#trick solas ending my beloved

[taamlok]

me watching solas be a smug asshole but i know i'm gonna get his ass epic style later

[crows-of-buckets]

Idk why but I have been turning these lines around in my head since I first played the tricking ending. Do you think he realized how much he sounded like Elgarnan at the end? Does it haunt him?

[fenharelsfang]

The Wolf's Heart (1/5)

The world was awash in a sea of blood, a crimson tide of red lyrium, the Blight, and the shadow of the forced solar eclipse. The smell of smoke and rotting flesh choked the air. People screamed in the city below the Archon’s palace. Darkspawn and other unholy creatures of the Blight stalked the streets, slaughtering anything in their path. Malevolent spirits flocked to the weakening Veil like moths to a flame, possessing any mage desperate enough to invite them in. The fear of death was a very strong motivator. In the sky, a monstrous Archdemon and a six-eyed wolf the size of a dragon fought a battle that shook the very heavens. Meanwhile, a swarm of Antaam soldiers and Venatori agents stormed the city and marched against the makeshift army of Grey Wardens, Veil Jumpers, Lords of Fortune, Antivan Crows, Mourn Watchers, Shadow Dragons, and Inquisition agents, all led by Rook, the man who inadvertently started these unfortunate chain of events.

All was not lost, though. They had successfully defeated and killed Ghilan’nain and now only Elgar’nan stood in the way. Well, Elgar’nan and Solas.

“Honestly, it doesn’t surprise me,” said Rook. He and the rest of the faction leaders were gathered around a grand oak table discussing their next steps. Neve Gallus, recently freed from Elgar’nan’s clutches, revealed to them that once the tyrannical god was defeated, the last of the Veil’s bindings would unravel and it would come crashing down. “Tearing down the Veil has been his goal since the very beginning. He already betrayed me once. It’s his whole schtick.”

“I’m still blown away by the fact that archdemons are just dragons bound to a bunch of magical elves and there were two of them flying around out here,” Warden-Commander Cousland remarked with a whistle. The effects of being a Grey Warden for the past twenty years had taken its toll on her. Her once rich auburn hair had dulled to light grey and dark purple bags sagged under her eyes. She was close to her Calling. The song of the Blight was getting difficult to block out. All those years of searching for a way to free Grey Wardens from their burden amounted to nothing. This last ditch effort to seal the Blight behind the Veil was her only salvation. She prayed it would be enough to quell the corruption in her blood. Once done, perhaps she could finally go home to her beloved King for good and enjoy their twilight years in peace. “And I thought my Blight was bad.”

“... I think I preferred Corypheus,” Hawke confessed, face ashen. She was still haunted by the horror the red lyrium she unearthed had unleashed. Now Varric was dead and Solas used blood magic to trick Rook into thinking he wasn’t. That was sick and twisted. The tale of the Evanuris needed to end and she’d be there to write that final chapter. It would end with their death.

“If anyone can stop Elgar’nan and Solas, it is the individuals gathered here,” Morrigan proclaimed with an air of confidence. She had met each of these heroes, these paragons of light and hope, and helped steer the tides of fate so that they would succeed.

“We know how to beat Elgar’nan,” Rook said. “Solas will take care of his archdemon and, when he does, we’ll throw everything we have at him. It’s what happens after that concerns me.” He looked to Neve, her blood-red eyes sending a shiver down his spine. Ugly black veins pulsed at her temples and black blood dribbled down her chin. She was inexplicably connected to the Blight now, able to feel it and, to some extent, control it. “We need a plan to stop the Veil from falling.”

“The Veil is tied to the ancient elven gods,” Morrigan said. “‘Twill not be a simple matter to find a suitable tether once they are gone.”

“Then let’s tie it to Solas,” Rook suggested. “He’s an elven god and the only one that will be left.”

Inquisitor Ellana Lavellan, standing further down the table next to Morrigan and Dorian, clenched her jaw at the suggestion. Rook didn’t speak highly of the Dread Wolf. It was understandable, really. He had been used and betrayed. Varric was gone, truly gone, and now Harding was lost as well. She could see vengeance coiling around his heart like a viper. That same righteous anger radiated off of Hawke as well. It was horrible, but she … she wanted to defend him! This wasn’t the Solas she knew, the one she fell in love with. They hadn’t seen the softer shades of him: his kindness towards those who were hurting or the way he lit up like a delighted child when speaking about the Fade. He wasn’t so different from them. He had his virtues and vices, his quirks. They didn’t know the elf who detested the taste of tea, the elf who painted beautiful murals on the walls, who could play chess in his head, who had a secret love of romance novels and music. Only she had that privilege. Everyone else who knew the truth of him was gone.

Solas, what have you done?

“You are correct,” Morrigan continued, pulling Ellana out of her troubled thoughts, “but you will need to draw his blood with the lyrium dagger to bind him and I doubt he will approve of the idea.”

Rook smirked, a dangerous glint in his eyes. “I can be very persuasive.” A sigh. “But it will be risky.”

Emmrich cleared his throat. “What about this dagger we made while you were trapped in the Fade?” he suggested, sliding the fake dagger across the table. It was nearly identical to the ritual dagger strapped to Rook’s side. He picked it up and turned it over in his hands. There were no reverberations of magic threaded through it like the real one. “Odds are,” Emmrich continued, “Solas will need to do something else to complete his ritual. This dagger looks identical, but–”

“It can’t cut through enchantments like the real thing,” Rook finished.

“The backlash of such magic will render him helpless,” Morrigan remarked, glancing briefly at Ellana.

Taash stepped forward. “Uh, are you sure you want to try a bait-and-switch on the Dread Wolf? You know, the god of lies and trickery?”

The leaders gathered around the table all seemed sold on that idea. Trick the trickster. Poetic justice. Ellana had been quiet for too long. She may have been speaking to the void, but her words needed to be heard. “Is there a chance, any chance at all, that he’ll listen to reason?”

“Speaking from the heart, Inquisitor?” Morrigan asked. Her smile was sad, sympathetic to the Inquisitor’s plight.

“How could I not?” Ellana protested. “None of you know him as I do. Well, perhaps you do, Morrigan, sort of. The rest of you don’t. You’ve only ever seen the Dread Wolf. I’ve seen the man beneath all of that. If given the chance–”

“We’ve given him plenty of chances,” Rook said. “And he wasted them at every turn.”

“Not every turn,” Lavellan argued. “He saved you and the Dalish elves from Elgar’nan. Even though he was free from that Fade prison, he still worked with the Shadow Dragons and helped protect them from the Blight. He wants to help. It’s all he’s ever wanted to do. His heart has never been in this plan to tear down the Veil. He just … he feels like he has to do this to make up for everything that happened in the past. Everything that he did for her, for Mythal. If I can talk to him–”

“Varric tried to talk to him,” Rook said. “He died for it.”

Ellana’s heart was a stone in her chest. Her throat tightened and she closed her eyes. “I know.”

“You already tried to talk him out of it before and he took your arm for it.”

Her fists clenched and her bottom lip trembled. “I know.”

“This isn’t a fairytale, Inquisitor. You can’t solve this with the ‘power of love’.” Rook struck the table with his fist, startling Ellana so that she opened her eyes to meet his fiery gaze. “He’s too stuck in his ways. He can’t change. Actually, it’s not even that – he won’t change. Not for you. Not for anyone.”

“Rook,” Bellara said, resting a gentle hand on his arm. “That’s enough.” She had been watching the Inquisitor slowly crumble under Rook’s words and it hurt. Ellana’s struggle to save the man she loved mirrored her own trials with Cyrian. In the end, he redeemed himself, though he paid the ultimate price for it. Bellara didn’t know the Inquisitor well, but she didn’t wish that same fate on her.

Ellana glared at Rook with angry, tear-filled eyes, but she said nothing. They were good points, she wasn’t going to deny it. It infuriated her all the same. She wanted to see Solas. Ten long years she had gone without him and she needed to see him to know for sure that he was too far gone to be brought back. From what she heard, he wasn’t. He couldn’t be. She had hope that she could reach him, she just needed one more chance.

“You have options,” Morrigan interjected. “And you can make your choice when the time comes. For now, we have Elgar’nan to deal with.”

“Right,” Rook said. He let out a slow breath to simmer the boiling anger inside of him and rubbed the back of his tense, aching neck. The Inquisitor was a legend. She saved the world from a darkspawn magister and his archdemon. Thedas owed her a great debt. He never imagined someone so powerful, who made choices that determined the fate of the world could be so naive. He noticed how young she looked and began to think that maybe it wasn’t the fact that she was an elf. “Elgar’nan is in the Archon’s palace above us. We’ll all climb the tendril as soon as the archdemon is taken care of. Stock up on supplies and say your goodbyes. It’s time to end this nightmare.”

Rook was the first to leave, stalking off to check in with the faction leaders to get an update on their forces. Warden-Commander Cousland followed Davrin, no doubt burning with questions about a living, breathing griffon at his heels. Hawke disappeared into the next room to meet up with Isabela. It had been years since they’d seen each other. Most of the other members of the Veilguard left to their own factions to say goodbye to the friends and family they had made over the years. Many of these people would not be returning after this battle. Already their numbers had thinned in the first assault on the city.

Ellana meandered over to the fireplace. Morrigan watched her for a moment, poised as if ready to say something, but then thought better of it. She gripped the amulet around her neck, a sending stone, and left to a far corner to update her son on the situation. Kieran was safe, as safe as he could be with the world ending as it was. He wanted to join her, but this was a mission she needed to undertake on her own. Besides, if Elgar’nan had the power to sense the soul bound within Kieran …

Dorian joined Ellana by the fireplace. He noticed her biting her thumbnail, tapping her foot restlessly against the stone floor. Tears still shone in her eyes.

“You still love him, do you?” he asked. “After all these years?”

Ellana closed her eyes and lowered her hand. “I will always love him. He’s who I belong with.”

Dorian sighed. He reached out an arm and wrapped it around her shoulders, pulling her into his embrace. “What am I going to do with you?”

They stood there for a while, staring into the fire, each consumed by their own thoughts. Ellana leaned her head against Dorian’s shoulder. She had missed him. Even with the sending stones, being so far away from him was difficult. He was her rock. When everything was falling apart, he had been there for her. The Inquisition disbanding, Solas leaving her that fateful night in Crestwood and then again after defeating Corypheus, her clan exiling her when she told them the truth about the Dread Wolf … Dorian was there to keep her going. He was her very best friend.

“Dorian, when this is over–”

“I know.”

She lifted her head off of his shoulder and stared at him with wide, surprised eyes. “You do..?”

“My dear, I could see it all over your face at the meeting.” He smiled at her, tears shimmering in his own eyes, and brushed a strand of hair out of her face. “And though I don’t believe he will ever be deserving of you or understand why you could love that stubborn, prideful egghead, he makes you happy. And you deserve all the happiness the world can offer.”

“Dorian…” Ellana sniffed and wiped at the tears that had slipped down her face. She felt a soft handkerchief being placed in her hand and wiped at her eyes.

“Don’t start crying, you soft-hearted fool. You’ll make me cry, too, and I refuse to be reduced to a blubbering mess.”

Ellana laughed and leaned up to kiss his cheek. “I’m going to miss you.”

“I’ll miss you, too, my friend,” he replied. They held each other for a long moment and when they finally separated, Dorian left to meet with Maevaris.

Ellana stood alone in that room, facing the fireplace for a moment longer and trying to formulate a plan. She would find some way to get to Solas first so they could talk, before Rook took matters into his own hands. As she turned away, she nearly collided with Neve. The mage was staring at her, still as a statue. Her black eyes pulsed with an unnerving intensity and a sinister smile spread far too wide across her face.

“Oh, Neve,” Ellana said. She tried to remember Neve’s real face beneath the corruption. Hopefully this was temporary. Something seemed … different about the mage, though. “I’m sorry. Did you … need something?”

Neve chuckled darkly as she slowly began to circle around Ellana as a predator would its prey. “So, the Dread Wolf has fallen in love,” came a voice that was definitely not Neve’s. It was male, high-pitched and gurgling as if blood filled the lungs. Her irises were a thin white ring against a black backdrop, mirroring the eclipse outside. “And with a mortal, no less. This is interesting news indeed.”

Ellana took a step back and felt the flames of the fire licking her back. Neve matched it. She was cornered and though she had never heard the voice before, the realization came over her all the same. “Elgar’nan,” she whispered.

Her cry for help was cut short by a fleshy tendril erupting from a blighted portal in the ground. It wrapped around her throat, strangling her. She threw out her gauntleted hand and the fire within the hearth snaked around it before jettisoning out at the tendril. The gauntlet was a true marvel of engineering, created especially for Ellana by her arcanist, Dagna. It acted as a staff would, focusing her magic. The tendril shrieked as the flames burned into its flesh. Footsteps and startled voices sounded elsewhere in the building, heading to her location. Another tendril burst forth to trap her body in a vice-like grip.

“Inquisitor!” Morrigan cried out as kicked open the door to the room. Lightning crackled from her fingertips and arced out towards the abominations. The acrid smell of burning flesh made Ellana’s eyes water. She felt the relief of loosening limbs and thrashed about wildly to escape. Morrigan’s attack wasn’t enough, however. More tendrils sprouted from the growing portal around them, wrapping around the Inquisitor further. Dark spots danced in her vision as the air left her. She struggled desperately against the tightening garrote. The whispers of demons promising her the strength to free herself from this horror roared in her mind like thunder, but she fought against them. Slowly, she began to sink into the portal, its red glow casting sinister shadows on her face.

More allies showed up. The Warden-Commander hacked at the tendrils with her dragonbone greataxe, but they sprouted new growths with each strike. Dorian joined Morrigan in a magical assault of lightning and fire. Even Rook struck at the tendrils with the lyrium dagger. It proved to be the most effective weapon against the aberrations. The prison that contained the blight from which they originated was created by that weapon. Pieces fell to the ground in squelching thuds before disintegrating into ash. Instinctively, they coiled tighter around the Inquisitor's body. The last thing the heroes saw was the Inquisitor’s fearful eyes as she was dragged through the portal into the earth.

“Ellana!” Dorian cried out. He slammed his fists against the stone floor as if he could crack it open. “We have to help her!”

Rook stormed up to Neve, still possessed by Elgar’nan, and shook her viciously. “Where have you taken her?!”

The black sclera faded back into white, her irises glowing red once more. Neve blinked. She looked down at Rook’s hands gripping her arms, fingernails digging painfully into her skin, and then around at the people gathered around with their weapons drawn. “Ow, Rook, that hurts! What’s going on? What happened?”

Bellara ran up to her, shocked at Rook's increasing anger. “Elgar'nan possessed you for a minute there. He must be connected to you through the Blight. The Inquisitor is gone. He kidnapped her.”

Neve blanched. To have that horrid creature violating her body like that made her sick. Was that how Lucanis felt when Spite was forced into him? She patted Bellara’s hand to let her know she was okay. Sensing her distress, Lucanis came up beside her and held her hand.

“Damnit!” Rook cursed. He turned to the others, all staring at him with expectant eyes. “He must have taken her to the Archon’s palace.”

“Why would he take the Inquisitor?” Davrin asked. “If anything, I thought he’d kidnap you, Rook.”

Dorian paled as realization dawned on him. “He overheard us…”

“What do you mean?” Rook asked.

“Ellana and I … we were discussing her past relationship with Solas. Elgar’nan must have heard through Neve. He’s going to use her against Solas.”

“Well, shit,” Hawke muttered. “What does that mean, exactly?”

“It shouldn’t mean anything,” Rook said. “I’m sure he thinks it’ll stop Solas from killing his archdemon, but we all know it won’t.”

“Do we?” Morrigan asked.

“Don’t tell me you believe she’s more important than his end goal.”

“It is not a matter of whether or not I believe in his love for her. Solas was a spirit. He is guided by his emotions and he has not seen the Inquisitor in many years. It will, at the very least, distract him. All Elgar’nan needs is an opening, for Solas to let his guard down and he can end the Dread Wolf. Solas is not bound to an archdemon. He is mortal. It only takes one well-placed strike.”

Rook began to pace back and forth in front of the fireplace, hands on his hips, brow furrowed. “Then we need to get up to the palace as soon as possible. We need that archdemon dead and it’s too fucking big for us to kill it alone.”

“We’ve got other problems,” said Strife as he jogged up to the distraught group with Isabela and the Viper in tow. “Elgar’nan’s army is amassing just outside. Our forces can hold them off while you climb up.”

So they would have to face Elgar’nan with less forces than they planned. That did not bode well, especially if Solas was somehow taken out.

“It’s fine,” Rook said. “The Veilguard can handle Elgar’nan. Just make sure those forces stay here on the ground.”

“We will,” the Warden-Commander promised.

Rook turned to his team. “Let’s do this.”

[revvethasmythh]

So I went and watched all the possible endings, and it confirmed something I had been thinking, which is that the redemption ending choice is, perhaps, the most immediately regretful one--but that they all come with some form of regret. In the redemption ending, Rook has to knowingly deny themselves the catharsis of retribution (should they desire it, which, at least for me it felt difficult not to) in order to offer Solas one last, painful chance to do the right thing. That willful denial of your own catharsis feels like an immediate regret. Giving Solas the opportunity to pursue atonement might very well be the best choice all around, but it is also incredibly painful to offer that to someone who has done so many terrible things (not a small amount to you personally). Why does he deserve another chance? Especially when so many dead (including a beloved mentor) lie in his wake? Which, I suppose, is the point: he doesn't. But you offer it anyway and it SUCKS ASS, because how could it not?

I don't know how this plays with other story choices (a sacrificed Davrin or a Harding who embraced her anger, for example), but within the context of my own choices, I can imagine an immediate satisfaction to either tricking or fighting him--especially the trick ending, where you can actively name drop Varric--but it feels like the sort of thing that would feel worse as more time passes. Once you've calmed down and are able to ask yourself if that's what the people you've lost really wanted. Varric, in Regret Superhell, didn't want vengeance. He just wanted his friend to walk a better path. And Harding always believed there was another chance for anyone, so long as you kept reaching a hand out for them--even when it sucked ass. So the redemption ending feels like a sort of indignance, an instant regret for not doing worse, for not getting comeuppance, for being forced to eschew satisfaction (related: I wonder if the Inquisitor feels those things as well coming out of this ending, considering how long they've lived under the shadow of Solas' actions). Conversely, the other two endings feel like an immediate satisfaction, because you got to trick the trickster with all the wits Varric taught you, or because you finally got to punch him in the face and it felt really good. But I feel like those endings would come with a creeping regret, something that sneaks up on you later, especially when remembering the fallen and what they would have wanted you to do. Ultimately, because of that, it feels like no ending is devoid of regret. Which I suppose, is rather thematic.

[the-bear-and-his-sunbird]

The scared boy and lonely girl (Ch. 1- The scared boy)

I finally did it ! I wrote my first Emmrook Fic!! Thank you and the biggest shoutout to @dymme who has worked her ass off as my Beta Reader. Without you, this would not exist.

(Also check out her own Rook "Maggs" and Emmrich. They have a wildly different Dynamic but I love it so much!)

Also @mosoderbergh wanted to get tagged as soon as this is finished. Have several pages of this lovely man getting taken care of.

Read either on Ao3 or under the cut.

Chapters: 1/3 Fandom: Dragon Age: The Veilguard (Video Game), Dragon Age (Video Games) Rating: Teen And Up Audiences Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply Relationships: Emmrich Volkarin/Rook, Emmrich Volkarin/Original Female Character(s), Rook/Emmrich Volkarin Characters: Emmrich Volkarin, Rook - Character, Rook Ingellvar Additional Tags: Hurt/Comfort, Emmrich has a breakdown, spoilers for late game, Dragon Age: The Veilguard Spoilers, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Happy Ending, Implied Past Violence, Post-Mortem scars, Older Man/Younger Woman, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Light Angst, Siobhan will take care of her man, How often can I make Siobhan comfort Emmrich in one fic, the answer is yes, Implied Anxiety, Post Fade, Siobhan matches his freak Series: Part 1 of The beetle on the lilac Summary:

"She won’t have it. Because she sees the familiar flicker in his eyes: the frightened boy ghosting around in his skull. Scared of loss. Scared of being left alone with nothing but grief and his fear of death as his companions. And no matter how much he tries to hide it and fall back into his habit of taking care of her, she sees him. She will always seem him."

After escaping the Fade, Siobhan "Rook" Ingellvar finds her beloved Emmrich Volkarin distraught. She decides its time to care for him, as he always did for her.

Siobhan knows fear.

The little demon that sits inside her ribcage and shakes her very core. As a Watcher, she knows the fear of death, as the little child that grew up in the crypts, she knows the fear of loneliness and as the “Rook” against Elgar’nan and Ghilan'nain, she knows the fear of regrets. Regret eats away at you. Like its some huge monstrosity that eats and eats and eats, always ready to remind you what could have been if you’d have been smarter and faster and someone entirely different.

The Fade prison is that monster incarnate. Trying to eat her alive, while she screams. She does not truly know where she mustered the strength to find her way through the grey haze, but something spurred her on, always at the back of her mind: there are people that need her, that care for her and that she cares for in return. Her friends. Especially those that she lost. She tries not to scream as she thinks of brave and kind Harding, as she prayes for Bellara to be still alive and to hold on, hopes that Lucanis dead body was only a trick formed by Solas.

She hopes that there are still people waiting for her: Her friends. And Emmrich. There are words that need to be said. About how she does not care about his age. What are twenty years when the person you waited for your entire life stands right in front of you? The night before the battle she wrote him a letter, in case that she wouldn‘t make it out alive and hoped that he would forgive her.

But she is alive and she needs him to hear those from herself. That she loves him, will always love him. So she fights and fights and grieves and cries and finally meets Varric. Her mentor in all of this from the very beginning. And she lets go. Lets go of the false memories in her head, let’s go of her mentor, let’s go of her regret about things that cannot be changed anymore.

Determination and hope and relief fills when she hears her friends' voices, hears them call her name. There is a tear in the prison and hands that grab her from beyond, pulling and yanking. They care about me, she thinks. I fight for them and they fight for me and they love me. They love me. I get to see Emmrich again. I get to hold him again. Please let me hold him again.

She pushes herself against the wall, as several hands pull, and finally leaves the Fade. The first thing she sees on this side of the world, in a world filled with so many vibrant colors and smells, is Emmrich’s face. Wide-eyed and beautiful, he stands there ready to catch her. And he does. He always does. She collapses in his arms and cries. For a while, there is nothing but her sobs and Emmrich hugging her so very tight. But she doesn’t care because he is here. Alive. Somehow they made it.

Her little demon in her chest tries to rear its ugly head, trying to suffocate her. What if this is another dream? it whispers urgently, but she can’t let herself listen to it. Not when she is finally out of the Fade and the cheers of her team are echoing around her. So, Siobhan forces herself to breathe (four in, hold, four out, hold) and comes back to her surroundings. As her breathing calms she notices that Emmrich isn’t just holding tight. He is clinging to her like his live depends on it. His slender arms shake as they press her body into his and as her face gets pressed into his chest she can feel his heart racing. “Emmrich?” A question and a plea.

He let’s go just enough to grab her face and searches for some confirmation that only she can give. But what exactly, she doesn’t know. Blinking her tears away she asks again, “Emmrich?” His lips purse, but whatever he seeks seems to fade into the background.

“You are with us again, Siobhan. The nightmare is over,” he says.” Are you alright?” She nods weakly and he pulls her up in a single swift motion, holding her steady as her legs wobble. There are loud cheers again and someone pats her back, hard. Probably Taash. Then she is pulled into the most awkward hug, that only Neve could give. The whole situation is a blur of hands and voices, but one thing stays prominent: Emmrich doesn’t let her go. His hands are always somewhere on her body: her shoulders, her hand, the small of her back.

It’s Neve who makes the final call to fall back to the Lighthouse. Siobhan grasps for words to explain what happened, to ask the questions she dares not to ask. For a second there is another hand on her shoulder and Davrins voice breaks through: “We can talk later.” And then his hand is gone. Emmrich remains close to her as they make their way back to the closest Eluvian. They are in Arlathan, she realises,  and Siobhan revels in the sounds around her. Both from the nature and  people around her.

From their group, everyone but Harding and Bellara have made it back. Siobhan shakes her head and tries to focus. Taash and Neve are in the front, Lucanis dips in and out of her vision keeping watch, and Davrin is guarding their tail with Assan flying above. Emmrich is so close beside her that it seems like he wants to melt into her skin. His slender fingers, usually gently interlaced with hers, now hold on to her with the strength of someone who is trying not to drown, his hands bloody from gripping the lifeline. Her bloodied hand, the lifeline. For him.

An unsettling thought shivers up her spine and whispers in her ear: “How long have you really been gone? What made him hold on like this?” Siobhan shudders and pushes the thought away.

“Darling, are you alright?” Emmrich asks, voice strained. The route they are taking is even, weaving through the golden trees that shine so beautifully in the warm light of the setting sun. He calls me darling. The realization hits her like lightning in her chest. After their argument she had been worried about him. About his fear of death. About their relationship and if he wants to go on with her. Relief floods in the hollowed out path of her sorrow and makes her feel weightless.

She nods and gives him a weak smile. “Don’t worry, Emmrich. Just taking in everything that happened.”

Emmrich eyes hover over her warily and a moment passes before he nods. “If you say so, my dear.”

But Siobhan knows in her bones that he doesn’t believe her. Had he found her letter? She had instructed Bellara to tell Emmrich about it before they departed for Tearstone Island. But with Bellara being dead- Gone, not dead. Not until I see a body- it is difficult to imagine what has transpired. Her head is filled with thousands of questions that chant in unison with the voices of her friends. As her chest beginning to feel tight again, she forces a determined expression on her face and instead of breaking apart, she tells them about the fade.

About Solas, about how she saw Harding and Bellara and Varric.

Varric.

“You didn’t know?” Lucanis asks, voice dripping with horror.

“No.” she answers, voice flat.

“Mierda, I’m sorry. If we had known-”

“I know.” She notices how sharp her tone is and gently adds: “Don’t apologize for something that wasn’t your fault.”

“What did Solas do to trap you anyway? Must have been quite the thing to fool you.” Neve adds, trying to steer the conversation away from the topic. Siobhan has been mesmerized by Neves perceptiveness since the very beginning. Now she could kiss her because Neve swiftly moves the attention away from the tears in the corner of Siobhans eyes. The questions hangs heavy between them anyway.

Siobhan feels Emmrichs eyes on her without looking. Why did you leave? she imagines them saying, Why did you leave me? She has no strength to look and see if her worries are correct. Instead she settles for softly caressing his iron-grip fingers. They tighten even more.

A sigh escapes her, even as it feels like there is no air in her lungs left. She chokes out, “Solas tricked me. After Harding… died. He showed me an illusion of Lucanis. Dead. Then I was in the fade. Alone with my regrets.” Heavy silence fills the open space. Eyes turn to her in honest horror but Siobhan feels too tired for whisking up a way to catch her group emotionally. She can figure out a way to regroup the team as soon as her head stops aching so much. As soon as she doesn‘t smell of blood anymore. “I’ll be alright. We get Bellara back and we do whatever it takes to take down Elgar’nan. Let's just get back to the Lighthouse first.”

Her voice is strong. Stronger than she feels anyway. Lucanis nods, his eyes flickering back and forth between her and Emmrich, and lets it go, picking up pace to join Taash at the front. Brave Taash, shouldering the loss of Harding with the same stoic silence they fight Venatori. Siobhan makes a mental note to check in on them later.

But first she has to talk to Emmrich, who, despite adding to the conversation around him every now and then, is uncharacteristically silent. The rest of the trip is mostly Neve and Davrin roughly updating her of what had been done in the time she was gone.

How long have you been gone? This sounds so long.

With every new bit of nformation, she feels more tired, making the way to the Lighthouse seem so very long; yet she pushes forward with the same determination that got her through the fade. Her friends, the promise of a better future, and Emmrich. Always Emmrich; He’s alive, he’s alive, thank the Maker he’s alive. As soon as they reach the last Eluvian, Siobhan wants to cry from relief.

The lighthouse is silent, as if grieving itself, but Siobhan can feel the same warmth, the same silent joy emitting from its core like it did so many times before. As if welcoming them home. When they gather in the library, Siobhan dismisses the group, telling them to rest. Partly for them and partly for herself. There is an understanding in their eyes. Everyone is exhausted, both physically and emotionally and the last battle still awaits them. Silently, fingers interlaced, Emmrich and Siobhan watch the others leave. As soon as the door to the courtyard finally closes, Siobhan turns her gaze to Emmrich.

It’s their first time alone after their argument, when her beloved was scared of his age and their future. And even if she wants nothing more than to fall and break, as soon as she meets his eyes, truly and fully this time, she knows that has to wait.

Emmrich is never truly silent. If he is not talking about a theory that piqued his interest or some more practical aspect of his work, he hums or mutters or tuts under his breath. His mind racing in search for new answers, curiosity and will to learn pushing him to new limits. The swiftness of his wit always as dependable as steadiness of his hands.

She is scared. Because right now he is neither talking nor steady. Silence cloaks him like a heavy shadow. His hands tremble around hers; their movement grown from a slight tremor at their first touch to an earthquake as he covers her hands with his. But it is his eyes that break something in her. The terrified eyes of a boy who was forced to wear loss like a shroud around his shoulders since he was so very young. So she pushes her own fear away and gently strokes his hands, before carefully unraveling herself from his grasp.

“Emmrich, my love, are you alright?” she says, soft but steady.

“Yes, my dear. I- I am quite alright,” his voice falters as he says it. Emmrich must know too, because he clears his throat and tries again. “Why do you ask?”

Hot tears run over her hand as she gently cups his cheeks. He leans into her touch ever so slightly, eyes still fixated on her, a forced smile upon his lips.

“My love, you are crying.” Siobhan murmurs as she cradles his head in her hands.

Like a beetles wing fluttering against a brittle wall, his resolve breaks.

Emmrich grabs her by the shoulder and pulls her close in one single motion, their bodies crushing together. His arms circle around her in the same fashion his hands held her before: with the conviction that if he lets go, she will be gone. She mirrors him in this. Siobhan grabs him tight and does not let go, as Emmrich sobs into her shoulder, one of his hands shooting up to grab the back of her head pulling her even closer.

“I thought I lost you, Siobhan.” he cries, grabbing her even tighter. “Forgive me, darling. Oh, my darling. Don’t ever leave me like that again.” Another sob shakes him. “Don’t ever leave.” 

“I won’t. I am here. I’ve got you,” she coos, “We’re safe.”

As Emmrichs legs give in, she guides them both to the floor. It is not graceful, and Siobhan feels the impact painfully on her knees, and yet she stays, murmuring sweet nothings as she rocks him gently from side to side. He switches between breathless apologies and quick kisses to her cheek, her neck. Where does his body begin, where does hers end? Does it even matter?

After a while, he buries his face in her hair and just breathes. Siobhan waits until he stops crying, and then some more, before she pulls back to look at his face. His eyes are swollen and red, matching the flush on his cheeks. His hair is tousled. As she watches him, Siobhan notices that tears and snot have mixed in his slightly too long beard, which sticks out from his dark, hastily shaved stubble. Siobhan wipes away some of the snot-tear mixture, which earns her a flicker of disapproval and something akin to embarrassment, as she wipes it off on her clothes. She pays it no mind. She has touched worse things in her time as a Watcher. Siobhan smiles warmly at him, “Let’s get you cleaned up, shall we?”

She rises her feet with a slight wobble, pulling him up with her. “Will you let me take care of you?” she asks, carefully.

He blinks slowly at her before answering, “What?”

“Will you let me take care of you?” She repeats, making sure to speak slow and steady, trying to pierce through the fog that surrounds him.

“I should be taking care of you.” his voice, gruff from crying, wavers slightly. He tries to put on his usually controlled and charming demeanor, which falls utterly flat at the sight in front of her: His vest is wrongly buttoned under his armor and hair that was pulled back just enough to give the pretense of put-togetherness this morning has fallen into complete disarray. His face is marked by the river of tears that surely has made its way onto her own armor.

Even like this, he looks beautiful.

In her chest, something simultaneously blooms and aches. “No, you should not.” she states more bluntly than she intends to. As his eyes widen, she is quick to add: “You’re always comforting me. From the very first moment I met you, without fail, even if you didn’t know you were doing it: You were always there for me.”

She gazes into his eyes and hopes that without saying, he understands the worry that she feels about him, the grief at having thought of losing him and the wish to be the one he can hold onto; the one he can let himself rest with. “Let me do the same for you tonight.” She sees him swallow hard. Once, twice. Seemingly fighting against something buried deep within him. An eternity seems to pass before he gives a sharp nod.

“Thank you.” she says quietly and starts moving.

He follows her up without hesitation but while his hand still holds firmly on to her, it feels less desperate. Siobhan marks that as a small win.

When they enter the community bath a few minutes later, Siobhan has quickly gathered all his toiletries, morning robe and two nightgowns from Emmrichs room. She doesn’t like to admit it, but the thought of letting his hand go or going to her own wretched room to retrieve her nightdress made her stomach churn. Emmrich either didn’t seem to notice or didn’t mind her stealing his stuff.

A quick scan around the big room tells her that their friends are tactful or simply distracted enough to give them space. Still, she lets out a relieved sigh. “Seems like we have the space to ourselves.” she announces, arms spreading wide before falling awkwardly to her sides. Her fingers start drumming on her legs.

Emmrich only nods but says nothing, his mind seemingly somewhere else. Her brow furrows.

While the bathroom has a sauna and several showers, Siobhan always preferred the pools. The water is always perfectly warm, probably lighthouse magic, like the ever hot enough oven in the kitchen area and the various places to sit, make it a wonderful place to relax. And in that same vein, absolutely perfect for her endeavor. She lays a hand on his lower back, balancing her goods with the other and softly nudges him to the seats nearest to the water. Mirrors with golden inlays and various shelves and nooks for storage blend naturally into the white marble walls of the bathhouse.

Emmrich wanders over to one of the seats and begins unbuttoning his waistcoat without thinking. Siobhan sets down the clothes and begins spreading the various filigree glass bottles. Right now, she tries to tame the beast of fear and grief, so she can be a rock for the man she loves most in this world and beyond. So, she focuses on keeping her movements controlled and slow, talking softly to Emmrich about what she is doing. As she turns around, she sees him folding his waistcoat, his hazel eyes trained on her movements, face unreadable. With a clink, the last bottle is set upon the hard floor.

Siobhan rises and walks over to him, setting her fingers on his garments. Button by button she slowly unravels his shirt. When the last one pops open, she slides the garment down off his shoulders and presses a tender kiss to the exposed skin. She stills as Emmrich moves to kiss her head, lingering in the movement. As she looks down, she sees that his hands hover in front of the blood crusted fabric of her armor.

A look into his eyes tells her what she needs to know: The fear of this being just another hazy dream that the morning light will steal away, like all the memories of the loved ones he has lost along the way. It is the same mournful look he had when he asked her about her thoughts concerning his parents wishes.

How many nights have you had that dream with me? she wonders, How many times did you wake up, expecting to find me next to you, only to have your hand meet empty sheets? Her heart hurts yet again as she raises her eyes to meet his and finds her answer.

Too long, my dear.

Siobhan takes his hands, taking the time to kiss them again and again and again, only stopping to slip his rings from his fingers and setting them upon his folded clothes. She continues with his gloves, which she puts neatly next to his rings. When that is done, she straightens and raises her hands to his neck, pulling him toward her.

“I am here,” She simply says, as their foreheads connect, “I won’t leave you again.”

Moments later her armor falls to the floor, untangled by Emmrichs nimble hands. They spent the time unbuttoning and untying any remaining items of clothing on their bodies without talking. Shedding the items of clothing like the skin of a serpent.

When they are both finally naked, they set off towards the warm pool. The warmth of the bath is a welcome feeling on Siobhan's skin and she sighs as she lets herself sink in the water. Emmrich follows right behind her.

As soon as he is seated, he pulls her wordlessly into his lap and holds her tight to his chest. With a bit of wriggling she manages to turn around and straddles him with both her legs firmly pressed against his tighs In different circumstances, this position would make her melt in his hands. But she simply grabs his various lotions and, after properly wetting his hair, starts massaging a shampoo, which emits a strong herbal scent, into his hair.

Emmrich relaxes visibly into her hands, his arms dropping to settle around her waist, closes his eyes and sighs. Siobhan proceeds slowly and full of intent. Right now, there is nothing better than just being in the moment with him.

Since she had gotten to know him, she had been mesmerized by the singular dark strand that floats in the grey starlight-sea that is his hair. She twirls it gently between her fingers, watching it reflect the light, sifting through the individual strands as if swimming through the night sky. He is the star that guides her to safety, the one light to follow home into his waiting arms.

On an impulse she kisses his hair and promptly regrets it, as shampoo enters her mouth. Emmrich chuckles. Sputtering she decides to leave the kisses for later.

When she is finished and looking for a small bowl to wash it out, she catches Emmrich watching her through half open eyes, the shadow of a smile dancing on his lips. Yet there is a certain edge to it. Siobhan boops his nose playfully, “Close your eyes, I need to pour some water over you.”

He complies. She nods contently and reaches for the bowl, filling it quickly up with warm water. As she moves to pour it over him, one hazel eye peeks up at her.

Suddenly she remembers the day he showed her his view of the fade. How interlaced with wonder and intimacy it was. And how he made her heart flutter when he told her to take a breath.

Siobhan does her best to mimic his voice, “Ah, ah. Take a breath. Slow. Deep.”

Another disapproving look, “Darling, this is hardly fair. Could you keep your eyes away from such beauty, when it sits right in front of you?” he cocks his head toward his shoulder slightly.

He is a very bad liar. Siobhan knows that, while he jokes with her, there is something eating up his insides and if she could, she would take all the pain away from him. But right now, seeing him accept her help is enough for her and she lets it slide.

“No, that's why I keep staring at you,” she says, “Now close your eyes. I mean it.”

He clicks his tongue but compiles, tilting his head to give her better access to her hair. “Will you also reveal to me the woven intricacies of the fade, as I had the pleasure to do?”

“Weren’t you just fine with watching my body mere moments ago?” she asks, a smile curling her lips.

“Well, one might hope to see more than single wonder a day, hm?” he hums.

Siobhan shakes her head. Conversation always flows so easily with him. Is anyone as lucky as she is to get to see him like this? This kind and gentle man, curious and quick of wit. Sometimes insufferable, but always easy to love. At least to her.

With a swoosh she gently pours warm water over his hair. She fills the container up and repeats the process until there is nothing left of the produce in his hair. Then she starts lathering his hair in the second lotion. A quick glance at his face tells her that Emmrich could fall asleep any second. Sleepless nights have put dark circles under his eyes. Knowing him, he has worked himself to the bone trying to get her back. She can imagine him standing hunched over his desk until deep into the night, seeking answers to the question of her disappearance.

Before she can dwell on this, she gently washes out his hair again, shielding his face with one of her hands, and then moving onto his body. Emmrich opens his eyes again and moves to sit upright. She reaches for a orange bottle and puts it on her fingertips. However as she tries to put it on his face, her hands get caught in his. She shoots him a questioning look.

“That’s not for the face.” he says calmly, taking it out of her hands. “But for the body.”

A small groan escapes her lips before she can stop it. There is no real annoyance in her voice but to reassure Emmrich Siobhan puts on the most lighthearted tone she can manage and says, “Well, my love, what is the right bottle, then?”

Long, nimble fingers reach for a different, significantly smaller and purple colored, bottle and hand it to her. Siobhan quickly rubs the soap off on her chest but is again stopped by Emmrich, who tuts at her and pushes her finger lightly aside. He begins spreading the soap on her chest before stopping at her scar.

It’s a gruesome, yet thin line that runs from her sternum down to her waist, cutting through the skeletal scars etched on her skin since birth. A fresher scar to accompany the old ones, as if death itself had marked her.

She remembers the day she showed it to him for the first time. Emmrich looked so horrified back then, the implications of what happened to her evident to him. Yet he was kind, comforting and took her flirting in that particular situation with grace. When they kissed that day, Siobhan felt the safest she had in a very long time.

Now, Emmrich traces the scar with his soapy finger. Up and down. Again and again. Then his hands fold above her heart tenderly. Hazel eyes meet hers and they both still for a second, before he bows his head and puts a lingering kiss to the top of her scar, next to her heart.

Without words, she understands: I love you.

Joy spreads in her chest and Siobhan sets on her task again. She puts the right cleanser on her fingertips and starts rubbing circles on his cheeks, his strong but slender nose and his forehead, taking a little extra time along the way to massage his temple and jaw. The muscles are tight and she imagines him with a clenched jaw, rubbing his eyes, before continuing taking notes from several books.

The feeling of his fingertips on her face snaps her out of this thought. Emmrich looks utterly in love as he takes his turn in removing the grime and sweat from her face.

She chuckles. “Did you use the proper one?”

“Of course. Only the best for you.”

The next minutes are spent caressing each other's body and drawing soap circles on exposed skin. Sometimes they kiss the little trails that are made, which results in some awkwards laughs as soap enters their mouths. Tears and laughter mix as they lose themselves in the wonder of having each other.

Emmrich presses a lingering kiss to her neck and she laughs when his stubble tickles her.

“My love, your beard,” she giggles as she tries to move away, but he only holds her tighter.

“What of it, darling?” he asks innocently, rubbing his chin on the sensitive part that sits right between her neck and shoulder.

“You are tickling me,” She’s still trying to get out of his hold, “I thought a gentleman is never without a comb and a razor. What happened to that?” He is at her cheek now, short stubble brushing against her freckles. She shrieks, “Emmrich, please!”

His head cranes as he stops and looks up at her. “Laugh again, my dearest, my impossible Siobhan. Then I will get rid of this unsightly stubble at once.”

She does. Only for him can she laugh like this, this silly Professor, her favorite person. She kisses him, despite his beard and despite the soap because he is just so incredibly himself that she would have the strength to walk into the Fade and find a way out again, just to see him like this.

They untangle after a while, but never truly stop touching. While Emmrich shaves his stubble and trims his beard and Siobhan washes the dirt and blood out of her auburn hair.

She pretends she doesn’t see the nervous glances he shoots her, when he thinks she isn’t looking, but she makes sure to inch closer and presses her feet against his calf. When every ounce of grime and unwanted hair is well and truly gone and their skin is all wrinkled, they leave the water.

Once they are dry, Siobhan reaches for the nightgowns and passes one to Emmrich, before putting on the other. It is white a snow and feels wonderful on her skin. Siobhan lets out a relaxed sigh. She is in the middle of figuring out a way to twist her hair out of the way without a pin, when she hears Emmrich stop in his tracks.

“You are wearing one of my nightgowns,” he says.

She turns around, hair still in her hands. He wears his nightgown and was apparently in the process of sliding the last ring, the one his father gave him, on his hand. His marvelous, pretty hands.

“Yes, I thought if it looks this dashing on you, maybe I should give it a try, too.” She swishes the fabric between her fingers and bats her eyelashes at him, her voice dropping low. “What do you think?”

Something between a huff and a laugh escapes his lips. Then his gaze travels her body.

His brow softens, as he murmurs “I believe you could wear anything and still look positively radiant, my dear.”

With a surge of confidence Siobhan twirls once to make a show of her outfit. She is rather tall, yet not nearly as tall as Emmrich is, so the garment hangs awkwardly around her body in a few places.

“I look like a fool.” she laughs.

“You look exquisite.” he remarks. His eyes shine with unmasked adoration and Siobhan feels so very loved.

“Ah,” she says, while swaying over to him, “Do I now?”

Emmrich seems to drink her in for a moment, beginning to trace his finger down her neck and shoulders and Siobhan catches his hand between hers, before he can get too distracted.

“Will you give me an answer, love?” she whispers.

“Yes. You always do.” He simply states. And then he pulls her hands close and presses his lips to them like his very life depends on it.

Shortly after they make their way out of the bathroom, hands entangled.    

When they arrive in front of Emmrichs room, the opening door reveals a welcome sight to her: a skeleton in Watcher's robes. Happiness bubbles in her chest. Manfred has become a source of joy in the Lighthouse, and also in her life. Seeing him and Emmrich working together and the bond they share is a constant she found comfort in, even more so since Manfreds revival, as he grew even more curious of the world and his newfound powers.

Siobhan remembers very well when she showed him how to use the stick he found as focus so he wouldn’t cause an uncontrolled explosion anymore. That only helped marginally, but her heart still swelled with pride. No matter how often Emmrich tries to deny it: that is their son, undead and flinging magic around. She wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Manfred!” she yells happily.

“Siobhan!” he hisses equally as exited. He stopped calling her “Rook” shortly after being able to say Emmrichs name.

He jogs over, apprentice mantel swishing behind him and hisses again. “Siobhan’s back!”

“Yes, I am,” she says, “I need to see your next project. As I promised.”

Manfred seems to light up, joy evident, “Yes!”

He looks so adorable when he says it that Siobhan could cry. How could anyone ever find him unsettling? Then Manfred looks at Emmrich, “You shaved!”

Emmrich clears his throat. “Manfred, we talked about that. It is considered rude to remark upon such things.”

“Ah, yeah. But more importantly,” Siobhan interrupts. “Could you look if there is any food around and bring them to Emmrichs room for us? Maybe you could also fetch us some tea, if you would be so kind?”

Time passes differently in the fade but her stomach has started to growl rather loudly. She had a suspicion that Emmrich isn’t better off in that aspect. Manfred nods excitedly and runs off.

Both watch him leave, before entering Emmrichs room. After the door closes behind them, she allows herself to still for a second. When she fetched the gowns, she did not allow herself to rest. Now she just inhales the familiar scent of his room. Embalming salves, old books, the ever crackling fire and his distinguished perfume collection. It smells like warmth, like home. She squeezes Emmrichs hand gently and takes a quick look around the room.

Books and pages sit on the desk, scattered about, next to all sorts of equipments. Some of them she recognizes, but others are foreign to her. For him, this must classify as chaos. Both ignore it for tonight.

Johanna Hezenkoss‘ skull still sits at her table behind his desk. Mercifully she remains silent as both stride towards Emmrichs hidden bedroom. Yet there seems to be a strangely warm glow coming from her. Maybe this is only caused by her tired eyes and Siobhan dismisses it. She will have time to pester the woman for answers after they defeat Elgar‘nan.

The door mechanism clicks and the secret space behind Emmrichs bookshelves reveals itself. It is still like she remembers it. His wooden bed stands upon the deliberately placed woolen rugs, their pattern fitting nicely with the various decorative pieces of art in his room. At nearly every wall there are even more bookshelves, extending his collection well beyond what is seen in the main part of his room, but also many jars and baubles, each telling a new compelling story.

But to her, the most beautiful thing in the room is the armchair, that stands before yet another fireplace. Emmrich had taken her there many times after they started seeing each other, her blanket around her shoulders and a warm tea in both their hands, as they weaved memories and stories to a tapestry of words. And she loved it. The simplicity. How natural it felt to be with him even at the very start of their romance. The memory brings a smile to her face once more.

Siobhan wants to move toward the bed, which by now calls like a siren to her, when Emmrich stops her. As she turns around, she feels her brow furrow, but lets herself be pulled back a few steps nonetheless. With the way he straightens something within himself, she realizes exactly what he is trying to do right now.

“Thank you for taking care of me, my dear.” he says, voice smooth except for the smallest hint of lingering roughness. He tries to sound unbothered and in control, “But you must allow me to return the favor.”

“Yes. Tomorrow.”

“Siobhan.”

“Tomorrow, dear.”

She won’t have it. Because she sees the familiar flicker in his eyes: the frightened boy ghosting around in his skull. Scared of loss. Scared of being left alone with nothing but grief and his fear of death as his companions. No matter how much he tries to hide it and fall back into his habit of taking care of her, she sees him. She will always see him.

But words that usually come so easy to her fail her now. What could she possibly say to make it all better? Is there anything that could convince him that he does not need to shoulder this feeling alone? Instead of saying anything, she moves. As if she could protect him with her arms she catches him in an embrace.

In an instant he is around her, yet again heavy with grief. Or maybe it never left at all. And she holds him patiently as she waits for him to speak, using her hands to caress his back ever so slightly until he begins to melt into her. Several times it sounds like he might say something but nothing comes out. His lip quivers as he finally chokes out: “What if I don’t get the chance?”

There it is. Emmrich has lost so much, so early in his life. No matter how much time passes, there will always be the young boy in his heart and there will always be days where he feels afraid again. But Siobhan knows that she will be there to hold him every time, until time itself ends. She will always try to shy away the darkness and the sorrow from him. Because she loves him. She will always love him.

Smiling warmly at him, she tries to soothe his fear, even if just for a moment, by saying two words with more conviction than she feels: “You will.”

And then she pulls him, ever so softly, as she walks backwards to his bed and this time he follows.  

Apparenty it takes a fight against two elven gods and her being trapped in the fade to get Emmrich Volkarin to eat food while in bed. Manfred brings them lavender tea with honey and two stuffed sandwiches which they take eagerly. They eat in thoughtful silence. But it feels lighter somehow. More hopeful. When both are finished they clean up and ask Manfred to bring the dishes back to the kitchen.Siobhan in return promises him to assist in his next project, no matter what it is. Emmrich gives her a glance which tells her, that she will regret this. But he smiles anyway. He is so very proud of his son. Brave, curious Manfred.

Siobhan wonders if he sees himself in the wisp. A lost soul trying to understand the world. Maybe that is why they were inseparable since they met.

“Our son is becoming more like you every single day,” she says as they settle for the night. He chooses to rest on the side closer to the door, as if shielding her with his body could hide her from the world that tried to take her not so long ago. ”You are an exceptional teacher for him.” she adds, stretching her long legs on the mattress.

“Oh, Manfred learns marvelously quickly on his own. I merely guide him.” he murmurs.

She caresses his cheek and whispers, “You do so much more than that and you know it. He learns from you.” Emmrichs hand covers her own and watches her intently as she continues. “Allow yourself to take more credit for yourself, my heart. He could be so much on his own but a part of his greatness comes from you guiding him. And both of you help each other grow.” A tear prickles in the corner of her eye. It has but a moment's time to fall before Emmrich steals it with a kiss.

“Oh, but what a marvel it is, to have such parents as us,“ He pauses and smiles fondly, „Someone like you.”

He kisses her. Warm and alive. It feels like he tries to capture the moment in his brain, with an intensity as his lips meet hers, again and again, pouring his undying devotion into her. She feels warm deep down to her core as if a small fire has made itself home there. Small sighs escape his lips, which are mirrored in soft moans rising from her chest. With a sigh she opens her mouth for him and Emmrich dives in immediately, like she is his salvation. They share long, open mouthed kisses, exploring each other with a mixture of unhurried intention and unparalleled yearning. But that isn’t enough, as Emmrich pulls them even closer together, when there is already no more space left, as if he could hide if only he would manage to escape into her skin.

I am so glad you are back, he seems to say with every kiss.

I will always come back home to you, she answers.

More tears are shed in the warmth and comfort of the bed, but this time they are tears of relief and love. Even when they have to come up for air, they hold onto each other.

She kisses the top of his head and pulls him onto her chest before reaching over to grab one of his thick blankets, carefully draping it over them both with tired arms. Then she does it with another one, cocooning them in warmth. Before she can find another, Emmrich lifts his hand and grabs a different one, which she hasn’t noticed before, as it was slightly hidden under one of his pillows. The fabric is thick and purple, with some Hand-made embroidery at the bottom.

Its her blanket, which has been gifted to her by her friends. Emmrich must have taken it from her room while she was gone. Some part of her is glad that at least something remained to keep him company. He looks at her, slightly unsure, and she presses another kiss to his brow before she takes the fabric from his hands and covers them in another warm layer. The blanket smells more like him than her at this point and Siobhan feels herself relax, too.

Mossy and floral with a rich undertone. Like the flowers breaking from the soil in spring. Alive. Beautiful. Unique.

Siobhan lets her head fall back on his soft pillows and sighs contentedly. Emmrich lays his head down on her chest, a hand resting over her beating heart. As her eyes fall closed she feels Emmrich stir every now and then, being way beyond exhaustion.

Forcing her eyes open, she begins gently caressing his head and weaves words for him, like she did so many times before. When she was a child and hiding In the darker corners of the necropolis, Siobhan would make up stories. Hidden under her skin were words that wanted to be spoken, nestled right beside her heart. As if those would make her feel less lonely. It brought her comfort when she was young, no matter how silly it was to others. It still does.

So she makes up a story about a scared boy who meets a lonely girl deep inside the darkness of the underground. In return for his company and wit, she tells him stories. And because they are very brave, they try to find their way back home and have many adventures on the way and make a lot of friends. Because of course they do.

“Will Manfred be there as well?” Emmrich mumbles against her skin.

She smiles. “Well, yes of course. He is the wisp that helps them after all. The boy promises him a body for his help and because he loves the boy sooo much, Manfred brings light so they can see they do not get lost.”

Emmrich smiles and finally closes his eyes. While she tells her story, she slowly feels her darling drift off. Siobhan notices her own exhaustion seep into her, beckoning her to follow into pleasant dreams, but she keeps on talking. Even when his breathing has slowed, she does not stop, until the story has a happy end and Emmrich is well and truly asleep.

Then she watches him.

There is always something controlled about him. Back when they first investigated Johanna Hezenskoss activities, he told her that he always chooses his words carefully. And he always acts like it; as if one mistake could topple his whole life over, leaving nothing in its wake.

But in his sleep he softens.

She loves the crows feet around his eyes. How they dance around his skin when he talks or smiles. With her index she trails a line, softly as a whisper. Emmrich stirs slightly and Siobhan pulls away, settling on caressing his head instead.

Emmrichs lips are perfectly framed by smile lines and the mustache, he cares for meticulously. Siobhan sees them talking, smiling, pursed and, if she's lucky enough, kissed swollen and red by her. Now they rest slightly parted, letting his soft snores escape.

Her eyes trail his high cheekbones and curved nose. His wrinkles and worry lines. Even as the shadows of the flickering lights dance around the ones on his forehead, they seem less visible somehow. As if sleep had whisked away the traces of sorrow and age. He looks so heart-achingly young, curled up against her under the heap of blankets.

She presses a soft kiss to his forehead and silently vows to keep both of them safe: the scared boy and the curious professor.

[trulycertain]

Finished Veilguard about a week back. My thoughts on the character writing (massive spoilers herein):

The character writing... feels like DA2 to me. Not enough time and too much internal upheaval. The characters are fascinating and I like them! But they're sketches - albeit often beautiful, interesting ones - not finished paintings. (Origins and Inquisition's definitely feel like paintings to me.)

It's not about writing ability. A lot of old hands who wrote beloved stuff were on here. Trick Weekes, obviously, who gave us Solas and Bull and so much other good stuff; Sheryl Chee (who wrote Leliana and Isabela and has my hat forever for them); Brianne Battye, who wrote Cullen in DAI, whose arc I adored; Mary Kirby got to write Varric and part of Lucanis; Sylvia Fetekeuty gave us the beautiful, tightly-worldbuilt quests and politics like Orzammar, and In Hushed Whispers - heck, she wrote Josephine… I honestly just think it's a lack of time and clear direction due to so many game leads being in and out.

I love all the intra-crew interaction, it's really awesome to see. I like that I can tell companions have their friends and favourites and smoochfellows (I'll be honest, I did not call Taash/Harding, I thought for sure Taash and Davrin would end up with something going on, though I also did not call Neve/Lucanis and judging from their friendship, I bet that romance would be wonderful - they're probably my favourite team to take out other than either of them with Emmrich, or Bellara + Emmrich - I love magic talk.) The team meetings are a great idea that reinforce that. Also, I really love the fact that companion banters will play in the Lighthouse too (I realised after I reloaded and got a similiar conversation post-coming back that it's the same as banter when you're out walking - so it'll advance with personal quests, and if there's a pairing you don't usually take out with you, you still get a chance to catch the odd interesting chat). I do wish it were still a three companion team, though - even more because of this. I also love the tiny things, like Lucanis adjusting his meals for the fact Rook is a tea drinker and Emmrich is a veggie. (God do I relate to "vegetarian who talks relentlessly about their special interest while others sigh and takes a while to work out what to do when flirted with".) I love that companions pick up their banter again if it's interrupted by fights! Wonderful quality-of-life improvement thing, and also a bit more realistic feeling. People get bored and talk, and wonder things while they're wandering.

I absolutely love the plot of this game. I think it follows through on so many ideas in such a cool way, and I love Solas in this game, and the art and performances are beautiful. It has lots of respectful, loving tie-ins to the past games and clearly is thinking about them. I just think the companions, much like DA2, are fantastic ideas that just needed a bit of time.

I mean, let's take Neve - my romance, trope catnip for me in "tired mage who's not afraid to just deck someone, PI, stoic, normally male tropes applied to female chars, sharp-dressed" - as an example. Veilguard does more natural conversation flow - you can't sit and quiz companions on their selves and backstories like a job interview. But because you only get investigation options in chats anyway, you only get to ask companions about stuff they want to talk about. Which means with Davrin all you'll know is Wardens and Assan, mostly, but you can at least ask him about his past. With Neve, all you get is Dock Town, depression and fish.

I found out a lot about her backstory and family after my first playthrough - because you only get that through banters and taking out the exact right team. DA2 did this too, and it was a sign of rushed writing. As opposed to DAO and DAI, where you have their basic conflicts sketched out for you, but banters add colour, context and nuance - but regardless of team you take out, you get the basics. And they'll tell you stuff, if you ask and show interest.

Lucanis, Neve and Harding talk far more amongst themselves about some actually pretty key stuff, but not to Rook - unlike Emmrich, Taash and Davrin, who when you've spoken to them long enough will tell you a bit about them, and you can go, "Oh, I see how they got like that." Like, Neve is laetan from a soporati mostly templar family, and that elevation of having a sudden mage in the family basically tore her family apart nearly as badly as Fenris'. The class and mage stuff is major to her self-identity and why she's in Dock Town. But despite her fondness of Dock Town, her accent has no class markers except "posh London" and none of this comes up if you don't take exactly the right team out; I found some of this out through Reddit, of all places.

Now, you may say, "Isn't that replay value?" I'd argue not, when you're in an RPG that sells itself on its ensemble cast. Neve's introductory dialogue establishes that she's Minrathous and really cares about her city. And that she's a PI. The rest… is plot exposition. And it mostly carries on being exposition, albeit in a stylised way. So she has a liking for fancy hats, is pessimistic and is exhaustedly principled and love-hates Minrathous… but you knew that in her first five minutes. Even the fried fish thing, which exemplifies her love for the city and how she's grounded even though she's a mage? Ten hours in at least. And even if you play a Shadow Dragon who is also from a military family and felt left out? You get more opportunities to talk about that with Tarquin than Neve.

By contrast, here are some examples of character details that were well-done replay/"thanks for paying attention" value:

I adored many char moments, like her being wary of Emmrich but liking Manfred - calling him "Fred" - and eventually warming to them both, and her helping Taash out on gender and recognising some of this because she knew Mae and Tarquin, and Lucanis trying to feed her something healthy… but other than the middle part, all of this pretty important character growth is in easily missable banters. DA2 did this too and it drove me nuts. I took her everywhere with me because I liked her so much! And I still knew none of her backstory. Because Tevinter Nights and banter fill it in. You learn very little; you'll come out of the game thinking exactly the same of her as you did at the start. She's beautiful and every trope she's made out of is gold and her actor has a gorgeous voice, but compare a character like… heck, not even Dorian - Sera, or Bull, who offered new perspectives on Ferelden and the Qun (post-Blight and working-class, Ben Hassrath). Neve has an arc so tangled with her city that it feels like you should have got more of a glimpse of everyday working class Tevinter life through her, which I would love to see explored, and you just… don't. Noir PIs are tied to their cities, the one is a metaphor for the other, and it feels like they did that metaphor so much better with Hawke as a battered allegory for Kirkwall.

In Inquisition, let's say you never talk to Dorian past recruiting him. You never even find out he's arguing with his dad, never mind that he's gay. You still get that he's a very gifted mage, pretends to be arrogant, let down by his mentor and "not everything from Tevinter is terrible." You don't get his family history, that he hates the cold and has allergies, the nerdy magical talk, the necromancy nerdery… but you get a sampler plate of "preens, principled, proud Tevinter mage". You get a good picture even if it's incomplete.

In some ways, you actually get to know the Viper better if you choose Treviso. Less overall interaction, maybe, but you get that great scene with him mourning the dead and his response to him being Blighted, and the stuff with Antoine and Evka. And then you get that codex upon his kidnapping confirming his family name, but you have to have been paying attention to the lore to know why him being a Vesperian is such a big deal. You still know who he is and why he's here even if you barely interact with him, though.

I also loved, on Tarquin, that you get to know a bit more about him either way, but it's only if you save Minrathous that you get to know just how sad he is about the Viper not trusting him, how much they talk, the fact he's the tired admin - such a mood - and the fact he's not cis. You've shown your commitment to the Dragons by then, it's not just trotted out as a basic "getting to know you" thing with a character who isn't otherwise loud and proud. Whichever city you save, the finale confirms he's actually probably a mage, too - you see him using what looks like frost/accuracy magic, briefly. My guess is that either a: like Felix, he wasn't strong enough in it to achieve much rank b: he was limited by class c: his dad went, "Nope, if you're a man, you're a soldier now.")

Those two Veilguard choices felt like such great replayability. Like I said with DAI's banters: you get the basics, but certain choices you make give you access to new info which suddenly recontextualises and illuminates things for you. I particularly enjoyed talking to Tarq as a fellow Shadow Dragon from a fellow military family. The tired wry understanding felt very real.

I really like the whole cast, but the most... I don't know, finished? characters feel like Solas, Emmrich, Bellara and Tash. Perhaps Davrin, though he still needed a little time. I adore Lucanis (and startlingly, may like Spite even more!) but I definitely feel like he needed more time and writer stability. Emmrich lets you in on his fears and his worries a good while after knowing him, and also lets on that he's grown up in the Necropolis and it's all he knows, and that he spent time talking to spirits and was more in tune with them as a kid than most. That's not structured as an exposition dump. You have to do his personal quests to see them, but they're very much "friend decides to let Rook in on something, embarrassedly" and "come to see my favourite place". The spirits you meet are as part of other side quests and that stuff comes up naturally. Taash's intro tells you right off their mum is constantly criticising them and doesn't like them "acting butch", that criticism is due to their mum being very Qunari, and that they're really into dragons. If you pursue their quests, you get them coming out, a thorough discussion of how they feel about this stuff, them being a jerk with Emmrich, their bluntness getting them into trouble sometimes, and certain rituals and friendships in the Lords being influenced by it. So you get told all that, sure… but you also get to see it spread and ripple. There's an arc. And almost all of that you can get even without the "right" banter. Davrin's Dalish background is relevant to the plot and is a matter-of-fact part of who he is, but if you pursue his quests you get to find out about him working out whether to hide/suppress the gentler parts of himself, that he was an adorable kid, that he's into whittling, and that he's very no-nonsense about the Evanuris' bullshit because he is a stoic who gets the job done and his Warden identity takes priority, even while his Dalish upbringing informs his personality and his hunts (imo this was very well done).

You might say, "But isn't 'Characters stand around telling you their tragic backstory' the BioWare Problem?" Yeah, sure! But there's a natural build with these above examples. And shoving stuff into banter is still telling, not showing; there's no writerly sleight of hand there, either. I'd also argue that one of the reasons people have often spoken about Emmrich looking out for their Rook, or having more connection with their Rook, is that his chats with them are written much more in the Inquisition style than Veilguard's, though there are some exceptions.

Another thing: characters rarely interject/add their tuppence in quests compared to the other games, has anyone noticed this? That also gives me fewer chances to clock their stances on things, or whether they hide behind snark, or their pet issues. Same with location comments/colour commentary, which are such a tiny thing but really do help with a feeling of reactivity (BG3 did this great, but it's a very different genre and devcycle, so I'm just gonna compare past BioWare). There's no "Smell the oppression" in the Gallows or "Should've brought a sweater" in Noveria or "It must have been some time since templars [in the Hinterlands] faced a mage of any talent" or… most of Garrus and Miri bitching about Omega. I can think of, maybe two? (Half of Fenris' interjections were a slightly more complex, "ugh, I don't give a shit, can we get back to hunting slavers", but you still caught that he hated blood mages, liked the Guard and Isabela, and had an incredibly dry sense of humour.)

That lessening of dialogue, to me, points to a lack of time. My theory is the plot was laid out and carefully tooled, and companions were written/rewritten last, when the timeline was tight. As folks have pointed out: for all his faults, Gaider was famously a tight lead who gave writers their favourite characters to encourage ownership and investment, said Weekes' concepts for Solas were fantastic but made them rewrite him several times because he was coming off so unlikeable, worked very closely with VAs and always got stuff in on time. Also, he has never said this, but Weekes and Busch have always said he did the vast majority of worldbuilding and pretty much all the reveals in the plot were stuff laid out in the writers' room during/after DAO, and Weekes has said they knew of this stuff and it was passed onto them. So I think a lot of it may be upheaval and his absence being… keenly felt. It always seemed like there was a lot more Gaider in DA (compare how many characters he wrote) than there was Drew Karpyshyn or Casey Hudson in ME. DA2 was still messy as hell even with him very much involved, though, so *shrug*.

I very much enjoyed Solas' dialogue, though. That felt all Weekes, and like they were at their most passionate. Bits of it felt very Mordin, actually.

I do think everyone did a fantastic job pulling together not just a coherent but enjoyable and at times very beautiful product after such a difficult devcycle. I would argue they did a much better job than with DA2. There's a lot of skill and thought in this. It feels much, much more finished than DA2. It's just a lot more "action" than "RPG" in terms of party mechanics and dialogue. That still makes it feel like a complete, enjoyable action-adventure game, whereas DA2 was much more RPG with a lot of its mechanics but felt indecisive and unfinished to the end. I also think it's a good intro to the series, though the first hour might be a bit confusing. You get a good intro to the Wardens and Mourn Watch and Tevinter. Also, I love Arlathan and I could write essays on why. It just felt like, unlike most DA entries, the plot was stronger than the people this time round.

[tragedia]

some ending thoughts.

i was trying to analyze why the endings fell short to me and to be honest, i came to a conclusion it's because the veil and specifically the solas parts are too easy? it's underwhelming. like don't get me wrong, we lose one companion and varric by then, and can lose even more people depending on the choices, but that's more about elgar'nan and ghilan'nain.

then it's time to bring down the veil and you need to do X with solas. i can't help this impression that it feels a bit like an afterthought. i just feel like, given inquisition, bringing down the veil shouldn't be so easy? it's just down to piercing the veil with a single plot armoured dagger and the good will of a guy that's an old trickster god of lies. you make one narrative choice and it's over.

where's the drama? i specifically made my romanced lavellan JUST to see the endings for this one, and with all of them i'm like k.

you convince him, mythal shows up and i'm immediately :| and the inquisitor is so passive? i feel like those issues wouldn't be so easily resolved even if you want to save him. but maybe it's down to my characters wanting to throw down idk.

you trick him and it feels too easy somehow. solas? fail guy (beloved). but let's give him some credit too.

you fight him and it feels off off off to me.

dunno, if you guys have some insight to share to help me out here, please do, i'm not convinced either way.

[butterflydm]

archdemons and pieces of power (DAV posting)

Okay, I was distracted away from the game for a hot minute (Wheel of Time s3 teaser trailer my beloved) but I'm back to finish it up!

Which means that I am now free to unblock all DAV/Dragon Age related spoilers, so I'm very excited about that. I really loved playing this game. DAI was my first game in the series (about a year after it came out), and then I played backwards from there, so this is my first one I played on release and I have loved it so much. The end was epic and I just... great game. Will definitely be tweaking my Rook and playing again, but this specific Rook felt so right for the story. I think I mentioned this, but I tried the beginning of the story a couple of different times before I found this Rook and I am so pleased with them.

Because I'm watching Rings of Power, that means that I'm thinking about Tolkien and Sauron, which made me realize that the archdemon/dragon connection to the elven gods has a similarity to Sauron's connection to his ring. Sauron can't be destroyed unless the ring that he has poured himself into and connected himself to has been destroyed. And so too do the archdemons have to be destroyed in order to kill the elven gods.

The elven gods and Sauron are also both strong examples of the temptations and destructions of authoritarianism. They seek not merely to lead but to rule and to be worshiped. They will destroy the world in order to remake it in their own warped idea of perfection; destroy what exists in service of the ideal in their head. Other people are tools and toys to them, not people.

(this is the line that Solas was flirting with too, back in DAI -- he was seeing the people who existed in this world as not as fully real as the people of his own time or as he himself was; it made it easier for him to proceed with his plans if he could convince himself of that.)

Anyway, Solas trapped Rook in the Fade by swapping our places and I am going to punch him in his stupid "I am the only person who can fix this" face when Rook gets back out.

Me when the God of Lies and Trickery tricks me:

(that said, it was a great sequence. But if I get the chance, Rook is punching him at least once before the game is over. Because he genuinely believes he's the only person who can fix things! So in character of Solas to believe he's the only one who can fix this tho)

Is my boy Davrin really dead? Heart broken! (so I'm assuming that Harding would be dead if I'd gone down the other path, then, since Harding was my other option for distraction leader?)

Two characters that are a bit in limbo right now: Neve got snatched away by Elgar'nan and Lucanis... froze in place... but that last one might have been Solas tricking Rook. Very worrisome situation!

Funny thing is I went back and made an elven Rook specifically to give myself all the elven lore feels, and now I feel devastated by the elven lore feels that I specifically brought upon myself.

But, you know, it's not really a Dragon Age game until you're trapped in the Fade for a while! We've been living in the Lighthouse, but now Rook is actually trapped (until I make my escape and then punch Solas in the face before I guess I let him have his happy ending with Lavellen, maybe. I mean, she's up for it if he stops being so... you know. Like This.)

Going through the prison of regrets was really good. I never hated the Fade sequences in the game, but this one... particularly good.

By the time we get to Varric in the prison of regrets... you know what's going on. But it's hard to say goodbye to him and to acknowledge afterwards that you were really just talking to yourself in those conversations with him. Mentoring yourself.

And then you escape the prison of regrets. Something that Solas needed to poke and pull and twist to swap you into, and you're with your team but... but Davrin is gone, and Neve is gone (for now), and Varric... has been gone since the beginning.

Because this team has grown to feel like a family in the Fade, losing a member of the team feels even more brutal. And I appreciate that.

Once more into the breach, and it's a group assault. One of the things that I've loved so much about DAV is that everyone goes on the big group missions. I picked Bellara to untangle the wards. Lucanis to kill the Venatori mage. Taash to face the construct. Leaving me with Emmrich and Harding for my team to face Solas. It does feel right to take Harding with me to face Solas.

This whole section feels so epic. I really love it. I even love that I think there's no way to get through it without losing someone, painful as that is.

So... I did want to punch Solas at first, but it's hard to maintain that energy when he's admitting that he's a big ol' failure who needs me. I am so curious how these scenes play with a Rook who is more antagonist towards Solas!

Everything about the ending was... honestly, I don't have words right now. I loved it? I loved it so much. I was deliberately going for the most Solas-positive ending possible, because I figured that's the hardest ending to get, and I achieved it. The Egg got his happy ending with Inky.

Solas using his own life to hold the Veil in place, but he won't be alone and he chose it. He wasn't forced into it or tricked or trapped.

And now the world is for the rest of us. We did save Neve and then Neve saved all of us in that final fight.

And everyone has a chance to create a new world now, heal the scars left by those ancient elven battles ages ago. I am so pleased with the ending. I'm guessing we could have lost a lot more companions than Davrin, so it was definitely ME2 Suicide Mission vibes but on a more massive scale.

It felt... epic. Watching the fight between the Dread Wolf and Agar'nan's archdemon... man.

Genuinely loved this game so much. Definitely gonna play it again. Make some different choices. Maybe not be so nice to Solas the second time around, probably. But, man, Solas is such a great character. I'm so thrilled that DAV made such good use of the characters from earlier in the game series. Using Varric as a mentor... even if it was only in Rook's mind... something Solas tricked them into seeing... I really loved it.

Yeah, that's my summary: great game; really loved it; will definitely be playing again. I gotta see what destroyed Treviso looks like, after all!

[tiafrye]

Veilguard ending spoilers & mini-rant on shipping

Ngl, as someone who's ship was suffering erasure with misstagging and stuff over the past months, if not forever, from canon shippers I'm not looking forward seeing the same people jumping from their Mythal incarnate train to The Maker/Andraste train with Solas/Inquisitor just because your beloved Trick Weeks didn't deliver. But I already saw at least one post.

I've been on Maker/Andraste side of Sovelyan since 2015. It's my swamp. It's Sovelyan themed swamp. You should walk these lands with respect, not whatever was going on before.

[thesinglesjukebox]

KALI UCHIS FT. PESO PLUMA - IGUAL QUE UN ÁNGEL

Imagine what a day spa designed by Kali Uchis would be like...

[7.36]

Leah Isobel: Pretty! [7]

Ian Mathers: It's not that often that I refer to a song like this as "pillowy," but when I do it's usually because I like it a lot. [9]

Wayne Weizhen Zhang: Ethereal, effortless, enveloping: an embodiment of the qualities the song subject espouses. “Igual Que Un Ángel” is the first song I’ve been wowed by in 2024, and just a snippet from Kali Uchis’ masterful and diverse-sounding fifth album.  [9]

Alfred Soto: Three weeks after living with Orquídeas, it came to me. The warmth of Kali Uchis' voice (as she heats up the electric keyboards on the verse): a nod toward the Bee Gees and other exemplars of late '70s pop. The rest of "Igual Que Un Ángel" works as a luxurious resting place from the album's relentlessness. [7]

Jacob Satter: Immersive and affirmative bubblebath disco from one of the modern era's most successfully twinkly practitioners. I'm speaking of Uchis of course; Pluma is here all but in name only. [7]

Joshua Minsoo Kim: An underutilized Peso Pluma I can forgive, but it is cruel to hear Kali Uchis’ fluttering, wordless melody (at the beginning, and then in two isolated moments later on) and realize the rest of the song is content with just vibing. Her most evocative moment is a bilingual one (“La favorite de Dios… and she knows”), but any good will is lost when she throws in the painfully cliché “heaven must have sent you down.” Every good thing gets thwarted here. [4]

Nortey Dowuona: There are no English-language articles on Alejo Duran longer than a page. Shakira, one of the only crossover Colombian pop singers, learned English to cross the border between English and Spanish pop superstardom and has comfortably straddled both. Alejo Duran isn’t forgotten, though; he’s a need-to-know for Colombian fans. So is a lot of Shakira’s early work. Kali Uchis, however, is a Colombian pop star who has several long, well-written cover stories and has mostly sung in English. She has become a need-to-know for mostly American fans. "telepatía," bilingual/bicultural in taste and delivery, is her biggest hit, and it's produced by Tainy, a Puerto Rican producer better known for his reggaeton bangers than anything on his latest album, Data (which is also bilingual/bicultural, but he is not yet a beloved figure in Colombia). It doesn’t seem as of yet that she is as revered as Duran and Shakira are (emphasis on the "seem"), but repeating the trick with a bored Peso Pluma and the vocal production of Austin Jux Chandler, engineer of superior Adele song “When We Were Young,” won’t do that for her. It’s no “Pedazo de Acordeon." [5]

Harlan Talib Ockey: On previous singles like “telepatía”, Kali Uchis showed that she’s adept at directing the production with her vocals as it flexes under her melodies. Here, she sounds both feather-light and intensely charismatic, the bassline and synths flourishing with her. The one fault is that Peso Pluma is entirely unnecessary; he’s unrecognizable under the thick vocal processing, and out of his depth from his usual corridos. [8]

Jessica Doyle: My first exposure to Peso Pluma left me thinking: "Interesting, but that voice was not for me, so scratchy my throat got dryer the more time I spent with Génesis." And I don't usually try again under such circumstances; I'm not sure why I did this time, I'm still shrugging off the charm of "Ella Baila Sola." But I ended up watching his Sneaker Shopping episode, despite having no previous exposure to sneaker culture, and came away with: "Voice still not for me, but the man himself seems charmingly bashful." Also, there was a morning of singing "rompe la dompe" to myself. So I tried again, with Spotify's generic "This Is Peso Pluma" playlist. After the Anitta collab (catchy but bland) and the Becky G collab (stronger, largely due to Becky G), this song started, and before I'd even heard a voice: "Oh yeah, there's a Kali Uchis collab!" Because really, we already knew Kali Uchis could do this sort of dreamy floaty disco in her sleep; he was always going to be the wild card. (The first dozen or so comments on YouTube, hilariously, are variations on, "I didn't expect much from Peso Pluma here, I was pleasantly surprised!") His sandpaper voice turns out to be perfect for "Igual Que Un Ángel." If anything, he's a little smoother than he needs to be, as if he erred on the side of fitting into her groove. The score below is thus 60% obligatory for dreamy floaty disco done right and 40% a reflection of my homegrown parasocial narrative that Peso Pluma is a sweetheart who approaches collaboration opportunities as a chance to learn from other artists and try something new, rather than as an obligation or a way to swing his newfound fame around. This approach may not hold up any better than "Ugh, scratchy voice" did. But it's a lot more fun. [8]

Jacob Sujin Kuppermann: So lush and charming that even Peso Pluma sounds smooth here. When I listened to this for the first time, I felt genuinely bad for all of the anglosphere's contributions to the disco revival moment of the 2020s, made irrelevant by Kali Uchis' totalizing achievements in grooves. She's always been a compelling performer, but as she's developed as an artist her songs have grown into richer and richer texts. When she coos that the song's subject is God's favorite, it's not just a passing bit of sacrilege but something deeper. She's got this ability to convey devotion in a way that few artists are able to right now, an emotive skill that is as much nostalgic as it is novel. [9]

Kayla Beardslee: Kali is the master of harnessing grooves that are just otherworldly enough: at the first touch of that sexy, sophisticated disco beat, you’ll be lifted out of your body to a higher (and simpler) plane, yet left with enough corporeal feeling to appreciate the delicate breeze and scent of roses that swirl around you, summoned by the dynamic dance of her voice smoothing away the creases in a swath of velvet. [8]

Will Adams: Kali sings the praises of an angel from above, but she's the one who sounds heaven sent. Swathed in reverb, her voice turns the relatively boilerplate disco backing into a hazy dream, where you dance in slo-mo as you breathe in the sweetest perfumes. [7]

Dorian Sinclair: Both vocalists on "Igual Que Un Ángel" wisely stick to a very light delivery, skimming over the bells-and-synth soundscape. The whole thing would feel wispy and insubstantial if not for that bass groove holding everything down to earth, but instead, we get a frictionless glide through the song, effortless the way movement is in dreams. And if the song is like a dream, those final seconds when the bass drops out and we get that slightly off-kilter ascending line are like waking up, and realizing you slept so easily and effortlessly you're not even sure how much time has passed. [8]

Katherine St. Asaph: Sometimes this sort of soft-focus disco feels as if it could cast a spell forever. Sometimes the spell ends a minute before the song does. Doesn't mean it isn't nice. [7]

[Read, comment and vote on The Singles Jukebox ]

[johaerys-writes]

For my beloved bean @solas-disapproves​ , and @dadrunkwriting! Please enjoy my poor attempts at writing bawdy tavern songs, making things rhyme is HARD but at least I made myself laugh.

Pairing: Dorian Pavus/Tristan Trevelyan

Read here or on AO3!

******

“I don’t like this place.”

Trevelyan’s voice came muffled from within his mug, his eyes scanning the room as he took a long draught of ale. The inn they had stopped at on their way to Val Royeaux was humble, to say the least; rustic, even. A shithole, if Dorian was being honest about it. The scent of cheap ale wafted from every corner, crass jokes followed by raucous laughter and fists banging on tables mingled with the minstrel’s tune, that was barely audible now. Which was probably fortunate, since the man’s lute was out of tune, his voice even more so. Really, a goose squawking and flapping its wings would be far preferable to this. At least the animal might come close to something resembling a rhythm.

“Come on, Boss, it’s not so bad,” Iron Bull said, sipping on his ale. “I’ve seen worse.”

“Why am I not surprised,” Dorian replied with a roll of his eyes. He still couldn’t understand why they were there to begin with. Sister Leliana had received an anonymous tip from someone claiming they had inside information about Duke Gaspard and the movements of his army in the Dales. They had specified the time and place they were to meet, and it just so happened to be this disaster of a tavern they were now sitting in. Leliana had assured them that her agents had found no suspicious movements, that it was unlikely to be a trap. “Even if it is,” she’d said with a small smile, “you’re more than capable of taking care of it.”

Dorian set his cup down, clearing his throat that had been half burnt by the acidic brew they called wine around those parts. At that point, he almost wished it was a trap. Anything that would save him from staying in that Maker forsaken place for one more minute.

“Right,” Trevelyan said, slapping his palms on the table and pushing himself up, “I’m going out for some fresh air.”

“What’s wrong with the air here? Not enough feckin’ roses for his Inquisitorial-ness?” Sera cackled, downing her drink.

“A couple roses never hurt anybody,” Trevelyan muttered petulantly before turning around and pushing his way to the door. It wasn’t long before Dorian went after him, dusting his robes.

“If you’re in need of roses, I think I might be able to procure a few,” he said teasingly, sauntering towards him. “But it might cost you.”

Full, rosy coloured lips widened in a smirk. Trevelyan’s hands wound around his waist, pulling Dorian close. “Is that so?”

“I’m afraid it is.”

“And what will it cost me, exactly?”

“Let’s see,” Dorian hummed, tilting his head up as Trevelyan placed a kiss under his jaw, one tender enough to make Dorian’s hair stand on end. “A decent room, for a start. With a decent bed that’s not infested with lice. Oh, and I believe a tub instead of a barrel isn’t too much to ask for. And how about some wine that doesn’t taste like last year’s vinegar?”

Trevelyan scoffed, a little puff of air that warmed Dorian’s neck. “In this place we’re in, you might as well be asking for a miracle.”

“You’re the Herald of Andraste. I’m sure you could whip something up,” he grinned.

The rough sound of boots on gravel and a pained yelp made them both jolt. Dorian blinked in surprise when he saw Bull dragging a scrawny man by the collar, his lip already bleeding from where the Qunari had hit him, Sera in tow.

“What’s the meaning of this?” Trevelyan demanded, pushing himself upright.

“Saw this one creeping after you,” he said, tossing the sorry wretch on the ground before their feet.

Dorian tilted his head to the side, studying the man. “Could it be the informant?”

“An informant with a drawn dagger, skulking in the shadows like a thief? Don’t think so, Boss.”

“What are these- these ludicrous accusations? I was only trying to defend myself!” the man protested in a thick Orlesian accent. “I’m no informant, nor was I about to attack anyone! Not before your beast attacked me,” he spat.

Trevelyan narrowed his eyes, folding his arms before his chest. “You’re not making your position any better.”

The man cowered, glancing away and back. “I didn’t mean to scare you, messer, I swear it. On my honour! On my life!” he mumbled. “I-I just came out for some air, and-”

“Who are you?” Trevelyan asked, cutting him short. “Why are you here?”

“Bardeaux,” he said quickly. “Vincent Bardeaux. I’m a minstrel. Just a minstrel. Looking for work. Heard this place might need someone to play a song or two and came to check. I was just about to leave before-”

“If you’re a minstrel,” Sera said, perching herself atop a barrel, “where’s your lute?”

“I-” The supposed minstrel paled. “It broke. In a brawl, last night.”

“How convenient,” Dorian said with a sweet smile.

“I swear it! Find me a lute and I’ll play any tune you like.”

Bull lifted a brow, glancing at Sera. Grinning, she kicked off the barrel, sneaking inside the tavern. A few minutes later, she re-appeared with a small lute and a mug of ale she had managed to swipe off a table in passing.

“There you go, fancy pants,” she told the man, handing him the lute. “Now play us a song.”

Bardeaux cleared his throat, wincing when he plucked the strings and a jarring, discordant sound escaped. He tuned the lute and straightened, clearing his throat again, more loudly this time. “ O lovely rose, my sweet soul-”

“Does this look like a Chantry gathering?” Bull smirked leaned against the wall. “You must know something better than that.”

“I know… some songs,” the man said, squinting. “But I would hardly call them appropriate. If you catch my drift.”

“That’s the kind we like,” Sera said with a wicked grin. “What are you waiting for? Get on with it, mate, ain’t got all day!”

“I… suppose I shall.” Bardeaux prepared to start again, when Bull stopped him once more.

“Wait! You must know some about him too, right?” he nodded to Trevelyan, his eye glittering with mischief. “About the Herald of Andraste?”

“The Herald of Andraste?” The minstrel’s cheeks were bright red as he looked from Trevelyan to Bull and back. “I suppose… I do know some songs. Just a few, mind you.”

Trevelyan rolled his eyes and huffed. “Bull, no.”  

“Come on, Boss, it’ll be fun! You never get to hear any of the good stuff in the Herald’s Rest. Might as well hear it now, right?”

Dorian placed his hand on Trevelyan’s back, leaning close to his ear. “Bull is right. I think it’ll be interesting. We could see what the people say about you in this part of the world, too, hm?”

Trevelyan shot him a sideways look before his scowl broke, his lips pursing only slightly. “...fine.”

“Right!” Sera leaned back against the wall, sipping on her beer. “Crack on, then, what are you waiting for?”

“Ah… alright.” The minstrel slanted a nervous glance at Trevelyan before his fingers started running deftly down the strings.

“The Herald fancied a dark-haired lad,

With sharp eyes and a sharper tongue,

A magician he was, of great renown,

People gathered when he came to town,

He played with fire, tamed the storms,

He juggled balls and swallowed swords-”

“I’m not that kind of magician,” Dorian grumbled, already regretting having urged Trevelyan to listen to the dratted song. “That makes it sound like I go around performing petty parlour tricks!”

“I think he’s talking about a different kind of tricks, Vint,” Bull chuckled, before Sera shushed them both sharply.

“'Such skill,” cried the Herald, “such finesse!

My love to him I must confess.”

He knelt before the mage’s feet,

And took his mighty hand in his,

“There are no eyes, no lips like thine,

Your silken hair, your form divine,

I want thee with a throbbing need,

‘Tis a matter of urgency indeed,

You hold the key to my heart’s lock,

I shall not rest until I’ve had your-'"

“For the Maker’s sake,” Dorian rolled his eyes as Bull howled with laughter. “Do we really have to listen to this?” He yelped when Sera punched him on the arm.

“Oi!” She glared at both of them, waving her mug in the air and spilling beer in every direction. “He was just getting to the good part, ye daft tits!”

Trevelyan chuckled, the blade of his dagger catching the light as he twirled it around his fingers. “You seem a decent fellow,” he told the minstrel. “I hate to kill you.”

The man’s face, who had lit up momentarily with hope, twisted in a grimace of despair. “R-rock! I was going to say rock!” He bit his lip, wringing his hands. “I implore you, messer. I meant no harm! I’m just a minstrel-” He paused, gaping when Trevelyan’s blade pressed against his neck.

“You tell me who sent you now,” he hissed, his expression turning stony, “or you won’t sing another song about ‘rocks’ again. Yes?”

The minstrel, pale as a sheet, nodded with a whimper.

~

“So he was an assassin after all,” Dorian said, lying on the soft bed of their new room; the largest one the tavern possessed. It was warm and comfortable, all things considered, yet he still had to make due with an old wine barrel full of tepid water instead of a tub for his bath that night. Dratted South, he reflected acidly. “Who would have thought.”

“I did.” Trevelyan kicked off his boots and flopped on the mattress beside him. “And you. And Bull. I believe Sera knew before any of us did. Plain as day, really.”

“Hmm. I believe Leliana is getting rusty.”

“So am I.” He sighed and closed his eyes. “That was more than enough excitement for a day, thank you very much.”

“Are you quite sure about that? You do, after all, have a certain reputation to keep.” Dorian wiggled his eyebrows suggestively, propping himself on his elbow.

Trevelyan cracked his eyes open to peek at him, his lips widening in a smirk. “I do?”

“Oh, yes. Remind me where the minstrel left off…? Something about rocks and locks, was it? Or perhaps-” Dorian chuckled when a suddenly very energetic Trevelyan rolled on top of him, pinning his wrists above his head.

“How odd. I can’t remember. I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me.” He flashed him a wry grin. “Or show me.”

Dorian hummed in amusement, a shiver running down his spine when Trevelyan's plush lips closed softly over his own. “Gladly,” he whispered.

[taamlok]

this time i decided to do the "good ending" where i convinced solas to sacrifice himself to restore the veil, and i was happy with that ending don't get me wrong; i think it was a satisfying full-circle moment for his character. he voluntarily returned to his beloved fade, lavellan by his side.

HOWEVER i really think muireann would do the fake dagger trick instead. like does she want to fight him? no. she likes him, kind of. but i also don't think she's convinced he can be swayed, especially after varric failed to do so. and also he was fully prepared to let her rot in fade jail. she's also a freak so she would love the opportunity to outdo the doer.

most importantly though i don't think i like that ending for my lavellan. she loved him once upon a time, sure, but to go with him after everything? it doesn't seem like her. i envision her helping rebuild the south moreso than just fucking off into the fade (no shade to anyone who likes that option though, it just is ooc for my specific inky).

in writing this i have convinced myself to do the scam next time lmao

[buttsonthebeach]

Any chance of getting some modern AU phone sex between Ellana and Solas? Or maybe Ellana visits Dorian and uses the talking crystal for a little marital fun.....

Oh anon, you had me at phone sex… :)

This is my very first modern AU. I had some fun with it!

Pairing: Solavellan, happily married, post-some-version-of-Trespasser-even-though-this-is-an-AU

Rating: Explicit! Solo Solas and Solo Ellana and phone sex and other goodness. It’s pretty fluffy!

******

Just landed. Waiting for my bags. I’ll call when I get to the hotel

Solas breathed more easily after he read the text. He never liked it when Ellana traveled by plane. He wished there was enough magic left in the world for eluvians to function as they once had - they would be so much safer than some frail metal tube hurtling thousands of feet above the earth - but that was a disaster of his own making.

Which was why it would crush him, utterly, if she were to die because of it.

Even thinking of it made his heart clench. He unlocked his phone and reread the text, his eyes lingering on the heart. She rarely used emojis or symbols in her texts. He knew this was meant as a reassurance that all was well, even if she was now all the way in Antiva City for an international diplomatic summit on elven affairs, and he was in their apartment alone.

No matter. Solitude was something he was accustomed to after thousands of years as one of the few Elvhen left alive in Thedas. And this was a pleasant kind of solitude - sinking into their plush sofa with a glass of wine in hand, a fire in the fireplace, and soft music playing over their speaker. He had to admit that the sound was good, even if it didn’t have the same depth and richness of vinyl. He was happy he gave into Ellana on that score. He smiled to remember her conversation the year before.

Don’t worry, hahren, we’ll get you a big ugly turntable like my Babaela’s when we have a nice big house of our own. But for our first apartment, I think this speaker will do the trick.

How easily she spoke of their future. How much he loved the weight of the wedding band on his left hand. The pictures on the mantel above the fire of their small wedding two months before.

He felt the wine seep into his limbs as he drank and he was suffused with a deep sense of calm - so much so that he started when his phone buzzed, rattling loudly against the wooden end table beside him. He smiled when he saw Ellana’s face beaming at him from the screen. It was a photo of her he’d taken on the day they moved into the apartment. He drained the last of his wine and then picked up.

“That was a quick trip,” he said.

“Yeah, no traffic. Unfortunately that also means that I’m already here, and I slept on the plane, and now I’m too wired to sleep even though I really should if I want to beat this jetlag. It’s later here than it is back home.” He heard the whumpf of her flinging herself onto the bed. He rolled his eyes.

“I warned you, did I not?”

“Yes, yes. You can gloat later. Speaking of later, it’s not exactly early there either. What are you up to?”

“I was enjoying a glass of wine and some music, and our fireplace.”

“Sounds delightful.”

Solas loved the sound of his wife’s voice. It was low for a woman’s, with a gentle lilt and a smoothness that he treasured. He’s compared it to his beloved records, once, to her amusement. He found that his eyes slid closed as he listened to her recount a debacle she witnessed with airport security in Antiva. He shook his head to clear the drowsiness, took his wine glass to the sink and rinsed it, and then headed in the direction of their bedroom.

“Done for the night?” Ellana asked, perhaps hearing the sound of the sink.

“Yes. I think I will head to bed soon.”

“You’re going to leave me all by myself,” she sighed.

“Shall I stay on the phone until you fall asleep, as if we were adolescents?” he teased as he put her on speaker so he could pull his sweater off, and begin removing his pants.

“You know, you can call them teenagers, Solas. This isn’t the Towers Age. Are you getting undressed? What are you wearing?” Her voice dropped half an octave on the last question, and had a comically seductive air.

He chuckled. “I did not change my clothes after you left for the airport. I just took off the slacks you saw me wearing.”

She made a pleased humming sound. He heard a faint rustling - her own clothes, or the sheets of the bed, maybe. His heartbeat picked up. She was likely only teasing him, but maybe -

“And what are you going to wear to bed?” she asked. Her voice was still low - but not quite so comical now.

“You know how I sleep, vhenan.”

“Indulge me.”

Her voice was quiet and warm and seductive even from hundreds of miles away.

He felt the first hot swell of arousal grip his cock.

“I am in my black briefs,” he said, lightly, taking her off of speaker, making his way to their bed and pulling back the rich red duvet and sliding onto the white cotton sheets beneath.

Ellana hummed again. “I like those ones. I like the contrast with your skin. And they hug you in all the right places.”

Was he imagining it, or was there already a breathy edge to her voice? He skimmed his hand down his stomach, lightly, and then to his thigh.

“And you, vhenan?” he asked, still keeping his tone casual, still desperately hoping he had not misread her. It was silly to miss her so much, so quickly - and yet he did. He did not want this to end.

There was a pause - some more rustling - and then a soft, slow sigh that made his blood pound. He curled his hand to a fist against his thigh to stop himself from cupping his bulging arousal.

“Nothing,” she said. “Except my smile.”

Yes.

He uncurled his hand, and pressed it to his cock, and rutted slowly into the pressure.

“My, my,” he said, letting her hear the way his breathing had picked up. “What will someone think if they walk in?”

She made a quiet, high sound. His face was hot. He thumbed the head of his cock through the fabric of his briefs and made a shuddering sound of his own. He was truly hard now, straining against the cotton.

“They’ll think: my, that’s a beautiful woman lying there with her fingers between her legs.”

Solas did not bother hiding his quiet sigh of desire at that thought.

He put his hand down the front of the briefs and gripped his cock, hard, and then slid his hand all the way to the top.

“Is that what you’re doing? They would be scandalized indeed.”

Another quiet, earnest sound of pleasure. He lifted his hips and pushed his briefs down, kicking them to the end of the bed.

“Yeah,” she murmured. “I’m rubbing my clit, and I’m thinking of you.”

She was thinking of him.

It was a miracle, even after two years together, and everything they’d been through.

He took his cock in hand again and began pumping slowly, picturing her - her creamy brown thighs, the thatch of red curls, the dark lips of her sex, her long nimble fingers rubbing, rubbing at the swollen peak of her clit. He groaned and went faster.

“I have a confession to make then,” he said.

“Oh?”

“I am touching myself, and thinking of you.”

Ellana made a long, heartfelt sound. “Oh, babe - I love that thought. I love the thought that you’re lying there touching yourself. Does it feel good?”

His cock was hot and thick in his hand and he already wanted to pump it hard and fast. He forced himself to go slowly.

“Yes. But I want it to last. I want to come when I hear you crying out your pleasure, and not before.”

“Fuck. I’m so wet.”

His heart sped again, and then his hand. Was she - could she be - he pictured those long fingers disappearing inside that dark, gleaming flesh, pictured them working faster, faster, the thick clear fluid spilling out around her hand -

“Oh, yes - oh, that feels good - I’m fingering myself now and babe, fuck it’s good, but I miss your hand - I miss your fingers - I wish you could feel how wet I was - I wish you were here licking me and touching me yourself -”

Solas rolled to his side, pulled open the drawer of his nightstand, pulled out the lube, and slicked himself without pausing to warm it. The cold was a shock at first - but a pleasant one. He gasped and then groaned as he touched himself, building up speed, listening to every tiny sound on her end of the line. What if he could hear them - those wet, urgent sounds made by her fingers driving in and out of her cunt -

“Every sound you make brings me closer,” he said as he worked his cock harder and faster. It was good, so good, the skin so slick now, he gripped himself tight, he felt his cock flex and throb and spill precome from the tip. “I have to touch myself faster and faster, every time I hear that little whimper - I am so hard, so ready -”

More incoherent groans, getting deeper, more needy. He answered them.

“I’m rubbing myself again. It’s so good, love, so good, I’m gonna come like this, I want to hear you come too -”

Solas kicked the covers and sheets away. He pumped his cock faster, faster, feeling the pressure building, building, feeling his balls grow tighter and tighter with need. He drank in every sound she made. Every murmur that built and built and built until -

“Oh - oh - oh, I’m coming, I’m coming, it’s so good, fuck -”

He pulled his orgasm from the root of his cock to the tip - pulled and pulled and pulled again as his spend shot out of him and landed hot on his collarbone, his chest, his stomach. He thrust up into each touch. He groaned the whole while.

“I’m with you, vhenan, I’m coming too - oh, vhenan, I’m coming too…”

In the beautiful, panting afterglow, Solas had to admit that there were some benefits to the technology that sprang up to replace the magic he’d all but taken away. Like hearing his wife’s playful giggle from hundreds of miles away.

“I think I’m good and sleepy now. That was pretty hot, you know. Hearing you get all hot and bothered and picturing you touching yourself.”

Solas felt his own blush grow. It pleased him to please her.

“I am glad to be of service to you.”

Another playful chuckle, and then a contented sigh. “And am I of service to you?”

His heart was full.

“Always.”

He found a cloth, and by the time he’d cleaned up the mess he’d made of himself (all the way to his collarbone? really?), her breathing was deep and even on the other end of the line.

“Ellana?” he called softly. “Ellana?”

There were no sounds but her sounds. It was perfect.

He put the phone on speaker on the pillow beside him, and settled in to sleep.

[katharaya]

DA Fic: A Novena to Any Gods Listening

A/N: Listen. Listen I will F I G H T for this ship. Bioware did them dirty and they didn’t deserve that. You know. That. Which is why I’m so glad I got to write them for @for-the-love-of-solas’s Black Emporium gift this year! Thank you for the wonderful prompt!

Pairing: Tamlen/Female Mahariel Word count: 3,678 Summary: Tamlen has never been particularly prayerful, but as the current state of things can attest, stranger things have happened.

---

I. Sylaise, Hearthkeeper, though we wander far from home, we keep your fire alive in our most secret of hearts. Keep us warm.

It feels like a funeral.

(It may as well be.)

Guilt overwhelms Tamlen as he and Mahariel walk away from the clan for the last time. It clings to the soles of his boots, weighing him down.

(He wanted to explore the cave, he went to touch the mirror, he had to drag an unconscious, feverish Mahariel out of the cave and into the waiting arms of the shem Grey Warden with suspiciously impeccable timing—)

He feels everyone’s stares bore into his back as they part to make way. The clan is somber, silent but for Merrill’s soft sniffling.

Tamlen hesitates at the edge of camp, wrestling with the urge to look back. Only Mahariel’s touch gives him pause, her hand slipping into his, and when he glances over her eyes are trained ever forward, staring almost defiantly at the gloom of the dark forest beyond.

Her grip is fever-warm; sweat beads on her forehead as her breath hitches unevenly—signs, Duncan had told them, of the spreading Taint. It's in Tamlen, too—like a constant buzzing at the back of his head, reminding him of how he'd tipped the hourglass, and now time is running out for both of them.

And yet, the set of her shoulders is resolute, the gleam in her eyes the same dauntless fire he’s loved for years upon years. He'd follow her anywhere, if only to keep that fire burning.

So he stands at her side, looking forward with her at last, and her touch is his only comfort now.

(Honestly? It’s the only comfort he needs.)

---

II. June, Craft-master, we honor you with every blade that strikes true and every arrow that finds its mark. May we never be without their aid.

When every day you see horror upon horror, it all starts to blur together after a while.

Tamlen keeps thinking it couldn’t possibly get worse, but somehow he’s never really surprised when it does. From Ostagar to Lothering to the Brecilian Forest, from feral darkspawn out for tainted blood, to shem who hate them for their ears as much as their blue and silver armor, to werewolves hunting Dalish of any clan, it comes to a point where Tamlen stops wondering at the strangeness of it all—choosing instead to focus his limited energy on the fight, on making every blow count, on protecting the one thing that still matters in this upside-down world.

He focuses on the things he understands—he knows that blades need to be kept sharp, that fletching needs to be renewed, that camp needs to be made in a defensible location.

Mahariel needs to keep her eyes on the horizon, on the next mission, on the big picture, so Tamlen helps by keeping his eyes peeled in the now: Lethallan, he tells her, we can camp here; or, Give me your blade, I’ll sharpen it for you; or, in the heat of battle, Mahariel, duck! as he steps in with his shield raised between her and an arrow aimed for her heart.

It helps, too, that he knows the rhythm she dances to, knows how each strike and parry and feint are timed to the beat of her heart. Alistair is a formidable warrior in his own right, and Morrigan knows magic that would astound even the Keeper, but Tamlen knows Mahariel in a way that means he is always precisely where she needs him to be—whether it's at her back in battle, fending off a hurlock, or beside her in the cold Fereldan nights, sharing body heat, just listening to each other breathe and thanking the gods they're alive.

(Whether in battle or in love, Tamlen knows her heartbeat as well as his own.)

And he knows, too, how she looks by the firelight, sleepy and warm; he knows how her vallaslin stretch and curl when she laughs, and he knows how much and how messily she can eat after a long day of travel and fighting.

He knows how the nightmares that plague her are worse than even his and Alistair’s, and he knows how she kicks in her sleep when they begin. He rolls expertly out of the way, waiting for her to settle down before he gathers her into his arms, wrapping the thin blanket around them both as she seeks out his warmth even in her sleep.

And the next day he gets up, he takes down their tent as she looks over their route for the day, he sharpens her weapons, he makes sure she has enough potions.

Mahariel keeps him sane; it’s only fair he keep her safe.

(As if he could allow himself to do anything else. As if it’s even an option.)

---

III. Fen’Harel, Dread Wolf, my foe is wily and shrewd. Lend me your tricks.

“So,” Zevran says, sidling up to Tamlen as he’s sharpening his sword—and though Tamlen has doubts about letting an assassin tag along, he's not going to bring it up with Mahariel, because the last time he'd insisted on doing things his way, they ended up chugging darkspawn blood in Ostagar.

"So?"

“I have noticed that you and the Warden share a tent," Zevran says, flashing his teeth when he smiles. "Does this mean that you two are also lovers?”

He doesn’t know how to answer that. Back with the clan, it seemed almost a certainty—to the point that everyone assumed they would end up in that direction anyway without further prompting. As such, neither of them had seen any point to rushing things, content to just be Mahariel and Tamlen, Tamlen and Mahariel—their future bright and secure and always just waiting patiently for them to arrive.

And of course, Tamlen loved her—loves her, still—but now, with the Taint thrumming through their blood and a Blight at their heels, suddenly that future doesn’t seem quite as certain as he thought.

Not that he can disclose all these things to Zevran, so instead Tamlen asks, “What’s it matter to you?” as he swipes the whetstone along the blade with vicious force.

“Oh, it is simply that I have noticed the Warden—” She has a name, Tamlen thinks venomously, but he keeps it to himself as Zevran prattles on, “—has seemed rather more tense as of late, so I figured I could offer my services, if you were not already doing so.”

A pause.

“What services?” Tamlen asks, eyes narrowed.

“As a bedmate,” Zevran replies nonchalantly, and Tamlen chokes.

“Wha—!?” Tamlen sputters. “You—how dare—why would you even—!?”

“As you must be aware, the Warden is not unattractive,” Zevran says easily, “although exhaustion is not a good look on anyone, if I’m being honest. And seeing as we need her in, pardon the pun, fighting form, I was merely suggesting that I could help alleviate some stress by warming her bed.”

(Oh, Tamlen could kill him, just for that.)

“I can warm her bed just fine!”

“Oh,” Zevran says, seemingly unfazed but for the feline grin that stretches across his face. “Well, that is excellent news. I leave her then in your capable hands.”

And then he has the gall to just walk away, as if Tamlen has not just been subjected to the most embarrassing conversation in his life.

Dread Wolf take him, Tamlen thinks. He’s not getting any sleep tonight.

(And not in the fun way.)

---

IV. Falon'Din, Friend of the Dead, we fear not death with your hand to guide us. Keep us brave.

The rest of the party meanders back to their own haunts, the excitement of the sudden attack dying down, replaced with a wary calm.

But Tamlen and Mahariel linger at the edge of camp, where they’ve piled the bodies of the shrieks for burning, watching the flames lick the tainted corpses. The acrid smoke makes their eyes water, but not so much that Tamlen fails to note the pointed ears—a marked difference from hurlocks—and the long, lean frame—the opposite of the short, stout genlocks. He’s certain Mahariel’s noticed, too.

Her whispered words confirm it—a prayer he’s heard a handful of times in what seems like a different life altogether: “Falon’Din enasal enaste.”

As if in response, the fire crackles brighter. Tamlen hopes the gods have heard them.

“If Duncan hadn’t found us,” he begins haltingly, “do you think we—?”

The light from the fire flickers in Mahariel’s eyes, making them glow in the darkness, feline and eerie.

“Best not to think about it,” she says, in that tone that Tamlen knows means she can’t think about anything else.

(Prayers for the dead have never tasted so bitter in his mouth.)

“Do you hate it?” he asks her quietly. “This life?”

She blinks.

“What brought this on?” she says, glancing over at him with a curious look.

He thinks of the way things are—bleak and danger-fraught; he thinks of the way things could have been—the both of them mindless ghouls as the Taint consumed them faster than it currently was, or dead.

“I wish we’d never found that cave," he sighs quietly. “I never should have touched that mirror.”

“What,” Mahariel says, a smirk playing at the corner of her mouth, “you’re only realizing this now?”

He looks away, shame leaking out of every pore, until he hears a quiet “Oh, Tamlen.”

And then Mahariel is there in front of him, holding his face in her hands, forcing him to meet her eyes.

“The only life I would hate,” she whispers, eyes at once fierce and tender in the dim firelight, “is one without you in it.”

He feels his expression crumble; his eyes soften as he presses his forehead to hers. “Ar lath ma,” he says. It seems like the only appropriate response.

“I know,” she says, rubbing the tip of her nose against his. “Ma vhenan.”

(For one moment, that word drowns out everything else; he can’t hear the crackling of the fire or the lonely wind in the trees or the ever-present hum of the Taint in his blood—only the echoes of that beloved word falling from her lips: vhenan.)

---

V. Mythal, All-Mother, though we bind out hearts in the secret night, our love is true and bright as day. Bless our marriage.

The night before they begin the long trek to Orzammar, Tamlen is kept awake by thoughts of uncertain futures and not enough time. He’s still awake when Mahariel crawls into their tent after her watch, and though she’s surprised when he turns and hooks an arm around her waist, she relents easily, pressing back against him for warmth.

“You should be asleep,” she chides him, and it’s such a familiar and ordinary thing to say that he snorts, though a bit ruefully. He nuzzles into her neck, matching his breathing to hers and taking comfort in the familiarity of her earthy scent.

“I was thinking,” he admits after a time, tracing patterns up the bare skin of her arm.

“Oh no,” she says, and he can hear the teasing smile in her voice. “Sounds like trouble to me.”

Tamlen pouts, nipping at her shoulder and pinching playfully at her waist, eliciting a squeal that he answers with a laugh. He maneuvers them both, evading her flailing legs until he’s crouched over her, taking in the sight of her hair spilling across the bedroll and the soft smile she’s only ever reserved for him.

It comes out in a rush, then: “Bond with me.”

She blinks. “What, now?”

He blushes, but he loves her, and he knows what he wants, and there’s not enough time. “When else?”

She laughs. “I hope you didn’t plan on doing this in the tent, at least.”

He grins, then leads her out, light-footed and light-hearted, sneaking out of camp and into the woods. They always make camp near water, and this late at night the nearby lake is quiet—a still, calm mirror shaded by gently swaying trees. Perfect.

(As is she, and thus she deserves no less.)

Tamlen leads her into the shallows, letting the waves lap softly around their legs, and there, with Mythal’s moon as witness, he binds his heart to hers with the ancient words he’s long since dreamed of saying.

(When she says them back, it’s a boyhood dream come true at last—a pinpoint of light in this otherwise living nightmare.)

He kisses her, and with each press of his lips he pledges himself to her again, and again, and again, in a handfasting lit only by the flicker of fireflies and the reflection of the moon on the water.

---

VI. Elgar’nan, All-Father, a slight has been committed against me, and I seek recompense. Grant me your strength.

He’s heard of alienages, has met flat-ears like Pol and heard his stories of its cramped structures, of how shadows cling to its edges even in daylight, of the stench and suffering that pervade its alleys.

He’s never expected this.

Elves—hollow-eyed, hollow-souled, backs bent under the weight of shame and shemlen derision. The tree at the center of the alienage droops just as much as the elves that tend to it, its leaves a sickly kind of green that Tamlen knows—down to the very marrow of his forest-raised bones—is wrong.

Everything here is wrong, and it puts him on edge, so much so that when the Tevinter healers grab hold of Mahariel, he barely reigns in the savagery they assume all Dalish possess, lunging for them with such ferocity that it takes both Zevran and Wynne to hold him back. He barely registers the smirk Mahariel throws at him just before the door to the hospice closes behind her with an ominous thud.

(His heart is well on its way to thudding out of his chest—just as in the hospice, his heart is probably sinking her blade into whatever fools dared underestimate her.)

And Tamlen is afraid—so, so afraid—but he trusts Mahariel, and so he waits, uneasiness welling in the pit of his stomach, until the door opens once more with a soft creak.

The guards turn, suspicious, but before they can draw their swords Tamlen’s already struck them down. Mahariel exits the hospice with several bruised elves in tow, blood-splattered but looking none the worse for wear. Reunions immediately erupt all around them—tearful embraces between families who thought they’d never see their loved ones again. Tamlen, too, joins in, pulling Mahariel into a crushing hug and burying his nose in her hair.

“Never do that again,” he whispers fiercely, and she laughs and throws her arms around him to squeeze tight, her heartbeat a steady rhythm against his chest to remind him she’s alive.

But for every tearful reunion, there’s a dozen elves still searching, still waiting for a relative or a friend or a lover to come home. This victory is only a spark—the beginning of a wildfire that will stir the elves into action. Tamlen and Mahariel pull apart when a trembling voice reaches their ears.

“So . . .” Shianni begins, and already Tamlen can see that the tangled ball of bitterness and hate she clings to so tightly has started to unravel. Hope is seeping in through the cracks in her skin, flickering to life in her eyes. “What do we do now?”

He and Mahariel share a look, and he knows she’s seen what he sees.

In a proud voice, Mahariel begins, stoking the fire that’s starting to burn in the heart of every alienage elf here: “We are all of us elvhen.”

“And we never submit,” Tamlen finishes, and watches the embers of hopeful rebellion surge into a blazing roar.

---

VII. Dirthamen, Secret-keeper, you know well how Fear and Deceit conspire to keep two people apart. Teach us to keep faith in each other.

“We don’t—” Mahariel gasps out between breathless kisses, “—have time.”

“Mm.”

“Tamlen.”

He pulls back to look at her—breathless and disheveled, a bright flush creeping down from her cheeks to her chest, heaving under her half-open tunic. He remembers the night he’d kissed her at the lake, binding himself to the only girl he’s ever loved, and he remembers, too, one late afternoon a lifetime ago, when he’d peeled away armor from supple skin for the very first time and knew—with every lungful of air and every beat of his heart—that she’d be the only one he’d ever wish to look upon like this.

He’s never wanted anyone else.

He’s never going to want anyone else, and yet here he is, and here she is, asking him to—

“Tamlen,” she says, interrupting his thoughts. She’s always read them on his face far too easily. “It’ll be alright.”

He sighs. “You really want me to do—that—with Morrigan?”

She laughs, but it’s a desperate, unhappy sound. “What I want is for us to have a chance at . . . something after all of this. And I don’t want anyone to have to die for that to happen.”

A chance at something. That’s all this is. No promises that it’ll work, and no promises of happy endings afterwards.

Just an uncertain chance for an uncertain something.

(But if it’s something that includes her, he’ll take any chance he can get.)

“Ar lath ma,” he says simply, pressing his forehead to hers.

She smiles. “Ma vhenan,” is all she says in reply, before drawing him down closer still into a kiss.

The world is set to burn, and they don’t have time, but when he kisses her he can almost believe that tomorrow will never come.

---

VIII. Andruil, Lady of the Hunt, our prey is in our sights, and we cannot falter. May our strike be swift and true.

His sweat tastes like ash and fear.

He wipes it from his brow as he follows ever on Mahariel’s heels—a habit neither of them have bothered to break since simpler days in sunlit forests.

(Mahariel and Tamlen, Tamlen and Mahariel, never one without the other, even now.)

Especially now, on the precipice of the end, as they sprint past charred buildings instead of mossy trees, blue and silver wrapped around them instead of Master Ilen’s craft, a human Warden and a Circle mage at their backs instead of Fenarel and Merrill.

Tamlen of a year ago would have been bitter. He’d have despised these shem and their walled cities and the way they thrust the burden of salvation onto his shoulders.

It doesn’t matter anymore.

This matters: pushing through the market and the alienage, cheers of support at their backs as they repel waves of darkspawn and chase the fiends further into the city.

This matters: Mahariel teetering on her feet, blood staining her armor, and Tamlen all but shoving a bottle against her mouth and forcing her to swallow a potion, only stopping when her hand forces his away with renewed strength.

This matters: the archdemon is strong, but they are Dalish and they are not bred to submit; dragons fall just as quick as any wild bird if you know where to strike, and they fall twice as hard if you know how to strike well.

This matters: Mahariel rushing past him as he hacks down darkspawn after darkspawn, a stranger’s sword in her hand as she leaps—

This matters: locking eyes with her just before she strikes and seeing the fear there, the uncertainty, all the questions and what-ifs that she shoves aside as her mouth forms the words, Ar lath ma—

Bright, blinding light. A sound like thunder, stone crashing upon stone, and then silence—

And in the stillness, her voice reaches him at last, ushering him into unconsciousness as he finishes her sentence in his mind:

—vhenan.

---

IX. Ghilan’nain, Halla-mother, guide these wayward souls. Bring us home.

"Lethallin!”

A blur of black and green barrels into Tamlen’s chest, just as Mahariel is yanked into another woman’s tearful embrace.

“Da’len,” Ashalle sobs, arms tightening around Mahariel. “Da’len, thank the Creators you’re safe.”

A squeeze around his waist elicits a chuckle from Tamlen, drawing his gaze down from the smile he’d been sharing with Mahariel over Ashalle’s shoulder.

“Aneth ara, lethallan,” he greets her.

Merrill grins toothily at him, and a little ways behind her stand Fenarel and Junar, a little more reserved but looking no less pleased. Tamlen only now realizes how much he’s missed this—clanmates, and familial affection, and the familiar warmth of home.

“Will you be coming back to the clan now that the Blight’s over?” Merrill asks, green eyes wide and hopeful.

He looks at Mahariel only to find her already looking back. She bites her lip—chapped from the elements, a bruise at the corner where a dimple should be.

Still beautiful, he thinks. Still kissable.

Mahariel looks away, toward the throne, then down at her boots, then back at Tamlen. There’s already been talks of hunting down the remaining darkspawn, and rebuilding the Wardens, and something or other about Amaranthine. She shakes her head.

Tamlen nods, understanding.

Blue and silver armor doesn’t feel quite so strange, now, or so heavy.

(But then, it has never been as heavy as the duty it entails.)

“No,” he tells Merrill, feeling a pang of guilt at the way her face falls. “I don’t think we will.”

“Oooh,” Merrill whines, “but—”

“But you’ll stay together,” Ashalle interrupts, “won’t you? You’ll look after each other?”

“Yes,” Mahariel answers this time, nothing but certainty in her voice as she comes to stand beside him. “Of course.”

“Always,” Tamlen adds, twining his fingers with hers. He presses a kiss to her temple to prove his point, grinning when Merrill squeals and Ashalle gives a motherly chuckle.

Mahariel only smiles sideways at him, squeezing his hand, but it says enough. Wherever this life might take them—to Amaranthine or the Deep Roads or even the farthest reaches of the Fade—as long as he can reach out and take her hand, then he knows: he’s home.

[thesylvalining]

Time to trade Lisa’s mountain bike for… Lisa! And when she’s back from tour, it always means one thing:

So first, the girls shared aperitivo with their buddy Loic on the church steps in Faenza, with cheese from the Modena hills and wine from Loic’s latest tour in France. I enjoy this photo because somehow Lisa made Loic look like a swimsuit model with too many clothes and me look like a CCR (Creedence Clearwater Revival) groupie. Meanwhile, Lisa looks lovely and excited to to see her eclectic subjects come together so well.

Next stop(s), obviously, is/are our favorite bar/restaurant/beach/nightclub/obsession on in Marina Romea: Boca Barranca! Lisa’s amazing longtime friend Nico is along as well. There are refreshing dunks in the ocean, Spritz, the mouth-watering fried seafood plate we’ve eaten our weight in and the equally mouth-watering bartender… everything turns out to be just as good as we remembered :). 

This time, the journeys perpetuate the watery theme. I take to calling us sorrellas (sisters) from other fellas because — per usual — we’re hooked at the hip.  Like thirsty camels, the sorrellas swap heat for aqueous dips at every opportunity. At this juncture, it seems fitting for me to be so near tenacious water. I appreciate water’s fluidity, its propensity to literally go with the flow, to be at home everywhere in the world.

We soon find ourselves drawn, like a water droplet from a sponge, out of the penetrative heat in Faenza. We arrive in Crespino del Lamone via the train up the Lamone river valley (which, after cresting the Apenninni dumps out in Firenze). From there, it’s a blissful cruise down to our dipping spot of choice. The first is overrun by what New Girl‘s Schmidt would call “youths” (pronounced ewe-thz), predominantly the testosterone-fueled variety. The second, while still afloat in testosterone, boasts a couple of families and several tiered pools in which to disseminate the youths.

In the swelter of Italian summer, I have discovered innumerous ways to whittle away a sweaty afternoon. The time spent dipping, napping, journaling and watching the youths cannonball off an abandoned building while the occasional train grumbled by overhead was precious. Precious because it was spent with Lisa, precious because it was a beautiful day and a fantastic time to be alive. Precious because both of us were fully present and wholly content doing a lot of nothing in particular.

Being present is another gift from the Universe, stashed in my increasingly bountiful cornucopia of Neat New Tricks. It is not that I have ceased to feel angry or sad about how everything between Tyler and I turned out. No — I feel difficult emotions but I am unafraid to let them wash over me like the often murky, refreshing waters of the Adriatic. It absolutely acceptable to feel strongly because we are human — I am human. But I have learned better, more enriching ways to be, partially because I consciously live in the present moment, without (too much) lingering in the past or hoping for the future.

I’m realizing, it’s all about a comprehensive view of life — like Benjamin Hoff explains in The Tao of Pooh. I swear, every time I pick it up, there’s a little jewel of wisdom waiting for me to ponder its shiny facets. Hoff explains best what I’m getting at: our favorite moments in life often occur before a much-anticipated event. Like finally opening birthday presents, going on vacation or seeing someone especially cool after not seeing them for a couple of weeks… 😉 The moments between and before are the crusts of bread if you can’t wait to eat the soft inside — but without them, there’s not actually bread.

My Italian buddy Igor and I were discussing life and such things at his house near Bagnacavallo whilst hanging laundry and nibbling bread and chocolate. It was before a particularly quirky and wonderful concert by Devendra Banhart on Monday night (I’ll wax lyrical upon this later). I said: I feel like I’m in my 20s again. Once again, I bask in the same natural spontaneity and joyousness — but with the brain, experience and self-awareness I have now. I feel lucky but it is far beyond luck. I’ve ceased to search for happiness, but it found me anyway as I suspect it does when life flows easily.

Waterfalls are happy places.

The tan lines of a cyclist!

Let us return to the Lamone river where the The Tao of Pooh was again eerily appropriate. As the water rushed by, I pulled my tarnished bookmark and read:

“Say, Pooh, why aren’t you busy?” I asked.

“Because it’s a nice day,” said Pooh.

“Yes, but –”

“Why ruin it?” he said.

“But you could be doing something Important,” I said.

“I am,” said Pooh.

“Oh? Doing what?”

“Listening,” he said.

“Listening to what?”

“To the birds. And that squirrel over there.”

“What are they saying?” I asked.

“That it’s a nice day,” said Pooh.

“But you know that already,” I said.

“Yes, but it’s always good to hear that somebody else thinks so, too,” he replied.

I closed the book with a laugh, read the passage to Lisa (contemplating her second nap on the pale ledge above me) and we both turned back to our important nothings, listening to the birds, the squirrels and the youths now cannonballing off the waterfall.

And on the way back? Gelato! Duh!

Back in Faenza, Palio season was in full effect. For those of you who’ve dipped a toe in Italy, the word Palio may hasten forth images of titillating horse races in the medieval heart of Siena. Faenza holds its own version throughout July, a fully and ornately costumed affair between the different rioni (neighborhoods), each with their own colors and meeting places (which are boisterous and serve good, inexpensive food all month).

The Palio starts with youth (ewe-th) flag tossing and horse races (which keep Sylva up into the wee hours of the night) and culminates at month’s end with the same song and dance for adults. Lisa and I popped out to watch with the parade to the final race with the rest of Faenza… And let me just say, anyone who knew me in my awkward years knows to say I was obsessed with medieval stuff (Nini? Kelly?) is putting it mildly. So I rather enjoyed the entire affair!

Freaking knights in freaking armor, everybody!

Each rione has a competition for prettiest wench, I mean lady.

And each rione has its own spirited band.

A day later, we marched ourselves and our bicycles up to the ridge of San Mamante, beloved by cyclists for its hilly spine and idyllic views. Also beloved by watery wenches such as ourselves, because ExperiencePlus! organized us all a lovely poolside aperitivo…

After Lisa trudged off somewhat reluctantly to lead another tour with the infamous Enrico 🙂 I was left largely to my own devices. Nature put in its liquid two cents, too, cooling down scorching Faenza with much-needed rain:

Even with my sorella gone, I live a far cry from a solitary life — I have aperitivi, multiple dates in one week with my bike and actual humans (even with a guy I met on the train — you guessed it, more later). Or I travel solo, which I truly savor. Or I also linger about the castle like a friendly spirit, diligently working on my book (almost finished and ready to be sent off), this blog and corrections for the article (now finalized!) for the Italian magazine, Ossigeno.

And I have oh-so-much time to ponder. I can process how much my life has changed and absorb this delectable sense of freedom and adventure into my very bones, which were created, I believe, to absorb such things. And to celebrate them!

You guessed it: The Tao of Pooh has something to say on this matter. Hoff unearthed a quote that’s so beautifully apt I’m going to quote Hoff quoting Lu Yu.

The clouds above us join and separate,

The breeze in the courtyard leaves and returns.

Life is like that, so why not relax?

Who can stop us from celebrating?

And what more says celebrate than when your morning Nutella on wholegrain tigella (imported from the recent mountain bike trip) suddenly looks exactly like the country you’re so very happy to be celebrating in!??!

So, to celebrate the celebration, I combed my fresh-out-of-bed hair and adventured. Sylvas adore a good adventure — even, and often especially, da sola (alone). I hopped aboard the same train Lisa and I rode for our river dip trip –surprisingly almost clean, not entirely packed — to Marradi. Marradi? Yes, the same spot the sorellas began their multi-day hike in the colder, windier, rainier days of late April. This time around, it was hotter than Beyonce’s sister Solange.

The hike became an all day affair, especially after I missed the nonexistent train between 1440 and 1859. Unfortunately this meant missing hamburgerata (a bi-annual hamburger cook off with their friends) with the downstairs neighbors, the same whose lovely daughter (and friend) I teach English to several times weekly. But it meant more time in the wide, wonderful outdoors where I always feel at home.

I found the forest, even in crowded Italy, largely devoid of other humans. I could hear them on distant dirt bikes and cars and early on, passed a group watching their buddy hang glide off an open, hilltop. And evidence of humanity presented sporadically with a fence, a rickety shelter or scared sheep bolting down the path ahead of me, the bells around their necks ringing a frantic tune. Otherwise, it was just me, the birds, the squirrels, the breeze…

… the trees and the ivy…

… the old cobblestones on the road to Eremo di Gamogna (the hermitage of Gamogna)…

… and quite possibly the best lunch spot around!

By the time I arrived back in Faenza it was after 1930 and of course, I was ravenous, but tired and very sated after a long sojourn in The Nature.

The beauty’s in the messy details…

Heading out of Marradi.

Lunch spot views.

Sylva = very scary.

Almost to the lunch spot!

A walk in the woods, anyone?

Heading back down.

There’s an Italian saying: Chi dorme non piglia pesci, or those who sleep don’t catch any fish. I may not have been in the business of catching fish (although some people might be able to argue that point… Lisa? 🙂 ) but recently I definitely was in the business of not sleeping… case in point why this clock…

… says 0400 (4 a.m.). Yep — more on that next time. Ciao for now!

Aqueous Transmissions Time to trade Lisa's mountain bike for... Lisa! And when she's back from tour, it always means one thing: