her fingers wistfully over her arm. She’s pulled at the knot so that her sleeve hangs limp and open, now, and Cullen still isn’t used to the way that one of her beautiful archer’s hands is missing as she does so.

He loves her no less without it. The Anchor was causing her so much pain and grief at the end that he’s glad it’s gone – it was killing her, after all, but that was obvious to anyone who had looked or spent a few minutes in her presence when it was lashing out. He’s not glad how much grief it causes her still, though. He hates it.

He wants to say something, but he doesn’t know what to say anymore. He’s told her over and over again that she’s strong, that she’s still whole, that she’s still beautiful, and yet, no matter how many times he says it, no matter how tearful he is when he does, she doesn’t believe him.

He loves her just the same and she thinks that he shouldn’t.

She remains silent, and, not knowing what else to say, he suggests they dress for bed. It will be nightfall soon enough, and Lizzie’s been falling asleep earlier and earlier every day since the events of the Winter Council to the point he’s worried sometimes that she’s going to turn in for bed in the middle of the afternoon. Thankfully, she agrees, hastily removing clothes from her pack until she reaches her nightgown and disappearing into her washing room to change. Cullen sighs, stripping down until he’s left in nothing more than a pair of thin brown pants and a white shirt, and waits on the bed for her return.

She climbs beneath the covers as soon as she emerges, and he moves to follow. “Harritt is close to finishing up your new sword, last I heard from him,” Cullen says hesitantly, standing up and moving around to his side of the bed, crawling in after. “I was sure to tell him to make it lightweight so it won’t give you any trouble.”

“Thank you,” she whispers, leaning back against the headboard.

Cullen clears his throat. “Would you still like to learn?” he asks quietly. “If not, I can –“

“Yes,” she says. “I still want to learn.”

“You will,” he replies softly, leaning over to press a kiss to her forehead and then deciding against it. “Thankfully, you’ll have a great teacher. Cassandra’s very excited –“

She turns her head to stare at him incredulously, the ghost of a smile on her face.

“I’m kidding, pup,” he laughs under his breath, shuffling closer and wrapping his arm around her waist, loosely enough that she can move if she wants to. “I’ve been looking forward to this, believe it or not. It’ll be fun, just the two of us. And I will be a good teacher, I promise. Don’t let Cassandra tell you otherwise. You’re not one of my recruits, and I’m not going to treat you like one. Okay?”

“Okay,” she murmurs, and the small smile she had vanishes, no trace of it left behind.

He doesn’t know what to do anymore. He’s tired of this. That sounds selfish and yet he doesn’t stop himself from feeling it anyway. He loves her. He’s always loved her. Why won’t she believe him? She was like this before, and he allowed her to be, he accepted her to be – they’ve both been through enough things in the past to warrant discretion, even on his behalf. But they moved past that. This doesn’t change anything. Why does she think it does?

But she’s settled against the welcoming curve of his arm and that’s something, at least. He moves even closer, his other hand daring beneath the covers to rest on her thigh.

“You’re not hungry?” he asks. “It’s not too late to ask the maid if she’ll bring something to eat –“

“I’m fine,” Lizzie answers, her eyes distant.

Cullen sighs and knows she doesn’t hear it. He tentatively moves the hand around her waist further until it’s splayed open on her stomach, and he feels her stiffen but not move away. That makes him smile. Maybe tonight, in a familiar place, in a familiar position, he’ll bend the rules a little and get away with it. Maybe she’ll move ahead in her healing process.

He just wants to hug her.

Lightly, his fingertips follow the slope of her stomach, from below her bellybutton to the tightest point of her abdomen. She doesn’t stop him, but he can see her curling the sheets of the bed with a white-knuckled grip. He lowers his chin to her shoulder and tilts his forehead against her temple, breathing softly against her neck in an effort to comfort her, a way to tell her ‘I love you’ without her being able to deny it.

He moves over the fabric between her breasts and she gasps, suddenly, pushing him away.

He’s seen the wounds that the anchor left behind a few times, all when the healers were first working on her at the Winter Palace. She hasn’t let him see them since. He thought they had healed, now, scarred over – he didn’t know they still hurt.

“Are you okay?” he breathes as she pulls away from him.

“Yes, yes, I’m fine,” she replies, reaching up to brush some hair behind her ear, but it’s been recently shortened in a way she’s not used to so it falls back in front of her face immediately, obscuring her from view as her eyes begin flitting across the room and never coming to rest on his face, which is screwed up with worry and red with embarrassment.

“Was it painful? I-I can fetch a salve of some kind -”

“No,” she says. “No, it was fine.”

“Lizzie,” he murmurs.

“I’m just tired,” she says with a forced smile. “We should go to bed.”

“Lizzie.”

His voice cracks and he didn’t mean for it to, but he can’t help it. “Please, talk to me,” he says, shifting so he’s sitting in front of her, holding his hand open on the bed in case she wants to take it. “I love you. Tell me what’s wrong.”

“You don’t want to know –“

“Yes, I do!” He leans closer, dropping his voice to a whisper. “I love you more than anything, but I don’t know how to love you the way you want me to. In fact, I don’t know if you want me to love you at all.”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“Why?”

“Because!” The word comes out on a croak and tears begin to well in her eyes before she even takes another breath. “I’m… I don’t deserve it.”

“Why not?” he asks.

“Because I’m a fool!” she says. “I… I tricked everyone in the Inquisition to follow me under Solas’ guidance! Where are we now, Cullen? A castle he showed me! And I let him go! And I… I…”

She struggles to swallow amidst the heavy flow of tears.

“I let everyone down,” she breathes. “I let you down.”

“Lizzie –“

“And you don’t want to touch me, Cullen, or be married to me, or see me,” she continues. “You don’t want to see my scars or my arm or my…”

He moves closer. “Lizzie –“

“I’m useless,” she interrupts. “I’m bloody useless. I’m nothing.”

After that, he can’t manage to say anything else. If he does, he’ll start crying, and that will get them nowhere. For a long, long moment, he watches her face and thinks – he strategizes. As a Commander, sometimes that can be what he does best.

She thinks she’s useless, that she’s a failure, but she isn’t. There are so many people all over Ferelden who have been aided by the Inquisition under her orders; she helped rebuild the Templars and gave them a future under a more peaceful rule. She is kind to everyone she meets, more forgiving than some people deserve. She’ll risk her life for the people she loves – her journey through the Eluvians proved that much.

He loves her so much, and he would not have waited by her bedside for three days and three nights until she woke up after her confrontation with Solas, after her ‘failure’, if he didn’t.

He tells her these, slowly, one by one, ensuring she can understand it every time. She lets him take her hand and hold it to his lips, gracing her knuckles with the softest kisses he can manage, the only ones he thinks she’ll allow. The sun disappears beneath the mountains eventually, replaced with a sky full of twinkling stars and a shining silver moon, and he continues, naming the things he loves about her until he runs out breath, and the only reason he does is because she kisses him.

It’s the first time she’s really kissed him since he let her go through the Eluvian. He’s kissed her since, but she hasn’t kissed him first. This time she does. This time she lets it linger.

He leans forward to cup her face, savouring the taste of her lips against his, the tenderness she touches his mouth with. She wraps her arm around his neck and draws her against him, and only when he’s firmly pressed against her does he let his hand fall down towards her breasts again, to the ties in the middle of her shirt that he grabs the end of between his thumb and his forefinger.

“Can I?” he asks as he draws away from her, looking at her in question.

She nods, and his heart soars.

He tugs the string and her collar falls open, revealing spindly webs of dark green scarring, the kind on someone’s skin after they’re struck by lightning. He grits his teeth and closes his mouth so she doesn’t see and so she doesn’t think it’s about her. It’s not about her. It’s about everything that’s hurt her and everything that will. She wouldn’t believe that.

Determined, he grazes his fingertips over the scarring and the soft skin of her breast, soft despite the jagged lines cut through it. With his other hand he pushes her sleeves down her arm, revealing her whole chest to him, painted navy blue in the darkness, the rise and fall of her chest like the gentle ebb and flow of ocean waves on a quiet night, an unusual sight after a month of storms. When he glances up at her face, she’s watching him with rapt attention, and still she doesn’t push him away.

Progress.

He sits up until he can crawl closer, his knees on either side of her legs as he bows his head to brush his mouth over the scars. She winds her arm further around his shoulders and draws him closer until he scarcely has enough room for air but he’s not complaining, really, when she’s the one who spent a month drowning in silence and he’s only now helping her start to float again. He can feel her tears dripping onto his head as he works his way down her body, and it makes him falter.

Her heart is beating madly in her chest and he rests his forehead against it.

“Maker,” he whispers hoarsely, barely managing to hold back tears, “I’ve missed you.”

“I’ve missed you, too,” she says, and he can hear the smile in her voice this time. When he raises his head to kiss her again, it’s still there. It stays throughout the kiss and long after it’s over.

It’s good to be home, even if home is a little different now. It’s still home, and she’s still here, and he still loves her, and it feels like she’s beginning to remember that.

#wow. they're so cute and lizzie's in game model is so pretty we stan #cullen x inquisitor #cullen x trevelyan #my writing #my commissions #me handshake emoji lizzie #being very insecure #she's cute and she's an angel and i love her

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dinoswrites · 8 years ago

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Black Coral Chapter 18: In Search of Wisdom

Solavellan, Mermaid AU. Ongoing.

Masterpost | Read from Chapter One | Read on A03

Content warning for violence, character death

Aevalle is telling the story again, but it’s at a different campfire this time.

More familiar, though—it’s one of Clan Lavellan’s preferred beaches to rest for the night. There are tall cedars blocking the night sky at her back, the landscape of a wide cove she knows like the back of her hand spread out before her. Lit by a waning moon, the backs of halla bobbing in the waves, shining like so many stars on the dark, dark ocean.

Her clan does not surround her, however. The Inquisition does.

Cassandra is leaning forward, watching with wide eyes and paying fierce attention to every movement of Aevalle’s hands, listening to every word Varric says.

“You are needlessly embellishing, dwarf,” she accuses when Aevalle’s signs don’t perfectly match up with Varric’s interpretation.

“Let him have a little fun, Cassandra,” Bull says, gesturing toward Aevalle. “Besides, she’d tell him if it bothered her. Wouldn’t you, Boss?”

Before she can answer, Dorian interrupts again. “If I may,” he asks, tilting his head slightly, as if examining a strange puzzle, “you never answered my question. Why Wolf and not Shark?”

“It’s not right,” Cole says, distantly. “He called to them from the shore to they could stand tall. They all could—maybe they can, still.”

“Ugh,” Sera gripes, shifting further away from Cole. “Stop being weird!”

“A fine morality tale,” Vivienne says, sitting so tall and proper that Aevalle feels her back straighten to mimic her. “Though, I find it curious that the Dread Wolf is just giving it to her now. What are you implying, Miss Lavellan? I thought this was some great evil creature to the Dalish, yet you paint him in a surprisingly kind light.”

Varric touches her arm to draw her attention back to him, and back to the story. “How many evil eyes did he have, Drifter?” he whispers, all mischievous grin. “Let’s see how long it takes for Cassandra to scoff with disbelief.”

Solas is standing in the back, half obscured in shadow. Every glance she sends his way finds his expression utterly, totally inscrutable. His brows drawn, his lips tight.

He’s staring at her mouth. Just… staring.

Her throat burns, and she keeps telling the story—signing it, telling it, it’s all…

Her mother is nearby, at another campfire. A frown on her face as she signs, The Keeper will be furious if you tell it like that again, ma vhenan.

Aevalle’s father stands before her, a lopsided grin, his shoulders in an easy slouch. “I think it’s a better story,” he says, in that way that Aevalle knows means he’s trying to avoid the truth.

You can’t go around telling stories about the Dread Wolf falling in love, she chides. It’s ridiculous, and probably actually blasphemous. What will Aevalle think, growing up with that in her head?

Aevalle’s breath catches at the sight of her mother’s nickname for her being signed, after all this time.

Her father’s expression grows a little more serious then—though no less soft—and he reaches forward to cup his wife’s face in his hands. “Call me sentimental,” he says, softly, “but I believe a young, fierce Dalish woman once found a wretched scoundrel of a man and made a husband out of him.”

Aevalle’s mother scoffs, but without much strength. That’s different. You’re a person, not a story.

“And people make stories, my love,” he tells her, before bending down to kiss her.

Deshanna is at Aevalle’s back, leaning over her shoulder.

“Tell it like you should, da’len,” the Keeper reminds her. “None of your father’s… embellishments, if you please.”

Her hands stall. Varric is waiting, everyone is watching her—

Solas turns and walks away.

Wait, she wants to say. I’m sorry, it’s just a story. Come back.

Her mouth is moving, and her throat burns, and she can’t speak.

She wakes slowly, to the softness of furs, to the gentle push and pull of an aravel in the water, and the sound of someone else breathing beside her, his starched collar pressing against her skin.

It takes her a moment to take all the pieces—aravel, ocean, furs, Solas—and fit them together in a way that makes sense. She’s inclined, at first, to think she’s dreaming about this again, but there’s that collar pressing into her forehead where she’s tucked herself under his jaw, and her arm is a little tingly where it’s pinned against his chest.

Not to mention they’re both fully clothed. She likes to think her imagination is a little better than that.

She shifts a little so she can see him better, in the soft light of a grey, grey dawn rising somewhere behind them. She takes a moment to study the faint freckles that dust his cheekbones, the bridge of his nose—and her gaze drops down to his neck, still covered by the high collar of his shirt.

She wonders. All the things she has learned about him since he found her, and yet, this remains a puzzle to her.

She is so, so certain sometimes that he has the gift. That the way he knows the pull of the sea is because it calls to him like it does to her—that he has not told her because he knows that she knows, and it does not need to be spoken between them. But then she begins to doubt. He’s a tide mage, after all, and perhaps he feels it so strongly because the ocean is a part of his magic, and he’s allowed it to entwine with his spirit.

A dangerous thing, some say. But his powers have saved her a few too many times for her to be choosy about where they come from.

Last night, she had known. Had felt it like she could feel the call of the ocean, pulling at her even as she showed Melena how to resist its call. But this morning…

She knows that some with the gift, who are poorly taught to use it, cannot truly hide their nature. That sometimes, the flesh where the gills grow never becomes smooth again, after the first time. That they must hide it, or the humans see it and think of old stories…

His brows furrow a little as his eyes move under their lids, catching her attention. His arm tightens around her for a moment, just a little, and it’s enough to prompt her to curl up closer to him again, and tuck her face into his neck.

There are, she thinks with a sigh, too many mysteries with Solas to be fixated on one. So she lets her mind wander from the sea and its call, to his distress during the telling of the story, to the white bracelet with blue beads on her wrist, to kisses in dreams, and what considerations might mean.

A few hours later, Solas wakes with a start.

Aevalle has drifted off again, but when he launches himself upright she is immediately alert—especially since he nearly leaps clean out of the aravel in his panic, nearly overturning the craft as he stops himself, clinging to the rail.

She has to throw herself at the boat’s starboard side to compensate, and afterward shift her weight back and forth with the boat’s violent rocking—while Solas remains perfectly still, not facing her, every line of his body taut like a fiddle string.

While the little boat lurches, it doesn’t capsize. It settles, after a short time, and even the sound of the waves they have made lapping on the rock wall around them dies down after a time.

“Apologies,” he stammers into the silence. “I am—”

His breathing is rough, frantic. He is not facing her, so she cannot see his expression as his head drops, and he tries to steady himself. But she can see the muscles of his jaw working as he clenches it, and the sharp line his shoulders are making, stiff as a board.

“I need a moment,” he says, his voice low and unsteady. Sounding utterly unlike himself.

His hands are shaking, even though he’s clenching the rail with a white-knuckled grip. She draws closer to him, then, and reaches for him—her fingers ghosting over his fist, letting her touch ask for her. What can I do? What do you need?

As always with Solas, there’s that moment of hesitation. A moment of consideration, of turning over whatever’s stopping him, before he inevitably pulls away.

This time, however, he lets go of the rail and his fingers twine in hers—so, so gingerly. Trembling still—as if he is both too frightened to take comfort from her, and terrified that she will pull away.

He turns a little towards her, then, and she only gets a glimpse of his profile before he hesitates again. But it’s enough, and—oh, he looks so lost. Eyes wide, uncertainty and terror written all over his face.

She cannot stop herself, then, from embracing him. From pulling him into her arms, curling her fingers in the back of his shirt. He does not hesitate this time—he buries his face in her hair, and pulls her tighter to him still—clutching her close, keeping perfectly still as he breathes, just… breathes. For once, taking the comfort she offers him, as his heart thunders in his chest so hard she can feel it against hers.

At length, his breathing evens out. “I must collect my thoughts,” he says into her hair, with a much more even voice. “Would there be… tea, perhaps?”

After reluctantly untwining from Solas’s still firm grip, she makes a mental apology to Keeper Hawen while she rifles through his things. It takes her a few moments, a little digging around because whoever built Hawen’s aravel clearly liked to do things a little backwards from her clan, but she finds a box wrapped in oiled canvas that contains a small metal tea set, and a smaller wooden box filled with earthy-smelling leaves.

Solas fills it with water he’s pulled from the air, and heats it with a thought. He says nothing while the tea brews, his brow furrowed in thought, his mind far away from this little aravel, from this little cove.

They drink together in silence—he makes a face as he does, which she would probably find amusing if he weren’t so clearly upset. But he downs the whole cup in spite of his obvious distaste, as she sips hers, watches him and tries to figure out what he’s thinking.

He seems more himself when he finally puts his cup aside—unsettled, still, but not so obviously distraught.

“I need a favour,” he finally says.

Of course, she signs, once she’s put her cup down. Anything.

His mouth twists, but she can’t tell if he looks relieved or resigned.

Then he explains everything, in quiet tones and a voice that is... nearly himself. Unsteady, at times, and as he sits before her she can tell he would pace, if they were not in the aravel. He shifts his weight frequently, and he gestures more than usual.

His friend is a spirit of wisdom. One that has been trapped above the surface, forced into slavery against its will, and is unable to return to the ocean and the safety of the depths.

She can’t help but picture Cole when he says that. And her clan, and what was done to them at the end…

He is still telling her the story while she starts to rig the sail up—and he doesn’t pause once he sees what she’s doing, only gestures for her to sit down again as he guides the boat out of the little cove with currents shaped by his magic. He only lapses into silence when they round the corner to the camp, Keeper’s shape visible in the water below them, a few halla swimming eagerly around the boat, greeting its return to camp as if it were full of fish, and one might be thrown off the boat for them to fight over.

She leans over, running her hand across one’s back in apology. When she turns back, Solas is looking at her. Though his brows are furrowed she can’t quite read his expression; whatever they are, his thoughts are guarded, and he clenches his fists beside him.

She leans forward and takes one in her hand. She pries it open with soft, gentle touches, until their fingers are entwined again.

He leans toward her, a little—his grip tightening, as he does. He watches her eyes for a long, long moment, but she only smiles a little, and waits.

At length, he exhales, and his shoulders finally relax. “Thank you,” he says. “I… thank you.”

She inclines her head.

“There you are!”

Aevalle turns, her fingers slipping from Solas’s, to see Dorian standing on the shore, his arms crossed over his chest. He looks remarkably dishevelled, for Dorian—which means, specifically, that his shirt collar looks a little wrinkled and there is some sand on his shoes. Varric stands on one side, shaking his head with a self-satisfied smirk, while Bull is washing his face in the water a small distance away. Cole stands a little behind and to the side of Varric, wringing his hands.

“I would like to have a word with you about impromptu camping trips, my dear friend,” Dorian continues. “Specifically, places to sleep, or lack thereof. Just because you are fond of snoozing in a tiny rocking boat doesn’t mean that the rest of us are.”

The aravel draws close enough for him to read her expression, then, and he stops mid-lecture. “What’s happened?” he asks, glancing between her and Solas.

We have to go, she signs. Solas’s friend is in trouble.

She jumps out of the boat and starts to pull it to shore as Dorian squints at Solas.

“And how does he know this?” he asks.

“Weird tide mage shit,” Bull supplies, wading back to shore. “Probably. I’m not gonna think too hard on that one.”

“Friends?” Varric blurts, incredulously. “Chuckles?”

“He comes to me as though these Depths were just another sunlit sea to swim in search of wisdom,” Cole says. “But she is a storm now, rattling her own shutters as she screams.”

Solas glances at Cole with an expression that is… less guarded than usual.

Aevalle gestures to the aravel. We have to hurry, she tells them, there isn’t much time. We’ll explain on the way.

“Yeah, not sure I want to know,” Bull says as he climbs into the boat. “Just get me there and tell me who to start punching.”

Varric isn’t far behind him. “Please tell me we’re going somewhere with streets,” he pleads as he takes Bull’s hand and is helped into the boat. “And no sand.”

“Da’len?”

Keeper Hawen is approaching from the treeline, glancing between her and her friends climbing into the aravel with a concerned expression.

She tells the others she needs a moment, and then meets him halfway up the sand.

He peers over her shoulder. “The hospitality I offered was not for one night alone.”

It’s urgent, she tells him. I’m sorry.

He looks down at her for a long moment, his expression softening. “In truth, I was hoping I might convince you to stay,” he says, gently, “however…”

He lapses into silence, looking past her once again. Out to the sheltered cove, and the ocean lapping at the shore.

Before he speaks again, she hears someone shout, “Wait!” from somewhere behind him.

She leans around him to look, and sure enough there’s Loranil, racing down from the trees—a bag over his shoulder and a spear in hand.

“I’m coming with you,” he blurts, after skidding to a halt in the sand.

Hawen, for his part, only starts walking towards the aravel her friends have commandeered.

We’re not going directly back to Seahold, she tells him, once Dorian approaches her side to interpret. There’s someone who needs our help, first.

“And I would like details on that, sooner rather than later,” Dorian gripes, hardly even pausing as he switches from interpreting for Aevalle to lecturing her.

We’ll take you back to your aravel as soon as we can, she tells him, after giving Dorian a pointed look.

“No,” Loranil interrupts, somewhat red in the face. “Miss Lavellan, when I said I was coming with you, I meant—I meant that I would like to join the Inquisition. As a—um. As however you would have me.”

Dorian’s lip twitches, a sure sign that he’s trying to keep himself from laughing poor Loranil back to the treeline. Still, he manages to interpret for Aevalle with a relatively straight face. “She says that you don’t have to do that.”

“But—You have done too much for our clan for us to send you back alone. To—to a strange place! With—um.” He glances awkwardly at Dorian for a moment. “Well. These people are nice enough, but…”

“Nice enough, he says,” Dorian parrots with mock offense. “Clearly he hasn’t been paying attention.”

Isn’t it up to your Keeper? she asks.

Immediately after Dorian interprets her question, she hears Hawen’s voice from over her shoulder. “I have already given my blessing,” he says, and as she and Dorian turn the Keeper comes to stand before her. He is holding a long, old spear in one hand, and there is something smaller that she cannot see clenched in his other.

“Aevalle Lavellan,” he says, with a formality that makes her back and shoulders straighten automatically. “As thanks for travelling across the vast sea to act as teacher to the youth of our clan, I offer this spear.”

He holds it out for her to take—and as she reaches for it, she gets a better look at it, and hesitates.

It is well made, with a sturdy grip, and there are some traditional carvings near the end, interspersed with a few decorative pieces of halla horn that have been embedded in the wood. The head of the spear is the colour of sun-bleached bone, but with an edge sharper and straighter than any metal Aevalle’s ever seen. She knows without having to hold it that it is made from the bones of those long-extinct whales that wash to shore in some places that only a clan’s Craftsman would know.

Her mother used to take her along when she went looking for it, in the days before she grew ill. She remembers watching her mother work ironbone at dawn’s first light, when both her parents thought she was still asleep, or her mother’s hands carving some errant design at the grip of a spear or harpoon…

Much like the decoration on this one, in fact.

She stands there, dumbfounded, until Hawen presses the spear into her hand himself.

“It served me well, once,” he says, with such a gentleness to his voice she thinks she might start bawling on the spot. “Too fine a gift by far for a foolhardy young man, sent off to become First to a distant clan.”

I can’t take this, she should say. Knows it—but her hand hold a spear of her mother’s make, and she cannot refuse it now, even if she wanted to.

“I thought of sending it to you when I learned of her death, but… well. You were young, and I was not yet Keeper, to ask hunters to search for your clan in my place.”

As she stands there, dumbstruck, until Hawen takes her other hand and presses something small and rough into her palm. A piece of black coral, the length of her thumb. Uncarved, precisely as it was when it was taken from the ocean. It feels… heavier than she remembers, and somehow more delicate.

All she can do is stare down at it.

“It’s all I can spare,” he says. “We haven’t been able to harvest any in… some time. But I believe you have more need of it than us, da’len.”

There… there aren’t words. Even if she could speak them aloud, even if her hands weren’t full so she could sign them, she’s sure they don’t exist. So she throws her arms around him, instead—buries her face in the worn leather of his clothing and breathes, just breathes in the salt of the ocean, the musk of animal skin that’s been in the sun for years, and the faint aroma of herbs and smoke that she can trace back to her earliest memories.

It’s not as hard as she thinks it will be to pull away. To back up a step and thank Hawen, deeply and formally, for everything he has given her. Yes, it tugs at her—no, she doesn’t quite want to leave this clan behind, and the friendship they offer. Walking down to the shore, Dorian at one side and Loranil at the other, she finds that she feels a pull at her heart, not unlike the ever-present pull of the sea, but…

Then she looks back to Solas. And he is so clearly straining to keep the lines of his expression neutral, his impatience betrayed by the restlessness of his hands, that she finds her steps quick and eager as she moves from the shore to the aravel.

The sharp line of his shoulders only relaxes some when they stand on Keeper’s deck, the glow fading as the ship opens up for them to descend.

“Thank you,” he says, once again.

She smiles up at him, reassuringly.

Maybe it’s the swell of the sea beneath them, or the pull she feels between them, but she’s sure that he sways a little toward her, and she a little toward him in response—without realising it, as if it’s the most natural thing in the world, for her to comfort him when he’s hurting.

It lasts a moment, half a heartbeat, before there are heavy footfalls on the steps behind them, and Solas straightens once more, his steps taking him into the depths of the ship with a renewed sense of urgency.

The moment Solas emerges from the ship, he smells the smoke on the air.

He rushes to the Keeper’s rail, his heart in his throat, and scans the docks before them. The town in question—almost a city, he sees with a rising panic—is built on a steep incline that leads away from the sea, and it very nearly blocks out his view of the sky entirely. But distant panicked screams draw his gaze to the east, where he sees smoke rising in the distance.

The others are still rising from the depths of the ship. Distantly, he can hear Dorian complaining and Bull provoking him, but he hardly registers it over the roar of blood in his ears, the tremble of power rushing through him, waiting for him to summon it.

Aevalle stands at his side, following his gaze. She inhales, sharply—and that sound, of all things, is what brings him back to this moment, and he breathes almost as if he’s just broken the surface of the ocean.

“Follow me,” he says, swinging one leg over the rail.

She follows him through the streets of the city like a shadow—always at his side, even when the streets begin to grow crowded with people who have stopped as they walk, peering to Solas’s destination with confused expressions. It is early enough in the evening that the sun has not quite begun to set, but the sky to the east has darkened enough that people are beginning to notice the erratic blue light flickering in the distance.

No, he thinks, over and over. Not this, too.

It does not take long for the screams to grow closer, and for people to begin rushing through the streets in the opposite direction.

He cannot quite make out what any of them are saying—most of it is cries for Templars or soldiers, or the names of loved ones, or even just help in any form that will come—but all of it is terror, sheer terror, and Solas feels his heart thundering in his chest even as he tries to ignore it all, because surely, surely it’s not as bad as they think…

“Inquisition!” Bull bellows, when the panicked crowd grows dense enough to slow Solas’s passing. “Out of the way!”

He shouts it again, and again, as Solas and Aevalle press forward. Solas is sprinting now, his fingers twitching as he resists the urge to call upon the reservoir in him. The path is climbing higher, away from the ocean—and though his heart pounds, though his breaths grow quick, he tries to force his thoughts calm. Collected.

The further they are from the ocean, the more he will have to rely on what power he has already stored within him to help his friend. He cannot waste it all on rushing to them, when it is becoming clear that he might need all his strength once he arrives.

It takes precious time to fight their way through the panicked people rushing towards them—Bull’s bellowing helping to split the shoving, pushing crowd some—but all at once they stumble out of the town itself, passing under a stone archway, and out here there is enough space that Solas can see, down a little sloping hill and over what would normally be a peaceful field full of gently swaying tall grasses, the big top of a circus tent, surrounded by a number of smaller tents.

The big top is aflame—or very near to it. Smoke is pouring out the top, and Solas can make out the occasional flare of magical wards that have just been used up, popping one by one in the early evening sky. Punctuating each, there is a crackling blue light that flickers within the tent, lighting the top of it up like arc lightning across a storm-wracked sea.

He can make out a silhouette within the tent—tall, hulking, horns and broad fins with sharp points…

“No,” he says. He sways a little, at the sight of it—even though he had begun to suspect, he had still hoped… “No, no, no.”

Aevalle catches his arm. Her nails dig in just a little, just enough for him to feel it through his shirt.

It’s almost enough to draw his attention away from the horror unfolding before him—but then he spies a human man wearing tall hat and a gaudy coat with dramatic coattails, a and though it looks expensive and well-made, the bright red is so out of keeping with current fashions that the ensemble marks him as the ringleader for the circus.

He is making no move to help those frantically fleeing the circus—he is only waving his arms and shouting at those unlucky enough to be near him.

Somehow, Solas knows: this is the man ultimately responsible for chaining his friend.

Aevalle drops his arm as his feet carry him down the worn dirt road, and once again falls in step at his side.

“I’m ruined!” the man bemoans as they approach. “Utterly ruined! And you’re all fools if you think you’ll ever work again after this embarrassment! As far as I’m concerned you’re all complicit!”

Before Solas can bring himself to speak, the man notices them—or, perhaps more accurately, he notices the massive Qunari towering over their shoulders.

“And who the hell are you?” he snaps, casting a disdainful glance over them.

“We’re with the Inquisition,” Bull says, his voice deceptively measured and calm. “Mind explaining what the fuck happened here?”

The man gestures over his shoulder at the sparking tent. “I should think that obvious! There’s a demon laying waste to my circus!”

“You should start with how a demon got into your circus in the first place,” Dorian quips. “Did it apply as a contortionist, perhaps?”

The man bristles. “I’ll have you know I went through all the proper channels for a chantry sanctioned mage,” he snaps. “Went through all the paperwork, paid all the exorbitant fees, put up with Templar inspections—for all the good they did me! That minute I ask him to provide me with a demon bigger than a cat the man folds under the pressure!”

“Right,” Bull says. “Can we—speak to this mage? Maybe he could help us?”

“If you want to talk to his electrocuted corpse, be my guest. You might have to search a while, the monster ripped it to pieces and laughed while it set about destroying my circus!”

Solas’s nails dig into his palms. “Shut. Up.”

The man whips his gaze back to Solas and stares at him, incredulously, and is so shocked that for a moment he actually does.

Varric says, “Solas, any sign of your friend? We might not have long before that demon blows this place for good. With any luck it’ll take this asshole with it.”

“And just who the hell do you think you are? Do you know who I am?”

“At a guess?” Solas straightens, bringing his full height to bear on the man before him. “The man who tore my friend from its home and bound it to a form of terror beyond imagining—that in doing so you ruined your own livelihood is of no consequence to me, only some small measure of justice served too late.”

“What?” Bull asks.

“Oh, for—” Dorian lets out a series of curses Solas doesn’t understand. “Aevalle, you failed to mention that his friend was a gigantic pride demon.”

“A spirit of Wisdom,” Solas snarls, “that you have corrupted with your greed.”

He is about to round on the ringleader, when he catches the movement of Aevalle’s hands signing out of the corner of his eye. He misses what she signs, but not Dorian’s strangled noise of protest in response.

“Help it? I don’t—I don’t know how, Aevalle.”

Dorian! she signs, frantic.

Dorian exhales, sharply. He looks between her and Solas for a moment, before saying, “If the mage who summoned it is dead and it’s still… trapped here, then the mage must have used a vessel to bind it.”

“Then we destroy the vessel,” Solas says. “No vessel to bind it, no conflict with its nature, no demon.”

“Are you insane?” the ringleader steps forward, trying to intimidate Solas into backing down. Solas only has to stand a little taller, lean a little bit forward, and the man immediately steps back. “The only reason that demon hasn’t killed us all is because it’s bound to the inside of that tent—”

“Please don’t see me,” Cole whimpers. “It’s so heavy. Slipped under the back when no one was looking, just wanted to see the circus. But there’s so much smoke, and we can’t find the way…”

Solas listens, and—there is screaming coming from inside the big top. He looks again, and a flash of blue lighting within the tent illuminates smaller figures, some in movement, some hiding.

“Shit,” Varric says, “there’s still people in there.”

“I won’t be held responsible!” the ringleader protests. “I followed all—”

Aevalle punches the man right in the jaw with enough force to send him sprawling. She doesn’t even pause to watch him hit the ground—only turns around and starts signing, deliberately ignoring his stammering at her back.

We need to get to help those people and find that vessel.

“About time,” Bull says, drawing his sword and his pistol.

“A moment,” Dorian says, just before everyone springs to action. “I doubt the vessel is in the tent, or on the mage’s body, or the—or it would have already been destroyed.”

Varric curses. “Of course it’s not easy. Then where the hell is it?”

“With his belongings, presumably. Any mage could detect its presence, if close enough.”

“There.” Bull points behind the big top, where a number of smaller, rather ramshackle tents and wagons are clustered together. “That looks like employee housing, don’t you think?”

Aevalle starts signing, directing their attention back to her. Dorian, you take Varric and find that vessel. Once you do, destroy it.

Dorian glances once at Solas. He looks as if he is about to ask Aevalle if she’s certain, but one more look at her expression seems to change his mind. “Try not to get killed by a demon,” is what he says instead. “I hear it’s unpleasant.”

Hurry, she signs, before taking off for the big top at a run.

“Boss,” Bull calls, even as he falls into step behind her. “What the hell are we gonna do about the demon?”

“We are going to help it,” Solas answers back, in pace with Aevalle.

“And the other people inside,” Cole supplies.

“Yeah. And if the demon doesn’t want us to help…?”

Aevalle cannot answer until they stop, some number of paces away from the entrance flap to the tent. There is lightning sparking inside, and with every crackle Solas can make out some new, more horrifying part of the Pride demon’s outline—its jagged dorsal fins, the long claws on each arm, the sharp spines humming with energy all along its shoulders.

Once Dorian and Varric destroy the vessel, it will be fine, she signs. We’re going to go in quiet, and get those people out of there before they get hurt.

“Hurt worse,” Bull grumbles. But he puts away his saber and his pistol after Aevalle gives him a pointed look. “Alright, no hurting the demon. But I don’t think it’s going to just let us walk in there and start escorting people out.”

Leave that to me, she signs, before reaching for the spear at her back.

She slips through the tent flap, and one by one they follow her.

There are the crackle of spells for stability that hiss across Solas’s skin as they enter the tent—so strained that there’s a hum in the air as they struggle to keep the tent from catching flame or collapsing. Unfortunately there seems to have been no such precautions taken for the seating; the stands have all collapsed, rows of tiered benches crushed under the assault of a great fist or set aflame by magic. The carcass of some great animal Solas has seen only in dreams lies directly before them, blocking them from being seen by the monster that was once his friend.

Bull looks at the corpse of the animal with an expression that is mixed with pity and fear. That’s from Par Vollen, he signs, glancing towards the center of the ring. I’ve seen them trample people to death when spooked. If it could kill one of those…

There is the sudden thunder of large, large footsteps approaching, and Solas glances up to see great, flaring fins with pointed spines, each crackling with bright blue lightning.

Down, he signs, and everyone ducks, shifting as close as they can to the dead animal. Aevalle tucks herself neatly into the crook of its great leg, impossibly small next to its flat foot and large, widelarge nails.

They wait, no one moving a muscle, until they hear the steps of the Pride demon stalking to the other side of the ring.

Cole runs a hand over its grey, wrinkled skin, then plays with the tassles of the brightly coloured outfit the animal was wearing at the time of its death. “They made her stand on a ball, and used barbs and whips,” he whispers. “Lightning and a low, low laugh—this end was quick. It doesn’t hurt anymore.”

Focus, Cole, Aevalle signs, once she has set aside her spear. People need our help. Where are they?

He tilts his head, clearly thinking. Then he raises an arm and points, without looking, somewhere to their left.

“This way,” Cole whispers, before slipping away.

Aevalle gestures for Bull to follow next—and he hesitates a moment, glancing up as if he can peer over the animal’s carcass and see the demon lurking beyond. He lets out a frustrated breath through his nose, but turns and follows Cole without any further comment.

We need to help Wisdom, Solas signs, urgently, once Bull’s back is turned.

We will, Aevalle replies—the hard, determined look she’d given Bull softening as she looks up at Solas.

They hear a low growl, and the thunder of footsteps approaching them. Aevalle grabs Solas by the shirt and pulls him close with a strength that surprises him a little. He plants his hands on the flesh of the animal on either side of her, and cranes his head up—though all he can see is grey flesh, and failing wards sparking across the top of the tent.

When Pride stalks away, Solas realises that he is pressed impossibly close to Aevalle—her hand still clutching his vest, pinned between them. Her breath ghosting on his jaw, her eyelashes brushing against his skin, and her heart hammering against his chest.

Her hand, he notices, is shaking.

He slowly pulls back, and she lets out a relieved breath as she lets go of his shirt.

We have to wait for Dorian and Varric to find the vessel, she signs. Until then… just trust me. Please.

She’s right. He knows it, but still, he hesitates—looking up again, as if he might find some better plan, some glimpse of his friend left in the corruption of the Pride demon.

He knows, too, that spirits simply do not work that way.

He bites back a curse, takes Aevalle’s hand, and follows Bull.

They make their way, as quickly and quietly as they dare, through the shelter that has been provided by the collapse of the raised seating. He forces his gaze ahead, at the narrow path between the broken piles of wood and the sturdy canvas of the big top.

There is a fire burning inside, somewhere—he can’t see it, can scarcely glimpse any light from it, but there is the persistent smell of smoke, the taste of it clinging to his mouth, the feeling of it in his throat. Over that, a static in the air, the kind he felt once standing on an open plain, watching a storm roll in from the distance.

But the tremble of the broken slabs of wood around them is not from rolling black clouds on the horizon.

They catch up to Bull quickly, who is hampered by the breadth of his horns and his broad shoulders. Cole takes longer still to find—and every time they must pause as Bull contorts himself into progressively smaller and smaller spaces, Solas finds himself biting down on the urge to peer through the gaps in the planks of wood. As if in stalling, Dorian and Varric might succeed, and Solas will not have to look upon his friend in its state of torment.

When they find Cole, he is not alone.

There are two children, staring out of a cage of broken planks of wood and one body that Solas can see—trapped above them, pinned by heavy lumber, he sees only a back twisted at an impossible angle, and a string of fired clay beads that have been polished to imitate pearls.

Solas only sees them because of the shine of one child’s eyes in the low light—an elven boy who is wearing a fierce expression in a poor attempt to mask his terror. There is a dwarven girl next to him, a little further back, clutching what appears to be a rusty butterknife as she glances between Aevalle, Solas, and Bull uneasily.

Bull puts a finger to his lips, slowly.

They both look at Cole, as if asking a question, and the spirit nods slowly. He whispers something to them that Solas doesn’t hear, and then the girl gestures for them to come closer.

Aevalle is the only one small enough to climb into their unstable-looking shelter—her leather-bound feet stick out, and she is completely still for a few moments before she slips back out, her expression drawn and worried.

There’s one more, she signs. A vashoth girl. I think her leg’s broken, but worse, she’s holding up this whole thing with her back—if we move her, it’s all coming down.

That won’t be quiet, Bull signs back. He looks at the structure above them, where even now Solas can hear the whole thing creak and moan as pieces resettle—and underneath that, laboured breathing of someone young and exhausted.

I can hold it with magic, Solas tells them, but it might draw the attention of the demon.

“I can hide us,” Cole whispers, “if we’re very quiet. But… not for long.”

And I can carry her, Bull assures them, with a gentle smile at Cole. We can cut the tent, get out right here, before that thing gets us. Quick and easy.

Solas holds up a hand—partially to ask them to pause, and also to get a better feel for the wards woven into the tent’s material. He closes his eyes, feeling spells and runes trembling in the air around him.

The wards built into the tent are already at their limit, Solas signs. If we damage the tent, there will be nothing keeping the Pride demon to this place—or the whole thing from coming crashing down on us before we can make our escape.

Bull makes a face, opens his mouth, and closes it. Then he signs a few vulgarities Aevalle has taught them, but doesn’t look satisfied with their effect.

We need a distraction, he signs, finally. Can you make a fireworks show on the other side of the tent or something? Maybe an… illusion of that idiot ringmaster so the demon can strangle him. That would be funny.

Solas shakes his head, then turns to Aevalle—who is looking the other way, at a gap in the planks of wood that is just big enough for her to squeeze through.

He has been around her long enough to know precisely what stupid plan she has just come up with. He moves to grab her wrist, but she slips away the moment his fingers brush her skin.

She slips in between the gaps before either Bull or Solas can stop her—and she pauses, turns back to look at them just out of reach, with a determined expression.

Out of the corner of his eye, Solas can see Bull signing more obscenities, with a bit more frustration this time.

I won’t hurt it, she signs, looking directly at Solas. I promise. Get those kids safe.

Wait, he signs, but she has already turned—slipping her spear from her back in the same motion.

He watches as she slips out of hiding, and into a ring of sand and blood. There is only silence for a moment, a low rumble from the monster his friend has become as it notices her.

Aevalle spins her spear in one hand—effortless, the lines of her body as she simply shifts her weight full of grace and poise.

Then she moves out of sight, darting away from danger, as the thundering steps of what was once Wisdom pursues her.

He only catches a glimpse of it as it passes the gap, before he is forced to duck away and hide. Wide fins snapping open, lightning crackling along them, a twisted body that moves with a supernatural speed, belying its great bulk.

Quickly, Solas signs to Bull as he tears himself away, readying the spell.

Bull reaches in, turning sideways to accommodate his horns—he only half fits in, and Solas can see all his muscles straining as he reaches with one arm for the girl trapped within. When he has her, he gives a thumbs up with his other hand.

Solas ignores the snarling of the demon in the ring, the horrible laughter that is loud and low enough to make bones rattle—it has not caught her yet, it has not caught her yet—and he reaches inside, for the reservoir within.

It rushes forward, like a tide held at bay. Though he portions it, rations it, what he keeps back rails against his will, makes his skin tingle even as his hands move and he weaves power through the failing structure above them. Gentle currents move through the air, solidifying like ice as his fingers splay, and he focuses on the task at hand.

In one smooth motion, Bull yanks the girl out from under her wooden sanctuary. To her credit, she only gasps in pain—though she can’t be any older than sixteen—and she curls inwards as Bull lifts her in his arms.

The other children are close behind, looking only slightly less terrified.

Go, Solas mouths, as he holds the spell.

Bull and Cole move as quickly as they can, with Solas following slowly behind. Now he peers through the collapsed scaffolding every chance he gets—staring wide-eyed into the dust rising in the ring beyond, looking for any glimpse of Aevalle in the darkness beyond. All over there is the crackle of lightning, the movement of a great and horrifying thing that looks as if it was dragged from some unspeakable depth. He catches fleeting shadows of large, sharp-spined fins, horns that reach and curl, unnatural and uneven spines that protrude from every hard line of its twisted body.

Over and over, it laughs as it attacks, and growls in frustration as its quarry escapes its grasp.

Once they are far enough away, Solas lets the section he is holding up collapse. It nearly comes down on them still—Bull bites back a curse as a large plank nearly lands directly on his head—but it has the effect of giving the demon pause, and he hopes it gives Aevalle a moment’s reprieve.

Bull looks back long enough to stare at him, wide eyed and furious, as the planks above them shift, but ultimately hold.

Solas only motions him forward, and Bull obeys with a frustrated huff of breath.

Eventually, finally, they reach the entrance. Bull runs through without hesitating, the children with him. Solas, however, pauses.

At his back is the large animal carcass—and just beyond that Aevalle, fighting what remains of Wisdom.

“Tough talk, stand tall.” Cole is at Solas’s side, whispering so softly Solas can barely hear him over the sound of combat in the ring. “Though the teaching takes a toll, and she trembles.”

Solas frowns in confusion—not quite understanding Cole, for half a heartbeat.

But then he remembers Hawen’s words—a few days’ rest.

He curses—louder than he means to, a vulgar sign half-formed by his hands as he does. And then he turns on his heel.

“Help anyone else you can find,” Solas tells Cole—and then he is climbing the dead animal, grasping its garish outfit by the fistful and pulling himself up.

Once he stands atop the creature’s side, however, what he sees gives him pause.

“No,” he says, softly—even though he knew, he knew and still, seeing it before him…

The Pride demon towers in the centre of the ring—and in the dark, currents of electricity run up its body, illuminating in flashes its too-large grin with too many teeth, like and unlike a shark in too many ways, its broad shoulders littered with spines with no order or reason, its fins that stretch out, so it looks even bigger than its already massive frame.

Aevalle is standing on the balls of her feet, waiting for the demon to move first—and now that he is looking for it, he can see that the line of her shoulders is drooping, somewhat, with exhaustion. That her legs tremble as she holds her position, waiting, and her chest is heaving as she struggles to catch her breath.

She is exhausted. She is weak, and overtaxed, and without even considering it he brought her here—

Pride moves, then—lightning crackles from its fins to its hand, and it raises one arm with a speed that is shocking for its size. A whip shoots forth from its hand, darting to Aevalle as if she is a single mast at sea in a storm.

She does not quite move fast enough—but the attack crashes into a barrier, hastily raised, and disperses across it harmlessly.

The demon turns with a snarl, narrow eyes locking on Solas where he stands, hand thrown in Aevalle’s direction, fingers splayed wide.

He looks only at the demon, however—watching as its lips curl and it starts to laugh, low and rumbling, at how small he appears atop the creature’s corpse.

Then its spines begin to crackle with energy, and Solas calls on the well of power buried within.

A whip of energy hits the spot where he stood, but Solas is no longer there. With a surge of energy, he lets the momentum of power rushing through him carry him, frost dusting in the air where he passes through with unnatural speed.

He makes an attempt to freeze the demon’s feet in place—but it only snarls, breaks free, and advances on Solas with a raised fist.

Aevalle, unseen behind its left shoulder, darts in and thrusts the point of her spear into the demon’s knee.

The demon screams—and the sound makes Solas’s heart leap in his chest—but it becomes clear that the sound is more of surprise than pain. Her attack did little more than chip off a piece of the creature’s thick, scaled armor, and deflect its attention so Solas can slip out of its reach, unharmed.

As Aevalle darts out of the way, her steps falter in the uneven, bloodied earth at their feet—but the demon’s fist comes down on a barrier, the impact sending ripples across its surface, but leaving Aevalle unharmed.

When the Pride demon moves to strike her again, Solas gathers magic in his palm—and the air begins to curl in around the demon, closer and closer, pressing in with all the weight and force of the water in the ocean’s depths, as he attempts to constrict its movement and give Aevalle more time to get away.

Solas can feel the muscles in his arms straining as his mana flairs, as the demon snarls, even as it begins to curl in around itself, against its will. “Run!”

She only meets his gaze and shakes her head.

“Aevalle!” he calls again, frustrated—but then the demon laughs, low in its throat, and with a surge of power that bursts from all the spines along its back, it uncurls, throwing out its arms and breaking Solas’s hold.

The spell bursts outward—a wall of force that hits Solas and sends him tumbling through the air as if it were a wave. His back collides with something wooden and hard, and for a moment he is too stunned to move—stars swim in his vision, and his hands move to defend himself against a threat he is certain is barrelling towards him.

It does not come—instead, as Solas blinks to clear his vision, and over the high-pitched whine his ears pick up the sound of cracking wood, the grind of steel, and—far more alarming—the rush of flame.

That whine is not his ears ringing, he realises belatedly—it is the sound and sensation of too many magical wards failing, all at once.

He looks up just in time to make out the flare of magic at the top of the tent, the pale light of the last few wards bursting, some lines of lightning dying out and the canvas far above him finally catching flame.

Across the ring, Aevalle is scrambling to her feet, reaching for her spear—and the demon is stalking toward Solas, its unnatural teeth bared in a bizarre grin, electricity sparking in its spined fins once again, moving down to its hands as it walks with heavy steps, its gaze completely on Solas.

He readies a barrier, waiting as it raises its arms—

Just before it can unleash the spell, Aevalle leaps on its back, driving her spear between its shoulder blades and yanking down, hard.

“No!” Solas cries, just as the demon reels back, snarling—its intended attack redirected toward the top of the tent.

Electricity blasts through the broken seating at Solas’s back, sending pieces of wood and metal flying—Solas is forced to raise a barrier around himself, quickly, to keep from becoming crushed alive, as seating and supports for the tent alike begin to come down on his head, much of it aflame.

And he can only watch in horror as the demon throws Aevalle off its back, lightning coursing from its body as it whirls, snarling in rage—

—and, as the tent collapses atop them a different kind of glow altogether beginning to spread across its body.

Before Solas can even begin to process the small thread of hope that appears at the sight of it, they are blocked from view by burning canvas, wood, and smoke.

Just as the flames begin to lick at the wood closest to Solas—just as the weight of all causes his barrier to strain, and bend—a soft, pale blue light begins to seep through the cracks, like the soft trickle of water.

He watches as it floods forward, pouring through every small gap, building up until it has gathered enough strength to wash over his barrier like a wave—caressing it, enforcing it, extinguishing flame and washing away the debris threatening to smother him, until above him is only a clear, early evening sky, smoke being cleared by a gentle breeze.

And where Aevalle and the demon fell, together, now Aevalle stands, surrounded by Wisdom.

He has not seen his friend outside dreams in so long, that the sight of it catches his breath now. It takes, as it has so often done in the past, the shape of an orca, blue and white, its body moving through the air, almost as if swimming, in a slow, gentle circle around Aevalle, the glow of its magic a barrier around them both as much as it is a balm to the battlefield around them.

Just as Solas allows himself to feel relief, however, he sees the strength of Wisdom’s magic begin to wane—he sees its form tremble, and the waves of its power that have calmed the flames around them begins to recede back into itself.

“No,” he breathes, softly.

Aevalle reaches up, her expression of wonder falling, and she presses a palm to Wisdom’s side. The spirit begins to circle downward, and Aevalle moves with it—guiding it gently to the ground with her hands, kneeling with it as it settles on the sand with a great, trembling sigh.

When Solas approaches, Aevalle is still touching Wisdom’s side—moving her hands in soothing motions, looking it over for injuries as he suspects she has done for many a halla in the past.

Solas, she signs, when she notices him. Something’s wrong—how can we help it?

He does not respond. He only kneels by his friend’s side, and very gently presses a hand to the space between its eyes.

Wisdom sighs. Its eyes flutter, and the wells of power behind it dim, in response to his touch.

“Lethallin,” he says, gently. “Ir abelas.”

“Tel’abelas,” Wisdom murmurs in reply, its voice humming with undertones just below normal hearing. “Enasal. Ir tel’him.”

Aevalle inhales sharply.

“Ma melava halani. Mala suledin nadas. Ma ghilana mir din’an.”

It’s such a small thing—but Solas finds himself staring at Aevalle’s hands on Wisdom’s form. Her fingers curling, to hide their trembling.

He closes his eyes for a moment—and with a breath, composes himself for what must be done.

“Ma nuvenin,” he whispers.

He wishes it were not such a simple thing—that this required some struggle, or some effort. But Wisdom’s form is barely holding together as it is—all he has to do is raise his hands, and remind his friend of the ocean, and its pull.

Wisdom sighs again, as its form begins to fall apart—as it slips away into tiny, trembling motes of light, guided out to sea by the same gentle breeze that is clearing away the smoke and ashes on the air. He watches them go awhile, his hands falling into his lap—watches what is left of his friend dissipate, and everything it might have shared with an uncaring world vanish with it.

“Dareth shiral,” he says, when he can no longer see the light on the breeze.

He remains there a moment—Aevalle kneeling before him, her hands making fists in her lap. Eventually, she signs, slowly, It was right. You did help.

He looks away from her again—in the direction of the ocean, blocked from his view entirely by hills, buildings, and the remains of the tent. To no one in particular, he says, “Now I must endure.”

They sit a while longer there—Solas, looking toward the water, feeling Aevalle’s gaze on him. After a time she moves, presumably to comfort him, when the sound of approaching footsteps directs his gaze away.

It’s the ringmaster, picking his way through the remains of the tent with a disgusted look. “Look at this mess!” he bemoans, throwing his hands up in the air. He sees Solas and Aevalle, finally, and gestures dramatically at the wreckage surrounding them. “You could have at least tried to kill the demon without destroying my property, couldn’t you? How am I supposed to carry on with this mess?”

“How indeed,” Solas says slowly, rising to his feet.

The bite in his words is lost in the ringmaster as Solas approaches him. “You think this is amusing?” He picks up a piece of canvas, hopelessly burnt, and attempts to gesture with it furiously as it crumbles into ash between his fingers. “Do you know what this costs to replace? How much I have to pay for the enchanting? Not even that, just for the proper permissions to have it enchanted?”

“You have no idea the scope of what you have ruined today,” Solas snaps, “in your arrogance, in your greed. How many spirits have you twisted to amaze crowds, to frighten children? I can name a hundred that would have done so only if asked!”

“Of what use is that to me with my circus in ruins? Are you telling me to start over from—from this? Are you mad!”

Solas feels his voice drop low, and dark. “No,” he says, as he takes one final step closer. “I have no intentions of letting you do this again.”

There is only time for a flicker of fear in the man’s eyes—a heartbeat’s length, for his expression to flick from confusion to understanding, and then the most primal urge of them all. It’s not a fitting punishment, Solas thinks—but Wisdom would not wish for him to be cruel.

The man who owned the circus that killed his friend dies impaled on a spear of ice—quickly, quietly, and with very little mess.

When he turns, Aevalle is watching him—unflinching, unjudging. There is a sorrow in her eyes that he has seen before, and while he can guess her thoughts in this moment…

No. He cannot bear her comfort now.

“I… need to think,” he says as she stands. “I will… I will find my own way back to Seahold.”

If she tries to stop him as he walks away, he does not turn to witness it. He can feel her gaze on his back as he goes, certainly for longer than would be possible. Feels it on his shoulders as he walks through the town, up the winding paths away from the sea, and inland.

Or perhaps it is just the pull of the ocean—an unwelcome, yet persistent companion for his grief.

It takes all night to find all the bodies.

It’s tiring work, lit by Dorian’s magelight, and Varric complains the whole time, but no matter how many times she tells him that he can go rest if he wants, he keeps it up. Moving debris and lining up bodies alongside her.

When dawn comes, they count them—sixteen. Took most of that time just to find them, under the weight of everything they were crushed under. The ringmaster lies with them, his expression frozen into a kind of stupefied terror.

Aevalle keeps staring down at it, at them. All lined up, until Cole covers them one by one with whatever they can find. There’s a woman wearing a black necklace and a white dress, and for some reason, in the pre-dawn light, all she can see is Deshanna, on that table…

The ringmaster’s jacket is the same colour of that boy’s scales. The one she saved. The one they cut open…

She walks away without telling anyone where she’s going. Thankfully, no one follows her.

There is a bit of a cliff, just beyond the path, and it looks out over the town and the ocean. She stands at the edge for a while, watching the light of the sun as it rises slowly illuminate the town. She watches as people gather in the streets, wondering how many of them have been waiting all night to see if their loved ones are coming home.

Her thoughts are interrupted by the scuff of footsteps on the path behind her—one set of boots, two bare or in footwraps.

“Oh,” comes a soft female voice. “I wonder what happened here.”

The next is female as well—rougher though, with a sarcastic edge that sounds more like bitterness than humour. “Well whatever it was, they can’t pin this one on me. Right?”

The third is male, low and suspicious. “Hawke,” he says, urgently.

Aevalle turns around, and is greeted by the sight of a human flanked on either side by an elf. The first is Dalish, with dark hair and Dirthamen’s vallaslin, and the other elf gives her some pause—she thinks at first he bears the blood writing as well, eerily pale against his skin, but she doesn’t recognise the style. He has a sword on his back, and she notices his hand is reaching for it, eyeing the spear on hers.

“Relax, Fenris,” the human says. She steps forward, throwing back her hood to reveal a pleasant, if crooked smile, bright grey eyes, and a smudged streak of red paint across her nose. “Hey there,” she says. “Any idea what happened here?”

#Dragon Age Fanfiction #Solavellan #Dragon Age Inquisition #Mermaid AU #Fade is the Ocean and it's fucked up AU

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jonogueira · 7 years ago

Text

Áine.

Here’s the AO3 and the link to Moon Hair e Fire Eyes. I was listening to this while writing.

Chapter 37

What could have been.

“The twins and her…”

“Áine…”

“The craziest boys I’ve ever seen…”

“Remember when she had blue hair? Curls...”

“…used to smile a lot more…”

“I wonder what happened.”

“… alone all the time…”

“Nevan seems so worried…”

“Do you think the rumors are true?”

Cullen stood up from his seat in the dark corner of the tavern, where he eavesdropped the conversation of the recently arrived agents. They came from Caer Bronach with news for Leliana. The place was a natural route for travelers and merchants, the perfect place for secrets and spies.

When he stood up, the man and woman looked at him and stopped their line of thought. Cullen nodded in their direction and left the tavern with determined steps.

He had been dreaming with her for the last couple of weeks. The dream was always the same, and he would wake up with her calling his name. And a feeling he couldn’t understand.

The sky was dark, no visible stars and the moon shone through the dense clouds. The raindrops on his skin were like needles.

He was in a forest. There were small and tall trees. Strange noises came from places he could not see.

Lost. Lose. Fear. Dread.

A loud sound – thunder – followed by the flash of lightning. A cry? A sound in the night.

He turns his attention to where he thinks the noise came from. A cold shiver down his spine.

His hand grabs the shield tightly. He looks down to see his full armor. His sword in his hand; high.

“When did I unsheathe it?”

His legs move, they know where to go. Through the trees he walks, aimlessly he thinks.

His name? “Cullen!” Someone calls him.

“I’m sorry!”

A whisper. A voice. He remembers it. Who? Whose?

Something is on the ground. He gets near it and crouches to see. A white flower. A daisy.

He stands up and turns his back to it. Legs move forward, but he wants to stops. He needs the flower. The flower? Daisy!

He turns to pick it. IT IS G’one.

He looks up, another flash of light, he looks down.

A hill ahead. Something on top of it.

A sob, a cry, a tear. His hand reaches his cheek; it is wet. He is crying.

“Why?”

He continues. A silhouette on top of the… cliff?

An island. A rocky island. The waves crash on the rocks. The rain doesn’t stop. The ocean is angry. The forest is gone.

“Cullen…”

His name on the wind again. A, whisper, between, sobs.

Pain.

His hand on his chest. Blood. Bleeding. A hole. Small.

He climbs the rocks. There’s an animal on the ground. He is afraid.

He closes his hand around his sword. But there is no sword. He looks at his hands. It is naked. He has no armor. He is wearing a white shirt and brown trousers.

Dread. Fear. Lose. Lost.

He closes his hands. Knuckles are white.

He approaches the animal. He hears it… crying.

Two more steps and then he finally sees. A woman.

She stands, her back to him. Her hands crossed over her chest. He guesses.

He takes five steps – He Counts Them In His Mind – The rain stops. Everything stops.

Something happens, another flash of light /her laugh surrounds him/ her hair starts to become blue.

He knows her.

One more step, she turns when he steps on a dried leaf. Her eyes are wide open.

.His mouth opens her mouth opens.

BOOM. He can’t hear, he can’t see, he can’t feel, he can’t smell.

He opens his eyes; time moves forward again but this time faster. Or is he slow?

The rain is heavy, heavy like his feet {he can’t move}

Her clothes are brown, no, red. She has a dagger. There is blood on it.

Lost. Lose. Fear. Dread. No!

The dagger falls on the ground. She shows him her open belly.

He winces.

She is at the edge of the cliff.

Thunder.

“Cullen…”

He runs…..

But

It is too

Late.

She falls. He extends his hand to grab her. There is no sound again.

Her mouth is open; he knows she is calling for him. He can’t hear it.

The water punishes the rock wall. He can see the white of the foams.

Her hair flies up hiding her face.

Her body slows down right before reaching the water.

Dread. Fear. Lose. Lost.

He blinks.

It is day. He is wearing his full armor.

He looks down. The ground is an ocean of snow.

He is surrounded by white mountains. There is no escape.

He turns and sees the small flower. The only life in that forsaken place.

He kneels near it. A tear falls beside the perfect blue and yellow flower.

Forget

Not.

He picks it up. He holds it carefully in his hand and brings it close to his chest.

He opens his hand to see it.

But

It is a daisy. It is dry and dead. The petals fall on the snow, and he cries.

There’s a pressure on his shoulder, and he turns to see.

It is too bright, blinding him.

He hears his name, coming from her mouth, her voice.

He wakes up.

The first time he had the dream he couldn’t focus on anything else. There was this feeling. He couldn’t explain, it was as if he had lost something.

He knew the woman was Áine, but it had been just a dream. He had the same dream seven more times, and with each time, the feeling intensified.

He had made up his mind; he was going after her.

He entered the rotunda and greeted Solas. Step after step, his determination increased. He went up the spiraled stairs and reached Leliana.

The woman was talking to some soldiers and giving instructions, and she saw Cullen. She finished her meeting and addressed him.

“Can I help you, Cullen? You look awful.”

“I know where she is and I’m going there.”

She studied him and knew him more than enough to know he wasn’t bluffing.

“And what exactly do you want me to do?” – She asked looking at him.

“Nothing.”

“Nothing?”

“Don’t tell her I’m going.”

She was surprised with the conviction in his voice, but not with his decision.

“Very well. When do you leave?”

“Tomorrow morning. I’ve talked to Knight-Captain Rylen, and he will continue the soldiers’ training in my absence…”

“May I ask why?” – She crossed her arms over her chest.

Cullen sighed and started pacing. How could he explain to her his dreams if not even him understood it? His fingers massaged the back of his neck, and he gave her a side look before trying to explain.

“I had a dream; it was very confusing. She was there this I’m certain, but she was hurt… there was blood on her lower belly, where her scars are.” – He knew Leliana was aware of them. – “And there was this feeling; I was terrified, and there was nothing I could do. During the dream, I felt in my heart something was amiss, that I was missing something… something was gone, forever… Am I making myself clear?” – He sighed and then took a deep breath. – “When I wake up the feeling is still there. It is horrible I don’t know what to do.” – He leaned with his back on the wall.

“What do you think it means?”

“I don’t know, that’s the problem. I don’t think it was a simple dream. When humans dream, they go to the fade… Mages have more control over it… I think she is trying to tell me something. Maybe she doesn’t even know what she is doing, because before she…” – He cleaned his face with both hands. – “The way she looks at me. She is surprised; I wasn’t supposed to be there.”

“Before she?”

“She falls from the cliff, into the raging ocean. There’s nothing I can do. I can’t save her.”

“Some of my men will leave tomorrow. I will let them know you are joining them.”

“Thank you, Leliana. I will write to the Inquisitor and explain the situation.”

Cullen was leaving when she called him.

“Whatever it is, she needs you. Be there for her.”

He nodded and deep down he could feel how much his friendship with the spymaster had grown.

The morning came, and they rode to the keep. The trip usually takes around a week, but the men knew of paths Cullen would never have dreamed. They arrived there in five days.

Cullen got off the horse and led it to the stable. He hadn’t dreamed, but the familiar feeling was present again. Inquisition men and women walked around the Keep, the voices low in whispers. They were spies, and it was understandable, but even his soldiers seemed to be hiding secrets.

He looked around trying to find her; he knew she had her raven curls back, which would make things a little more difficult.

Charter was the one responsible for the place, and the one he looked for next.

He asked around for her whereabouts and found her near the entrance to the caves.

“They are back inside. How they keep finding their way in is still a mystery to me. I thought I had already asked for the both of you to get rid of them… two or three times before.” – She stared at the twins.

“We did. I swear!” – First tried to hide his laugh.

“Cross my heart.” – Cullen saw Dudu kicking an imaginary rock like Áine usually does.

“Get inside, and get rid of them, permanently this time!” – Charter slightly punched First’s shoulder and smiled at the boys.

He approached the trio, and the twins eyed him suspiciously. In the end, they took their weapons and entered the cave.

“Commander Cullen, I wasn’t aware you were visiting us. Are you here to check something?” – She raised an eyebrow.

“Not really. I’m here to talk to Áine…” – He was cut off by her.

“If you find her, let me know. I’ve been looking for her all day.” – Charter turned and entered the cave as well.

“Alright! That was very informing.” – He walked back to the Keep thinking.

Nevan’s voice came from inside a closed room, which Cullen knocked twice before opening the door, only to interrupt the boy in the moving for a kiss.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to…”

“Cullen? What are you doing here?” – The boy walked in his direction leaving the blushing girl behind.

He looked at the girl, and Nevan followed his gesture.

“Oh… give me a moment, please.”

He closed the door and waited nearby. He saw the girl coming out of the place without looking at him, and soon Nevan left the place as well.

“So, you and the lady…?” – He waited for the boy to tell him her name but got no answer. – “Does Áine know about this?”

“No. Probably yes.” – The boy scratched his chin. – “What brings you here?

“I came for her. Do you know where she is?”

Nevan gave him an intriguing look and crossed his arms over his chest.

“I don’t think it is a good idea… at least not now. You have terrible timing, did you know that?” – The boy asked Cullen but kept his eyes on the horizon.

“Tell me what happened to her.” – He used his commanding tone and straightened his spine. – “I know something happened, and it is the reason I’m here.”

“That’s the thing, Cullen. Nobody knows.” – He sighed deeply. – “She has kept to herself. We only see her when she is working. Barely leaves her room, and when she does, she goes to this hidden pond, sits there and cries. I tried to talk to her there, but she dismissed me like she dismissed the others.” – The boy looked at Cullen with tears in his eyes. – “I don’t know what’s wrong…” – Cullen saw him clean the tears and suddenly the boy changed to something Cullen had never seen. – “It is all your fault. Since you broke up with her, she hasn’t been the same. She rarely smiles, and her laughs are gone. She even dyed her hair back to her natural color. I wish she had never joined the Inquisition, this way we could go back to being a family. You took everything from her; us; me. Can’t you just go play Commander and leave us alone?” – The hatred in his voice was the opposite of the calm, warm tone the boy usually had.

Cullen stared at him, his words torn his heart because he knew the boy was right. He had said the same words to himself. He had no words to reply; his tongue was tied.

The boy kept staring at him, and Cullen watched his tears falling. He remembered the boy crying when they thought she was dead. He wanted to say something, but his mind was blank.

Then the boy hugged him. Cullen felt his arms around his waist and listened to his sobs. He caressed Nevan’s hair until the boy stopped crying.

“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean any of it. I’m worried about her, she doesn’t want to tell me what’s wrong and she always talks to me.” – He cleaned his eyes with the back of his hand as she does. – “Please, talk to her. I know she will tell you what’s wrong.”

Cullen smiled at him and squeezed his shoulders.

“I am here just for it. I’m not leaving until she tells me what’s wrong. I promise you!” – The boy gave him a small smile and told him how to find the hidden pond. – “Now go, continue ‘talking’ to that girl, alright?!”

Nevan laughed and walked away.

Cullen found the cave before the sunset. He took a torch from the wall and with a final look back to the reddish sun already partially hidden on the horizon, he entered the dark place.

The darkness in the cave reminded him of the dream, and a sense of dread started taking over his mind. His steps echoed on the walls, and he noticed how shallow and fast his breaths were.

He straightened his spine, and he squeezed the torch on his right hand, after turning a corner he saw light coming from the end of the tunnel, and he was able to breathe normally again.

He extinguished the torch and placed it on a nearby rock. Night came, and he saw stars in the sky. The moon reflected in the pond and he saw her sitting near the waters with her arms around her legs. From where he stood he could hear her low sobbing.

His hand immediately traveled to where the small daisy was supposed to be, and with a sigh, he started walking. He approached her and saw her hand caressing the pond’s waters. Her movements send small waves to the other side, and it was still again.

“One, two, three, four, five” – He unconsciously counted the steps and rubbed the back of his neck. He took a deep breath, and with one more step, she finally turned to him.

He saw her eyes go wide and her eyebrows shot up. Her mouth became an O, and she crossed her arms over her lower belly.

Her tears fell on her clothes, and he noticed she was wearing a black t-shirt. He smiled at the thought until he looked down to see himself wearing brown trousers and a white t-shirt.

“These are the clothes she wore when we were last together.” – The painful thought crossed his mind.

“Cullen… what are you doing here?” – Her voice was low and hoarse. She probably hadn’t said a word in hours.

The familiar feeling washed over him. A cold shiver went down his spine before he addressed her.

“I came because you called me… from the fade.” – He tried to walk, but his legs didn’t move.

“And so, I failed again. I tried to stay away.” – She looked at the ground. – “You have a new life now; you managed to move on.” – She cleaned her eyes. – “I didn’t have the right to drag you here. I am sorry Cullen, I am so sorry, you deserve better. You should marry her; she can give you what I can’t.” – She looked away and embraced herself.

“What are you talking about? I don’t understand.” – He felt the anticipation in the air. He felt he was missing something deep in his soul.

“Cullen I am so so sorry…” – He saw her kneeling on the ground and hide her face in her hands. – “I lost it.”

He took a step in her direction his hand extended to touch her, his lips slightly apart.

“I lost the baby. It was all my fault…” – He didn’t hear the rest of the sentence.

He saw her lips moving; he noticed how the raven curls brushed on her skin, her painful tears running down her face and the hurt in her eyes.

Something was falling, probably him; the time was slow. He kept looking at her, how her hands fell on her sides. He knew she was screaming, but he heard no sound.

His body was so heavy it moved forward, and he planted his hands on the ground. His tears hit the grass, and he knew there was wind because her hair flew on her face hiding it.

He understood then and there why he felt something was missing. He sat and images of what could have been invaded his mind.

She has a small belly; next, it is huge. The little life in there growing strong. The smile on her face; how proud he is. There is a ring on her left hand when he intertwined their hands on her belly. The mint scent of her hair in his lungs, the taste of chocolate on her tongue. Her laughter in the air when they lay on their bed, and he kisses her shoulder.

He sees her taking a nap on the armchair and can’t stop the smile on his face. Suddenly, a little girl enters the place with a doll in her tiny hands, tears running down her beautiful face. He tucks some wild curls behind her ear and kisses her eyes. She shows him a cut on her knee and pouts. He chuckles then kisses it. He watches his little mage run towards aunt Sera.

Cullen opened his eyes and felt the tears running down his face, through the blurry vision he sees Áine rocking her body back and forth, her head resting on her knees.

He had so many questions, but he knew it wasn’t the time. He gathered all the strength he had and stood up; he kneeled in front of her, and his hand hovered her head, he was afraid of touching her; to hurt her more.

She raised her head and looked at him, and he tucked some of her hair behind her ear. He tried to clean her tears, but they kept coming so he gave up and rested his forehead on hers.

He felt her shivering and pulled her into a hug. She slowly placed her arms around him and returned the embrace.

“Cullen…” – He tried to shush her, but she kept saying. – “I am so sorry; it is all my fault…”

“No, please. Don’t say that” – He smelled her hair.

“Yes, it is. I should have known. How did I not know?” – She tried to get away from him, but he tightened the hug. – “I was feeling sick one morning when mother approached me. She asked if I was pregnant, but I laughed it away. I had no symptoms, no cravings, everything was normal. I had gained some weight, but I attributed it to my lack of legwork, I work with Charter, so it is most reports, I barely exercise anymore…” – She was silent for a moment, and then he heard her sobs.

“Áine, listen…”

“Around a month ago, I woke up and was feeling sick. At breakfast, I tried to eat some strawberries, but I almost threw up. I got anxious and decided to check it, and I found out I was pregnant…” – She looked into his eyes, and he ran his hand on her hair. – “I debated for a few days on how I was going to tell you when it happened. I was here one afternoon when I lost it.” – She grabbed his t-shirt and buried her face in his chest.

He closed his eyes and kissed her head. She was alone all this time; she endured all of it alone because he had left her.

He thought she would be safe from the dangers against the Inquisition, but he never thought life could be so hard on her; so hard on her again.

He wasn’t there when she found out she was pregnant, and more importantly, he wasn’t there when she lost it.

He wasn’t there when she needed him the most.

“Áine, I need you to listen to me, alright?” – He held her chin and looked at her face. She kept her eyes shut, her silent tears running down her cheeks.

“Cullen, I am so sorry.” – She started in a low voice. Her hot breath on his skin. – “I cannot give you what you deserve but they can.” – She rested her forehead on his mouth.

“Áine…”

“I saw you and Amell on Adamant. You liked her, and you can still love her. Everyone has heard the rumors about you and the Inquisitor. They can give you a family Cullen; they can give you what I can’t… happiness.”

She looked into his eyes, and right there he knew.

There was no warmth in them, no laugh or mischievousness, only hurt. He finally got what he feared most.

He had lost her.

He opened his mouth to say something, how much he loved and needed her.

“I am so sorry too.” – He held her face between his hands. – “I am sorry I wasn’t here for you. I thought I was protecting you, but I only hurt you more. I am sorry I couldn’t be the man you thought I was. You did everything right and I just…”

She kissed him.

His lips parted to welcome her. She embraced him and kissed him the gentlest kiss he had ever had. Even then she was more than him.

“Don’t.” – She said moving away from him. – “Just leave me here, I beg you.” – She looked at the ground.

He tried to touch her again, but she pushed him away.

“Go! Please.” – She yelled at him. – “Leave me alone. I can’t do this… not anymore.” – She took a deep breath and hugged her legs.

He looked at her and the hurt in her eyes torn him apart.

He stood up and left her there. His sobs echoed throughout the cave. He punched the wall, and his fingers started bleeding.

He reached the Keep, saddled his horse, and left without looking back.

What once he called a heart was broken and lost in a hidden pond.

Thank you again for reading Áine’s story.

#áine #aine #cullen rutherford #chapter 37 #what could have been #what could #trigger warning #miscarriage #loss #baby

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nerdanel01 · 7 years ago

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A Small And Beautiful Surrender

(in which I finally write that haven scene)

There Is Only Forward - Chapter 12

Trapped in a dream she cannot escape, Lavellan is forced to relive the years she spent in the Inquisition—the years she spent with Solas. But not all is as it should be, for the longer she lingers in the dream, the more it begins to diverge from memory and into something else.

Excerpt: But he shook his head at her, no, no; a rejection of her shame. Defiant, as she tried to pull away from him. Then his hand was upon her waist, forceful and wanting, fierce.

He pulled her into his arms and returned her kiss with one twice as hungry.

He kissed not with his lips but with his whole body; it swayed in rhythm with each press of his lips. His hands held her waist, drawing her closer with every cloistered breath, fisted tightly in the cloth of her tunic, clinging for purchase as if to keep themselves from wandering too freely. Each eager kiss he planted in the corner of her mouth felt like a small and beautiful surrender: the gift of himself, given freely and without reservation. For both their mouths were usually so heavily armored, guarded (the clicking of teeth against teeth) against words spilled carelessly. Mouths usually so possessed of intention and reservation moving against one another, dispossessed—for the moment—of their secrets.

(full chapter below cut, also here on AO3) (or... start from beginning)

A voice—familiar? (Idrilla’s?)—“Atisha, da’erelan.”

There was a dull, mounting sound; like the roar of the waves at the Storm Coast, and she felt something—the dream, the White Wolf, she no longer knew—pulling at her like the hands of the children in the alienage at Halamshiral, like an undertow, tugging her back to underneath, a soft song and the bliss of ignorance, moving through the dreams without the pain of foresight to know what was coming next.

She allowed it drag her under.

[from one grief, into another: the feeling the same, only her place within it, changing.]

The light long faded, and everything in her chambers colored ever so slightly golden in the wash of light from the oil lamps. The stack of paperwork on her desk, finally—mercifully—attended to, and Thanduwen rewarding herself with a languid stretch in her chair, arms reaching skywards. The satisfaction of the tightness leaving her muscles, and a weary task concluded.

Leliana had announced herself at her chambers with a brief but forceful rap of her knuckles on the door; she entered the bedroom without giving any further notice. It was the first hint that something was wrong—a creeping feeling, mist ghosting across still water, the apprehension soft but sharp in the way it punctured through the peace of her solitude—usually, the Spymaster was more than courteous.

“Inquisitor?” Leliana asked, the purple of her hood and shock of her copper hair gleaming in the light as she emerged from the stairs. “I apologize for the intrusion, I know it is late, but I thought, perhaps, you would not want to wait until the morning to address this.”

[from one grief, into another: she had not yet been in the War Room in the dead of night. The colored glass that usually flooded the room with light was black and lifeless, the table below lit with the glow of one hundred small candles, perched in the branches of the chandelier above, wax dripping, beading downwards like strands of pearls. Her hand grasped the small piece of parchment in front of her, and Thanduwen had to will it not to tremble as she read over Keeper Deshanna’s letter once more.]

“It is more serious than she says,” Thanduwen said, setting the letter down on the table. Her fingers smoothed the creases in the parchment, worried its edges. “My people would not ask for aid lightly. The fact that she is making such a request at all…” But her voice trailed off, unable to give voice to the thought that threatened to devour her. Her head too full of awful, close darkness. Cold dread had seized upon her heart, wrapped about it like the roots of an eager vine, insatiable and relentless, and climbing.

For this was what she had feared from the beginning: that harm would come to her family because of her role in the Inquisition, because it was she—a Dalish Elf—who had been held aloft as Herald. Her Clan had faced the threat of bandits before, but the fact that they came in such numbers, and so well equipped, suggested to Thanduwen something far more sinister at work.

It turned her stomach.

She let her fingers trace the parchment’s edge as she collected herself, continuing to smooth the wrinkles and folds, as if repeated, gentle caresses could will them away. In that moment it was very difficult to keep the faces of her family out of her mind. Drohan, smiling; Ithras, scowling; Ghedril and Sulien telling some crass story by the hearth that had the younger elves howling with laughter.

They had never been safe, not really. Even before Thanduwen had become part of the Inquisition, each consecutive season brought new risks, fresh peril. In that respect, little had changed. But this time, she was not there to stand beside them. To die beside them, if fate willed it. She secluded herself among stone walls and mountains while the knife tip was pressed to their throats, blood ready to fall—the guilt felt like something gnarled, twisting inside of her, wringing her thin.

Finally, she tore her eyes from the slanted, inked words of her Keeper to up at her advisors. “What are our options?”

Josephine spoke at once, having already calculated their diplomatic advantages, the solution that was most politic and most tactful, if not the most effective. “The letter says they are in a small valley, near Wycome. The Duke of Wycome is an ally of the Inquisition. It is… unusual, for him to allow bandits to prey so close to his city. If we inform him of the threat of raiders in his holdings, no doubt he will move to help the Dalish.”

Thanduwen was always respectful of the Ambassador’s input; it came as no surprise, then, that Josephine balked at the sharp, dismissive tone in Thanduwen’s voice when she replied. “No,” she said, tersely, shaking her head. “No, I will not put the fate of my Clan in the hands of a human noble.”

(She had to focus very hard to keep the word ‘shemlen’ out of her refusal.)

Josephine frowned, focused her attention on the scrivener’s tablet n her arms. “There may come a time when you will have little choice but to put your faith in them.”

“But that time is not now,” Thanduwen replied, conviction unwavering. “Not for this.”

“I think, regardless of where her caution comes from, it is well founded,” Leliana interjected. She kept her arms folded behind her back, piercing gaze directed at the Inquisitor. “ If the situation was simple, we might call upon the Duke for help, but the situation is more complex than it appears. I do not like the way Keeper Deshanna describes these supposed ‘bandits;’ I suspect, much like the lyrium miners we discovered in the Hinterlands, they have ulterior motive.”

“That is my fear, as well,” Thanduwen agreed. “The behavior she describes is very unusual. If the bandits are as well equipped as she says, the Dalish likely have little of worth to reward their efforts. They are not attacking them simply to plunder and steal.”

“Then allow me to send my skirmishers to support them,” Leliana said. “The next time the bandits attempt an assault, we will catch them by surprise; it will give Clan Lavellan a chance to retreat to safety. And my forces are best suited to learn the intent of these ‘bandits,’ after the threat has been neutralized. A detail as small as the buckles of a breastplate or the type of arms they carry could tell us more about who sent these bandits and why—a detail that others not trained to observe might miss.”

But Thanduwen was uncertain. And even though she stood before them in her sleeping linens—they provided far less modesty than she would have liked—she was still very much in command of the room. Often, she felt conflicted about the scope of her influence, unwilling to make decisions unilaterally. But this was not so now, not with so much at stake.

She stared for a time at the map of Thedas spread before her, then lifted her eyes to the one person in the room who had thus far remained silent. “Cullen?”

The Commander seemed taken aback at the sound of his name, surprised to be so frankly and respectfully acknowledged by her. He stepped forward, straightened his posture. “I agree with Leliana,” he said. “It seems unlikely that bandits would attack a Dalish camp with such excessive force.” Cullen leaned over the table, pointed to a small figurine on the map, near Ansburg. “We have troops currently stationed further upstream from your Clan, along the banks of the Minanter River. They have boats. Once the message reaches them, they can arrive at Wycome within two days time; less, probably, once they are aware of the urgency.”

Leliana’s bard training helped her subdue her emotions, but even Thanduwen with her untrained eye could see that she was practically sneering through her words when she responded. “If there is something more sinister going on here, your troops will obliterate whatever evidence there is that can help us uncover the truth,” Leliana said, crossing her arms over her chest. “And they will be easier to see coming. They may save the Dalish now, but if we do not uncover the motivation behind these attacks, new threats may come to replace them in time—attacks that we would be unprepared to anticipate, or defend against.”

“Not to mention the diplomatic repercussions of sending our troops so close to a sovereign city without justifiable cause,” Josephine added. But at the dangerous look Thanduwen flashed her from across the table, she corrected herself: “In the eyes of the nobility, that is; a group of soldiers may be seen as an act of aggression, whereas Leliana’s agents could get in and out unnoticed. I doubt the Duke of Wycombe would appreciate such a display of force so close to his territory.”

“I thought you said the Duke was our ally,” Thanduwen replied. “Can we not inform him ahead of time that we are coming?”

“Better to ask forgiveness than permission, I think,” Leliana said. “If the Duke is involved in anyway—and we cannot rule out the possibility, for among those in the surrounding area he is one of the few wealthy enough to outfit such a troop of bandits—we risk overplaying our hand if we give him notice of what we plan to do. Which is part of why I believe sending my skirmishers is best. They cannot be tracked. No one will know of their presence until the threat is eliminated. They are good at covering their tracks.”

“If someone powerful is behind the attacks, then a show of force is the only solution,” Cullen retorted. It was, perhaps, the first time Thanduwen was not irritated by the belligerent tone he adopted when he argued with the other advisors; she felt it, too, that same impatience. “Whoever is behind the attacks will think twice about assaulting the Dalish again, once they know the strength of the Inquisition defends them.”

“You risk escalating the situation,” Leliana responded just as forcefully. “If they are not intimidated into submission—a tactic which, by the way, is not sustainable for the Inquisition, if we want to have any allies at all—they may return in greater number than we are prepared to face.”

Thanduwen heard their voices as they argued, tried to hold onto their words in her head, make sense of it all. But her distress was mounting. Impatient, anxious and torn; her Clan was in danger right now, and here she was, standing safe in her fortress while a group of shemlen bickered over her family’s fate. They weighed Clan Lavellan’s safety against the other goals of the Inquisition as though it were simply another treaty to negotiate. And for all of that—all the might at her disposal, all her options—she felt utterly powerless. The air in the War Room seemed suddenly so thin; it was difficult to hear the bickering of her advisors over the pounding of her heartbeat in her ears…

“Stop!” she cried, silencing her advisors, her voice a bit more loud and forceful than she had intended. “Just, stop. I…” but her voice trailed off as she looked helplessly at the map spread across table, the little pawns and icons that symbolized troops and scouts. So many lives at stake, under her command, but in that moment, she only cared about a select few. And her own awareness of that bias only fed her distress.

“Give me a moment alone, please,” she said, breathily, backing away from the table. “I need to think…”

Then she turned, fled through the doors of the War Room.

Once she was alone in the silent hall, the doors to the war room closed behind her, she leaned her back against the cool stone of the walls and closed her eyes.

And as she struggled to slow her breathing, calm the frantic pace of her heart, she thought of Solas. Would he still be awake, at this late hour? What would he be doing, if not walking another forgotten path through the Fade, oblivious to her dilemma? A part of her wanted to run to him, ask him for his advice, but she knew adding another voice to the many would not help. And after all, she reminded herself with some bitterness, he did not consider the Dalish to be his people; he owed her Clan no greater allegiance than Josephine or Leliana.

But she longed for him, all the same—if not to advise her, then simply for the comfort of his company. She trusted him above all others. Perhaps it was that trust that always made her feel safe in his presence… isolated, for a time, from the concerns and responsibilities her title placed on her.

When the door to the War Room opened again, she did not know how much time had passed. But through the opened doors she could hear Leliana’s voice, a chastising hiss, before the door clicked shut on her. When she turned towards the sound she saw Commander Cullen walking towards her, recognized the shuffling hesitation in his gate that was most evident when he was uncomfortable.

“Inquisitor,” he said, voice thick with trepidation. He knew he was intruding, but the fact that he was— despite her clearly expressed desire to be left alone—impressed her. It was unlike him, to disobey so direct an order. She doubted he would have done so unless he had something very compelling to say. “Forgive me; I will return to the War Room if you prefer to be alone. But I wanted a private word with you.”

Thanduwen watched him as he approached, nodded, every so slightly, in consent. Cullen visibly relaxed.

He came to a rest beside her, leaning against the wall so that they stood side by side. (It was easier, like this, to speak to her without having to look at her, to see the way she looked at him.) His armor clanked against the stone. “Inquisitor, I know… that we have had our disagreements in the past. Some of them quite heated. But I…”

Cullen hesitated, sighed. His tone was soft, a welcome change from the heated conversation inside the room. “I do not like to talk about the Blight,” he said. “I was stationed at Kinloch Hold when we received the first reports of darkspawn in the south of Ferelden. I thought of my family constantly. Wondering whether or not they were safe, whether or not they would survive. It… distracted me, compromised my ability to carry out my duties. I did terrible things. And I know,” he said, hastily, as if already anticipating the criticism she was so quick to lay upon him, “that even if there had been no Blight, I would have been capable of the same cruelties. But I believe the danger to my kin moved me to….” He sighed, screwed up his face. Out of the corner of her eye she could see him bring his hand up to the back of his neck, a nervous tick. “I know that pain, of not being able to be in two places at once. Being torn between your duty and your family.”

Thanduwen had never spoken to Cullen about his family before. It was clear from listening to him how much they meant to him, how fond he was of them. She couldn’t help but wonder at it, a little bit. They’d had their disagreements, true; but for the first time she realized how little effort she’d made to get to know him better. That for all those disagreements, the man who Commander her troops was still practically a stranger to her.

It didn’t change what she knew about him. But it did make him seem, for the moment, a small measure more human.

“I do not want you to feel that way,” Cullen said, finally, and he turned to face her, though he kept his eyes cast down towards the floor. “You carry a great burden; so many depend on you. I wish for you to be able to attend your responsibilities without fearing that danger will come to your loved ones because of your actions. It will cloud your judgement, and that is something you cannot afford.”

No matter how she felt about Cullen—and the vile nature of some of his past deeds still turned her stomach each time she looked at him, the way he’d treated mages (how, she wondered, did he see her?)—the sentiment was kind. It softened her. “I have asked for a moment alone to consider,” Thanduwen said, and a smile was playing about her lips as she did, “and you have pursued me to convince me that your course of action is best.”

She’d called him out, he knew it. A torn look crossed his face before he continued; he released his hand from his neck, brought it down to the pommel of his sword, fidgeted with it lightly to reassure himself. “Some of our very best men are stationed in the Free Marches, on that river,” Cullen said, emphatic but gentle. “I know their captain personally. I would not push if I was not confident that they could reach your Clan in time and protect them. These men are deeply devoted to you, after what you did in Haven. They would lay down their lives before they allowed your kin to perish under their watch.”

The truth in his words didn’t help. She wanted no holy army, no zealots laying their lives down for her. For a moment they both settled into the space of that thought, weighing its solemnity. Cullen stirred first.

He paused, lifted his hand from the pommel of his sword and rummaged through his cloak. “A few days ago, you welcomed my resignation,” he said, pulling a piece of parchment from his pocket. When he handed it to her, she looked at him with a sudden curiosity. “I… have already had my own doubts, about how fit I am to serve in this position. You hold my resignation now in your hands. If my soldiers fail to protect your Clan, if any harm befalls them because our soldiers failed in their duty… you are welcome to use it.”

Thanduwen could not stop the surprise from her face; her eyes went wide and her mouth fell open before she reigned her features into a more neutral expression. She flashed him a wary glance before opening the parchment in her hands. She might have suspected it was a prank, if Cullen had an ounce of humor in his body, but she’d never known him to be anything but serious. And indeed, contained within, written in a surprisingly elegant, slanted script, was an formal offer of Commander Cullen’s resignation.

She raised her eyes to him in wonder. Of all the things she might have expected him to risk losing job over, the safety of her Clan was not one of them. She knew that, if he failed, his resignation (or his dismissal?) would not ease the pain of losing her family. Indeed, she thought, nothing short of seeing the “bandits” responsible dead by her own hand would ease that pain—though she thought it better not to voice that thought. But the offer of his resignation made plain that he was sincere. She knew what this position in the Inquisition meant to him personally; he would not risk it on a whim. He truly believed he could protect them. Cullen had made bad judgements before, but this felt different, somehow. She believed him.

For what was possibly the first time, she trusted him.

They entered the War Room together. She had tucked Cullen’s resignation letter into the pockets of her comfortable linens; there was no need to speak of it with the others, not yet.

“Commander Cullen will be sending his troops to Wycome,” she said, in a tone that made clear that a decision had been made and that the subject was no longer under discussion. Josephine shook her head; Leliana’s features were set in a practiced, neutral expression. “I want updates by raven daily. Leliana, coordinate with Cullen to see that it is done.”

“As you command, Inquisitor,” Leliana said, bowing her head lightly.

And, without another word, Thanduwen turned on her heel, and exited the War Room.

But not to retire—not to sleep, not yet. She couldn’t, not with her head so full of plans and her heart so full of dread. (But how she had needed to escape, to get free of that room.) Cullen’s words had comforted her little, even if she had agreed to his course of action. Nothing would ease her anxiety until she knew her Clan was safe, the bandits eliminated, and the villain responsible for sending them severely punished.

As she walked through the empty Throne Room—quiet and cold, the hearth where Varric liked to sit already reduced from a roaring flame to smoldering embers—the even, measured padding of her bare feet against the stone seemed to echo through the vast space. The rustling of her night linens resounded, like the wind passing through an aravel’s sails.

She wondered—did he already hear her, approaching? Did he recognize that pattern of footfalls as her own?

(By now, she could recognize him by the rhythm of his step.)

If he was already asleep, she would simply pace the battlements until her restlessness was exhausted, her body tired enough to lie still in bed if not surrender wholly to sleep. This she decided even as she approached the door to the rotunda, the rational part of her mind telling her that it would calm her just as well as the company she sought. But the flutter of her heart at the sight of the rotunda door cracked open—a flickering light escaping from the room within—told her that it would have been a wholly unsatisfying substitute.

After almost five months, this simple fact remained true: there was no one in the Inquisition who she respected so fully, [loved with the warmth that she loved, though this she still kept secret, even from herself], trusted as deeply as she trusted Solas.

He stood with his back to her, one arm folded against the small of his back, his free hand running gently over the surface of the rotunda wall, which had been painted, coated so that now the wall was both smooth, and white. She watched him inquisitively as she entered the room. When he turned to face her, a smile playing about his lips, he seemed unsurprised to find her standing there—but by the subtle, barely noticeable lift of his eyebrows, it seemed that he had not expected to find her in her pajamas. She looked more feminine than she usually did, in the soft linens she never bothered to carry with her when traveling. Her hair, usually swept back out of her face, hung about her features in loose, black curls.

“Good evening, Inquisitor,” he welcomed, the corners of his lips lifting in the lightest of smiles.

“I’m wearing my sleeping linens, Solas,” she chided, gently, as she crossed the room to his side. “I think we can dispense with the formalities.”

“Perhaps,” Solas said, tilting his head. “But the title is new, and it is worth repeating. I should grow used to using it. And you should come celebrate hearing it. I know you were not eager for this,” Solas said, watching her out of the corner of his eye as she approached him, “but you should be proud. It is a testament to your strength and your virtue that the humans have raised you so high.”

Those words twisted inside of her like a small, sharp blade; she tried to keep the feeling from showing on her face, but Solas must have caught it, or sensed her disquiet. His expression darkened. “Is something wrong, lethallin?”

There were many things wrong: chief among them, that she was not nearly as strong and virtuous as he believed she was. She remembered that feeling in the War Room, like the walls closing in on her: trying to plan a course of action and without the strength to even endure the debate of her advisors, unable to withstand the pain of all the possibilities in which the blood of her family was spilt because of her own lack of action, her own inadequacy.

The corners of her mouth twitched while she searched for the words. Then, quietly, softly, “My Clan is in danger. It’s difficult to say how much. That’s why I’m only half dressed; I was about to sleep when Leliana brought me the news.”

Solas turned to face her, his eyebrows knit, expression troubled. “What kind of danger?”

Thanduwen waved her hand, a dismissive gesture meant to alleviate the sudden gravity of his tone. It was not the least bit convincing. “Bandits, or so the Keeper says. And I…” and a wry smile broke over her features. She laughed at herself, shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest.

Solas waited, patiently, for her to collect herself. This was one of the things she so loved about him: that when she struggled to put her emotions to words, looking for the right way to convey what she meant (so in love with language ever since Deshanna taught her to read; so careful with it, a tool and a weapon at once) he always waited for her, gave her the room she needed to express herself the way she wanted to. As he watched her, she kept her eyes trained on the smooth white surface in front of her, pocked with little holes. She wondered, if she reached out to touch the wall, would it be damp?

“I sent Inquisition troops to defend them,” Thanduwen said, finally, raising her own eyebrows, surprised at herself. No beating around the bush. “I hate—I loathe sending soldiers to do our bidding. Especially now that I am the Inquisition’s leader. I don’t want to conquer, slaughter, rule through the sword; I don’t want the Inquisition to be that. And yet when my Clan was in danger I did not hesitate.”

“Lethallin—”

“I value their lives above the lives of others,” she continued, cutting him off. “Their safety is more important to me than… peace in the Free Marches, politics, hierarchies. Josephine’s sure we’ll piss of some nobles by tramping across their land just for the possibility that our soldiers might be able to reach my Clan in time to help them. And yet so many others have died, directly or indirectly because of decisions I had made; times when I decided their lives were not worthy.” She couldn’t look at him; her eyes were directly at the wall in front of her but her gaze was far away, staring at some dark stain deep in her psyche that she could not clean off. “I want the Inquisition to be fair and just but how can I expect that when I am neither? I’m not measured enough, not disciplined enough. I’m not strong,” she said, smiling ruefully. “I am weak.”

Solas watched her, his face growing increasingly more concerned, but she could not meet his eyes. She forced a laugh, tightened the grip of her hands on her forearms. “And I know all this,” she said, emphatically, “and still I wouldn’t do anything differently. I know I should have… listened to Leliana, or Josephine, and considered the options more carefully. But I can’t bear the thought of harm coming to my Clan because of me, because of what I have done, or what I fail to do. The pain it would cause me to lose them… I have decided that was more important than the other considerations. I have to live with that choice.”

[This was one of the things she loved about him: that when she struggled to put her emotions into words, he listened. She could divulge to him all her self-doubt and her pride. She could lay bare her ugliness before him; he never judged her for it. She believed this was because he understood it. To so many others, she was Herald, Leader, Inquisitor; she could not falter before them. But she could reveal herself to Solas in all her weakness and still he would smile at her; despite all of that, he respected her. If she was strong, it was only because she had a space where she was allowed to be vulnerable. If she was strong, it had a lot to do with him.]

Then she fell silent. Solas stared at her, his expression soft, letting the silence linger for longer than most would have to be sure she had nothing left to say. Then, in a kind voice, he asked, “are you finished?”

With the words, yes, perhaps, but not the emotions behind them; she felt so keenly everything she’d said. She did not regret the way she had behaved, she would not change anything; what she regretted was that she did not feel she was capable of acting any other way, of being more (or less) ruthless; with others, with herself. And on top of that shame and guilt, dangling like a sword above her head: the fact that, whatever action she took, it guaranteed nothing. There was a very real chance that everyone she had loved before she had fallen into the Inquisition would perish, her whole world turn to ash, as ephemeral as smoke. And she was too many miles away, in a cold castle, a place she never should have seen.

When she turned to Solas, her eyes were glassy with tears.

“Oh, lethallin,” he soothed, and he collected her into his arms. She folded into him effortlessly, eager for the comfort of another body’s warmth against her own. She pressed her head to his chest; his chin came to rest gently on the crown of her head as her lungs heaved with shaking breaths—not quite sobs, but close.

“I can’t imagine what you think of me,” she said, her voice muffled by the embrace. “About to cry like a child, unable to handle making the decisions this job demands of me. Falling to pieces at the first threat of danger to my family, when the fate of the whole continent is hanging in the balance.”

“On the contrary, lethallin,” Solas said, and Thanduwen could feel the hairs on the top of her head stir under the warmth of his breath as he spoke, “I would have been far more concerned if the safety of your Clan did not affect you so.”

She pressed herself against him, allowed herself a few more moments of the privacy the embrace offered, her face pressed against his tunic. It was damp beneath her cheeks. His hands were resting gently on her shoulder blades….

All at once, she became self-conscious of how long she had held him, clutching at him. And in nothing but her linens.

Even if she wanted him to hold her (and she did) these were not the circumstances in which she wanted to be held. Not out of pity, or consolation. And that mattered.

Thanduwen cleared her throat, pushed away from him, hastily wiping the tears from her eyes with the heel of her palm. “I don’t—I don’t really want to talk about it,” she said, apologetic. “It’s done, it’s decided. I came here because your company has always been such a comfort, to me. I just… needed to get that off my chest. I did come here for conversation, but not that conversation.” She sniffed, planted a hand on her hip, the other combing through her hair, pushing it back out of her face. She could feel his eyes on her, watching her carefully—unconvinced, perhaps, of her show of composure after how she had eviscerated herself, the self-flagellation in her words. But she was adamant that the discussion be ended; the longer it dragged on, the higher the probability that she’d be reduced to a blubbering mess.

(That was still likely to happen, of course; she’d just prefer it not happen when Solas was present to witness it.)

She had turned to face the wall again, the smooth white surface upon it, freshly laid. “What’s this?” she asked, reaching her hand out, her fingertips brushing the plaster delicately.

Solas was perturbed still, she could tell, but he pushed it down and backwards. He wanted to support her; if she wanted a distraction, he would give it to her. “Ahh,” he said, the vowels long and low and thick with memory. He ran his hand over the smooth, damp set of the plaster on the wall, brought his fingers to rest only a few inches from hers. “A long time ago,” he said, “in another life,” looking at her conspiratorially, “I used to paint.”

“It’s art?” she asked, unable to keep the surprise out of her voice. The rotunda was enormous. She balked at the thought of covering each of its walls with paintings. It was a daunting task; she wouldn’t have known where to begin.

“Not yet, but it will be,” Solas replied, smiling fondly at the blank surface. “The pigment will be applied directly to the plaster, but I need to build up a series of layers before the final thin, wet layer is laid down with the paint. It seals the color into the wall as it dries.” He lifted his hand, rapped a knuckle against the surface of the plaster; the knocking sound it made was muffled and dull.“It is a… detail oriented kind of work, unforgiving of mistakes and not well suited to the nomadic lifestyle. I have not had the opportunity to practice in some time.” Then he looked at her out of the corner of his eyes, the corners of his mouth lifting. “But I doubt you came here for a lecture on painting technique.”

“No, I—”

“Thanduwen,” Solas said, and his voice was commanding even as it was kind. She had said her piece; now he would say his. That was how it worked between them, the unspoken agreement they’d made. “If you seek a distraction, I am happy to provide it. We’ll go somewhere…” he said, and his voice trailed off. The corners of his eyes crinkled curiously, and he wet his lips with his tongue. “Far more interesting than here, and we can do whatever you like. Avoid conversations that would bring you discomfort. But before we do that…”

And he reached out across the surface of the plaster, took her hand gently in his, pulling it away from the wall and cupping it between both his palms. “There’s something I wish to say. And I’d like for you to hear me.”

Thanduwen looked up at him, her eyes wide, still a bit red, and she nodded her head solemnly. “Okay,” she sniffed. “I’m listening.”

“The answers are never easy,” Solas said, looking straight into her eyes. “When we first met, I told you I was curious what kind of a hero you would become. And you have surprised me. You are… kind, compassionate, wise. And strong, though you think you are not. And you’re going to fail,” he said, and at this, Thanduwen shook her head, tried to back away from him; he held her hand tighter between his, preventing her retreat. “You will not save everyone. I need you to hear me: you will not save everyone. You cannot. But you have to try, even though the fear of failure makes it painful. It’s the attempt that matters, if it is sincere and dedicated, done with the best of intentions. The attempt, even in the face of failure, even after failure, is what matters. I see you struggle every day to do what is right, not only for yourself but for the people you serve. And that is no small thing.”

She was still shaking her head, unable to look him in the face. There was truth in his words, undeniable as it was painful. There was blood on her hands; before this was over, there would be plenty more. (Enough to bathe in.) She directed her gaze upwards, trying to blink the tears from her eyes without allowing them to spill over. “I can’t do it alone,” she croaked. “The burden is too great.”

“You do not have to,” Solas said, soft, his thumb circling a patch of skin on then back of her hand to soothe. “No one expects you to—me, least of all. It is why so many of us have flocked to the Inquisition’s banner: because we believe in you, and we wish to help you, in whatever way we can.”

Thanduwen sniffed. She knew he was right, but she was grateful for the reminder all the same. (It was why she had come to him, wasn’t it? To feel, for some small space of time, less alone?) She turned her eyes to their hands, folded together; she brought her free hand up to join them, lighting her fingers gently over Solas’, tracing the strong bones of his wrist as he continued.

“Only time will tell if you made the right choice with your Clan. Though I have never met them, I feel as if I know them, as if I had lived for years alongside them because of how frequently you speak of them. Your brother Drohan, Keeper Deshanna, even Tael Ithras, always so envious of you…”

They shared a chuckle at the Second’s expense. Since Leliana had brought her Deshanna’s letter, she had thought of them often, and picturing their faces was like a twisting pain inside of her: the feeling of something precious just out of reach, in danger of being lost. But somehow, when Solas said their names aloud, she did not feel that pain. Perhaps it was because of how well Solas did know them, despite never having met them; how easily he could conjure them up. She felt only warmth.

The ghost of the laugh still lingering about her lips, she turned her eyes up to his face.

“There is not a doubt in my mind that they are all nothing but proud of you, each of them,” he said, quietly, and he lifted a hand to brush a tear from her cheek gently with his knuckle. “And every day that you wake, bear your title, make decisions based on the values and judgement that they grew in you—you honor them. You carry them with you in the wisdom of your actions. They will always be with you, no matter what comes to pass.”

For a time, he held her hands, smiling kindly as the tears threatened to well again in her eyes. But after a time, she gave one final, shuddering breath; she nodded to signal her consent. His grin widened.

“Now,” he said emphatically, to signal that he had said his fill. He released her hands and turned away from her, crossing the rotunda to a small wooden case, containing a multitude of tiny drawers. His fingers danced as he read the carefully penned labels, before settling on one of the knobs and pulling the drawer open. “If it is a distraction you seek—something novel and mysterious to take your mind off of present circumstances…”

When he turned back to her, his cupped palm was full of dried blossoms. She peered curiously at them as he approached. The petals were dusky, muddy lavender, dried and sapped of their color; perhaps they had once been blue. He pinched one blossom between forefinger and thumb and raised it so that she could better inspect it, before placing the lot of them into her hand, closing her fingers over them gently.

“Return to your chamber, and take these with you. Burn them at your bedside and wait for me.” His voice was quiet, playful, though not in the least bit lascivious when he said, “I will come to you.”

His words were thick with promise and secrecy, and the effect it had upon her was immediate. She turned her head to the side, looked at Solas through narrowed eyes, a smile wavering on her lips. She could not help her curiosity. It drowned out all the other thoughts in her head, protests: that in a time of such crisis she should not permit herself this indulgence. That, circumstances notwithstanding, she should not permit him to call upon her in her bedchambers, especially in the middle of the night. (That she liked too much the idea of him calling upon her in the dead of night.)

But she was confident (and she was surprised at her own disappointment at this fact) that there was nothing salacious in the offer. And she had just come through the Throne Room herself; it was desolate. No one would see him as he made his way to her tower.

(And, the truth was: she didn’t really care if they did.)

She tugged at her lip between her teeth, still measuring him with her look, wondering. “You said we were going somewhere?” she half-asked, half-asserted, testing him.

“Trust me,” he said, softly, simply; and she did. Even with that mischievous look in the corner of his eyes again, dark with hidden agendas, all his unknown depths. “I’ll join you soon.”

Hours later, “Do you smell that?” asked in the deep quiet of night under a sky littered with stars. “That pleasant… smokey sort of smell?”

Solas paused, lifted his chin as if to better catch the scent, his eyelids fluttering shut. He inhaled deeply, savoring the breath before turning back to Thanduwen. “Probably Adaan, working on something in his cabin.”

It was dark, and Haven quiet, and they were alone, walking alongside one another; and she could feel Solas’ eyes lingering on her, long past the point when the words had left his mouth. The cold mountain air did nothing to lessen the heat she felt creeping up the sides of her neck under his persistent gaze. There was nothing carnal about it—she could tell it was just the weight of a question being measured on the tip of his tongue, but it flustered her all the same.

“What?” she prompted, raising an eyebrow at him.

He smiled—wrinkled his nose in amusement. It was such a whimsical expression, and so rare on him; it warmed her again to see him so comfortable and mischievous. He pursed his lips briefly before surrendering his question. “For so long, you wanted to leave this place. Do you still despise it, as you did then?” He turned back to her, tilting his head inquisitively.

“I never despised it,” she retorted, but even though her refusal had come quickly (instinctually) she knew it to be false. She had struggled so much here. She knew that the struggling was not yet behind her. But in the beginning, it had been so easy to see Haven as an antagonist in and of itself—this ancient village of Andrastian worship and pilgrimage—an amalgamation of all the things she wanted no part of. She had refused to be at home, here.

And Solas knew it, too. “I saw the way you’d sigh with relief as we left through the gates, how much easier you would breathe the farther we travelled from this mountain. You would laugh more freely.”

Her body reeled with the smile that broke across her features, the pleasure that overtook her. She felt light and paper thin, transparent under his gaze. Did he see the way those words made her flutter, the way she bubbled with joy to hear them? He saw her. Others looked to her as leader, as Herald, as Inquisitor, but when Solas looked at her—with that piercing, deliberate look of his—he saw her. This was why she had told him so much about her Clan: because she felt as at home with him as she had felt with them. (Always wondering if [hoping that] he felt the same—her accomplice, her partner.)

She joked: “I didn’t know you were watching me so closely.”

It was his turn to look away, grin still pulling at his mouth. Difficult to make out in the dim light of evening, but she almost thought his cheeks were coloring. “As you have reminded me on more than on occasion, it was my responsibility to watch you closely, when we first met. To ensure that you woke, though I knew not what to expect when you did.” He turned to her, a strange expression on his face. “Many things… changed, then.”

“Like what?”

“Everything,” he said, as if it were so simple; and she had to swallow the sharp panic that bloomed in her at that, the fear that she would not be able to control her reactions, the risk that she might take that simple confession too much to heart. “The friendship that grew between us. It gave me cause to hope.”

“Hope?” she repeated, her face a battleground—everything, hope—expressing a forced and closely guarded neutrality. Mastered into submission so that it would not betray the hopes that were her own, the ones she felt with such intensity when he looked at her like that, all adoration and respect (his hands on mine, fingers circling, wanting him to trace each part of me with them—)

“Yes,” Solas said, quietly. “Hope. An underrated emotion, and not always a necessary one. One need not hope to act on principals, but it helps. And as I came to know you I…”

His steps slowed to a halt, and he turned to her. For a long time—for a short time?—she did not know, incapable of measuring it in anything other than the space between her heartbeats (thunderous as he looked at her) a confession trapped in his throat (that beautiful column of alabaster and sinew, the way it jumped when he swallowed) before he turned his eyes away, over her head, upwards….

Something pained flashed across his face, bright and unmistakable as lightning, and gone as swiftly as it had come. She turned in place, followed his gaze upwards into the sky where the Breach twisted, livid green and malevolent—but when she looked at Solas again he was calm.

“I felt the whole world change,” he said, quietly. “We had a chance.”

And as they shared another look, it struck Thanduwen how quiet it was. The hour must be very late; everyone else was tucked away for the evening, in the darkest hours of the night, just before dawn.

And it occurred to her, quite suddenly, that she had never before been so alone with him. They had shared plenty of time, separate and apart from others—scouting in the Frostbacks for Skyhold, huddled together on the Storm Coast—but it had never felt quite like this. So close, and heavy, and…

Something tightened in her throat at that observation.

She shouldn’t even be considering the thoughts that their privacy was inspiring in her. Firstly, in all of the Inquisition, Solas was her greatest friend. Or something like it. After all the time they had spent, listening to one another, she could not trust anyone or speak so frankly with anyone as she did with him. Surely it was best not to muddle it, with whatever this newfound boldness was trying to stir up within her. And secondly, even if that were not a consideration, there was still so much at stake. In all of the Inquisition, Solas knew the most about the Breach, about the Anchor, about the Orb that had placed its mark upon her. It would be a poor choice, to do anything that could complicate his ability to help with that.

And yet….

From where they stood in the center of the village she felt the past five months closing in around her like the cover of nightfall. There, the hut where he had given her that wolfish grin, where she had discovered both his wit and his grace. There, the path to the ramshackle tack hut, counting the freckles on his strong forearms in the dying light of evening. Below, the clearing where he had held her as they danced, oblivious to the world, wrapped up in one another, before—

There: You must make me a promise—a dirtha’vhen’an.

Creators, she was foolish.

“I felt the world change when you kissed me goodbye,” Thanduwen said quietly. The words were out of her mouth before she could stop them, before she could second-guess herself into silence.

Solas took a step away from her, blinking at her twice, before his face transformed into a perfectly practiced expression of confusion. “Did I?” he asked. But it was not very convincing. There was something about him—perhaps the color in his face, or a tightening in his neck—that seemed almost nervous.

“You did,” she said, quietly, pointing to where the trebuchet stood. “Just there.”

(And for a moment, both were silent, stewing in their own indecision: both of them aware of the danger, both of them pulled, despite that danger, together. Wondering if either of them had the strength to take the first step. And what was she supposed to tell him? What could she have said that he did not already know about her? At the top of the mountain, at the Vir Vian, she had fainted when she did because she had finally caught sight of him behind Cullen running towards her—and that it was this sight [knowing that he was safe; that she was safe, with him] that had her loosening her grip on consciousness, giving into her exhaustion. On the Storm Coast, after Redcliffe, she had basked in the comfort of his company—knowing, then, the pain it would cause her to lose him, having felt it in that ghastly future. How it had been made abundantly clear to her how much she had come to need him. Should she confess the true reason why he kept catching her glancing at his hands? Should she explain that sometimes she stared too long into his eyes because she feared if she did not they would fall to his lips and then— then…)

It was… complicated.

But when she looked up at him again, it became vey clear that it really wasn’t. No matter how many ways she tried to deny what she felt about him, it was really quite simple.

She closed the distance between them, her hand coming to rest on his chest as she tilted her face up to his.

Her kiss was daring, declarative—a gentle force. And when her lips met his the world fell into a silent hush. Gone were the sounds of the wind in the trees. All she could hear was the rush of her own breath as she breathed into the kiss. But Solas was still beneath it.

(Not resisting.)

(But not surrendering, either.)

She released his mouth, eyebrows knit, twisted in the fresh, hot shame and embarrassment that his dismissal stirred within her; she did not open her eyes until her head was turned away, unable to look at him.

But he shook his head at her, no, no; a rejection of her shame. Defiant, as she tried to pull away from him. Then his hand was upon her waist, forceful and wanting, fierce.

He pulled her into his arms and returned her kiss with one twice as hungry.

[Gone were the sounds of the wind in the trees, and the ground beneath them, and the sky above: everything else vanishing as if it had all been vapor. All that stayed behind was this: the charged thing between them, as brilliant as the break of dawn on the solstice. All doubt and pain cast aside to make space for this moment where she felt renewed and present and alive, a moon-gorged tide, a mountain creek swelling in pale spring as winter's chill is melted away.]

He had opened his mouth to her, that wellspring of words and story, his mouth like the mouth of a river and twice as sweet. She soared, wanted to sing—folded into him, effortlessly. If she retreated from the kiss (only ever to catch her breath) he pursued; she laughed with delight as he pulled her back into his arms, the sound soon muffled by his lips on hers, kissing through her grin.

The soft touch of his hand on her cheek, holding her face delicately, so gently, as if was having difficulty believing in it. This moment. Heavy and brilliant and full of promise, and all the ways the future could enfold from this moment forward, spreading before them like the blue lines of the Minanter Delta, or the great and mighty branches of a vallasdahlen.

And it was too much; too much all at once.

They broke apart, breathing heavily, their noses brushing against one another’s as they caught their breath. Thanduwen cracked open her eyes just to look at him, and he was so near (closer than he’d ever been) that she couldn’t get his face in focus but she could see his eyes were still shut. His breath hitched; he leaned in closer, delivering the faintest brush of his lips to hers, before his eyebrows knitted in distress and he backed away from her, shaking his head once more, no, no.

“We shouldn’t,” Solas said, quietly. No, no; once to discourage her retreat, but now in rejection of the very intimacy he had pursued. The tone in his voice: anguish, remorse. “It isn’t right. Not even here.”

It made her feel foolish. She was standing in the center of Haven with her neck flushed from desire, lips plump and red from being kissed so wildly. Disheveled-looking as she stood before him, and he was saying, we shouldn’t. It seemed too late for that. But when she opened her mouth to speak, that was not the point she challenged. “What do you mean, “even here”?”

And though he might have been disappointed in his lack of restraint, displeased with himself for kissing her—we shouldn’t, but we did—he could not keep the satisfaction of his face, the pride in his own cleverness when he responded, “Where did you think we were?”

She looked around her: the silent huts, the quiet Chantry, not even a patrol on the outer wall. Cullen could be careless, but he never would have allowed the village to go unguarded. Haven was desolate. Her eyes turned to the trebuchet—I felt the world change when you kissed me. You did, just there—standing tall and ominous, but thoroughly intact. She remembered—

You must make me a promise—a dirtha’vhen’an.

—Haven was buried, ashes and ruin beneath a deep drift of snow.

“Where are we?” she asked, turning back to him.

“That’s a matter of debate,” Solas replied, grinning at her. “Probably best discussed after you wake up.”

Her eyes wide like shutters thrust open on windows: she awoke in her bed with a gasp, launching herself upright. Slippery and flashing, the events of the night before came back to her, tumbling recollections like pebbles caught up in a frothing tide.

My Clan in danger — Cullen’s resignation — the smooth plaster, a promise of color to come — a kiss….

For a moment she sat with her hands planted in the mattress, breathing. Allowing the recollection of the dream and all of its implications overwhelm her. Groggy, but awake enough to feel shame; in all that had happened, she found herself pondering not the fate of her Clan, but the events that had transpired in the Fade. She brought her hand up to her face, brushing her fingertips against her lips, remembering the kiss… she lingered in the memory, let its softness cushion her awakening before logic inevitably intruded.

Because now that she was awake she knew Solas was right. They shouldn’t have; and they should not in the future. She had been weak, dizzy with the anxiety of lives in her hands, the world on her shoulders. She had been looking for comfort, something familiar and warm. It was not an auspicious way to begin any sort of emotional entanglement—any sort of romance.

She scoffed at the thought.

(But the feeling of his hands when he held her own—not the first time. This had begun a long, long time ago; in some ways, it was a surprise it had taken this long for such a collision, nigh inevitable since the moment he’d seized her hand in the mountains.)

She remembered so vividly what it had felt like to be held by him, as if he were still with her, beside her—the warmth of his body, the insistence of his hands… how she had felt so free and easy.

She groaned, bowed her head forward into her hands and rubbed at her face with her fingertips, trying to will herself into wakefulness and out of the groggy stupor she’d found herself in after being wrenched so suddenly from dreaming.

(Had he really been able to command her into waking…?)

Blinking, eyes bleary. Clear daylight pressed through the colored panes of glass, speckling the floor with color. By the angle and the intensity of the light she could tell it was still early morning, just after dawn. Skyhold would just be beginning to stir.

She stared at the light for a long time, arms looped around her knees, sitting silently in bed. Waiting. Mustering up her resolve, her resignation.

She swung her legs over the side of the bed, pressed the soles of her feet against the cold stone of the floor, delighted in the shiver that ran down her spine at the contact. Her eyes fell to the table beside her bed, upon which still sat the metal dish in which she’d burned the dried blossoms Solas had given her the previous night in the rotunda. They’d been reduced to a chalky ash, silvery. She reached out, pinched a bit in her fingers, rolled it between the pads. Even that simple gesture released more of their fragrant scent into the air; at first whiff, Thanduwen felt a renewed weariness come over her, wiling her back to the bed.

Catching herself drifting again, she shook her head violently (as if to shake the weariness from her) and brushed the ash from her hands. Then she stood, and crossed the room to her armoire.

If she was swift, she thought, stepping out of her linens, she might reach the rotunda before any of her advisors discovered she was awake.

Solas had barely moved from the spot where she’d left him. He stood in the center of the rotunda with his back turned to her, but she could see the parchment he held in front of him; his free hand he traced lines in dark charcoal across its surface. Occasionally, he would extend his drawing arm, the stick of charcoal held delicately between his fingers, and he’d pause, as if measuring something, before jotting own another few gestural lines on his parchment.

“Good morning,” she said, announcing her presence.

Solas turned, smiled. But the grin flickered. He appeared unsure—almost nervous. “Good morning, Inquisitor. Sleep well?”

“Dreamt well, certainly,” she quipped back. “Though I can’t say how rested I am as a result. But it is a lovely, brisk morning. Will you walk with me?”

By the time they exited through Skyhold’s gates, the fortress had barely stirred from its slumber; few witnessed their departure.

For some time they walked in silence. Solas kept his hands joined behind his back; a deliberate gesture of self-restraint, she suspected. He looked relaxed; she wondered if he really was, or if he was roiling with the same disquiet she felt within her.

For Thanduwen's unease was plain. She kept glancing over her shoulder back at Skyhold's walls, watching the morning patrols parade across, keeping guard over the valley below. After several repetitions of the same gesture, Solas turned to her, amused.

“We’re out of earshot, now,” he said, quietly. Then, “Are you embarrassed?”

“No," Thanduwen replied, with an apologetic smile. "But I have a feeling I'm about to be.”

Indeed, embarrassment seemed a certainty. Especially because—while buttoning her jacket, while fastening her boots, while climbing the stairs down to the rotunda—she had racked her brain for the words to tell Solas how she felt, and come up with nothing.

(This was, most likely, because she did not quite understand how she felt, too many emotions at once, and difficult to untangle: The pain—persistent, even now, though its drumbeat had deadened beneath the complexity of everything that had come after—of being so far from her family, especially while they were in danger. And, though she tried to stifle it, the joy, of what it had felt like to be held, kissed, touched with tenderness—no, not those things, not just those things on their own, but—the joy at being tenderly touched by him. The confusion and the hurt at how he had turned her away, it isn’t right, knowing it to be true but knowing equally that she wished it weren’t, how she wished [for once, the first in all the time she had been part of the Inquisition] to do something she knew to be wrong. [That burden—!] And close on the heels of all those things, snapping its jaws, the crushing, gnawing guilt and shame. That she had woken and her thoughts had been of Solas and his generous mouth and not, instead, of the raven that carried Cullen’s orders to the troops near Ansburg, the soldiers who may or may not deliver her family from peril.)

Twigs crunching underfoot as they walked the mountain path, and she, searching still for the words. Thanduwen parted her lips, hesitant, turned her eyes away from him before she spoke. "I thought we should... talk about what happened, last night."

"Ahh," Solas hummed. "Well, to begin, I think I should apologize."

“Apologize?" Her eyes narrowed, suspicious despite herself; deep in the throes of her own self-deprecation, it seemed clear to her that she was the only one between the two of them guilty of any wrongdoing.

"The kiss was... ill considered," Solas said, turning to face her. "I should not have encouraged it. It has been a long time, and things have always been easier for me, in the Fade. It will not happen again.”

It was exactly what she needed to hear, if not what she had wanted. Because sometimes it is easier to say what is definitively not than it is to say what is. And that kiss (teeth clicking, mind numbing, body singing sweetness) had not been ill considered, and had she been in his place, she most certainly would have encouraged it. Despite everything else she felt, this much became astoundingly clear to her: selfish and ill-advised though it may be, kissing Solas was something she had done for herself. A small concession, a moment of clarity, all her titles (Herald, Inquisitor—First) falling away and leaving her with an equally small (but no less meaninful) truth:

That she wanted him.

That he made her feel happy, safe—radiant.

They shouldn’t have, and they shouldn’t again. She knew it as surely as she knew her name. But that did not change how she felt, what she knew to be equally true: that she did not regret it.

“And what if I want it to?” Thanduwen asked finally, quietly, unable to look at him. “Happen again.”

The rhythm of Solas’ stride faltered. He took a moment before he responded; when he did, his voice was low, his words carefully measured. “I would caution against that.”

“Why is that?” Thanduwen replied, knowing already her own reasons. Wanting to know his all the same.

“It could lead to trouble. For both of us.”

“We’re good at getting out of trouble.”

“Maybe not this kind,” Solas said, and she did not miss the note of remorse in his tone. “You and I…” he turned to look at her, the corners of his mouth twitching with thoughts unvoiced, beginnings without endings. Finally, he said simply, struggling his shoulders lightly in defeat, “There are considerations.”

That flickering mouth, and the knot between his eyebrows—it helped, a little, these visible signs that he too was torn. It softened the blow of the rejection, and it made what came next a little bit easier. Because while she was prepared (against her better judgement [they shouldn’t—]) to throw caution and concern to the mountain wind and kiss him a second, a third, a fourth and fifth time, she would not ask the same of him. An (in)auspicious beginning: she would not have him unless he was wholly willing.

“San,” she said, softly, lifting her chin, staring forward, trying to appear dignified, even as he pushed her away.

Solas came to a halt beside her. “San?” he asked, sounding more than a bit bewildered.

Thanduwen sighed, folded her arms protectively over her chest, contemplated the twigs broken on the dirt path beneath them.

“I don’t want to push you into something you’re uncomfortable with,” she said. When she turned her eyes up from the ground to meet his, there was something assertive in them. “Obviously my position within the Inquisition makes this complicated. And the truth is…” and her gaze softened here, “I rely upon you too much to jeopardize our relationship by trying to talk you into something you don’t want. Your advice, your kindness, your knowledge; these things are too important to me to risk, even if it is for the sake of…” and here she smiled, playfully, “…more excellent, intense, fiery kisses.”

There was a curious look on Solas’ face when she finished: skeptical eyes, uncertain brows, amused mouth. Through his own tempest of indecision, he managed, “Are you trying to flatter me into submission?”

She laughed low; the laugh receded into a hum. “That would suggest my praise is insincere. It is not.”

He gave a low, rumbling sound of amusement; he was looking at her with something indecisive and dark (she’d seen that look, right before he shook his head, reached for her, pulled her to him) but it was gone in the next moment. He blinked, breathed deep, turned to her possessed of his self-restraint. But that did not stop him from reach out for her, his long fingers pinching a strand of dark hair and pushing it delicately out of her face.

“It is not simply a matter of what I do or do not want,” Solas said, quietly.”I ask only for time, to consider more fully the repercussions.”

“You’ll have it.” Simple, easy, to give him the space he needed; especially when she was due to depart for Crestwood soon.

“But…” he said slowly, and he turned his eyes away from her, out to the bare trees, “it is a lovely, brisk morning.” A grin gracing his lips as he repeated her earlier words. He turned to her, kind, chaste, thankful. “If there is anything you wish to discuss, I would enjoy talking, and continuing our walk. Your advisors, I think, will not miss you for some time yet.”

The smile that split her face was as bright as the sun on the snow. “I’d like that.”

#solas #lavellan #solavellan #dragon age #dragon age inquisition #haven scene #first kiss #also clan lavellan drama #beginning of rotunda frescoes #winter in skyhold

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