#v; ha'era la melava ( beauty & the beast ) | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

theharellan · 6 years ago

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Five times understood

set in their beauty & the beast au, with ian as the beast.

One. The wolf still limps when he walks, but the wound will not be his undoing. Solas still watches, concern framing his face, remembering the stray arrows that littered the woods outside the castle, knowing more will rain down upon them. The injury is his doing, the lingering pain his failing, if he had only approached sooner, or were a better healer, if only–

Gold flecked eyes turn in his direction, as if beckoned by thoughts of them. When they meet, the tail that hung idly begins to wag with enthusiasm. No mind is paid to its surroundings, Solas sees the slight disturbance in the nearby bush before Fen’len. How it begins with a few flakes of snow sliding off green holly leaves. He opens his mouth to warn him, but gravity is quicker. The branches relieve themselves of their burden, a pile of snow crashing down upon the so-called “beast.”

A dramatic yelp cuts through the cold winter air, as the flakes take the wolf down with them. The tail that had caused all this is now tucked beneath his body, where it can do no further harm.

Solas’s teeth drag over his lips, biting back a smile, though not in time for Fen’len to witness it. Ears flatten, seeming smaller in his shame, and it’s enough to inspire amused pity in Solas’s heart. He pads through the snow, leaving elvhen footprints alongside a wolf’s paws. It is with a laugh in his voice he reaches out, knowing there is no hand for him to take. “Here,” he says, mirth only barely contained, “I’ll help you up.”

But in the instant he stoops in the snow beside the wolf, he feels the air change. A streak of mischief that hits him, just seconds before Fen’len rolls onto his side, disturbing the more stubborn snow that clung to the uppermost leaves.

He curls in on himself, gasping as the ice draws freezing wet trails down his back, like long fingers along his skin. A barely contained smile becomes loud laughter as he sinks in the snow, as the wolf rolls and writhes on his back, tail beating a quick tempo against the snowy earth.

Two. The foolish elation he had felt before dinner is gone, bled from him after hours of lonely waiting, dinner growing cold before him. The last of his goodwill was burned after piling a plate of food for Fen’len to enjoy alone, now only a bitter cloud remains as he stalks into the garden.

The paths are deserted, stonework pushed out of place by the roots of a lonely rosebush, as desolate looking as when he first found this place. At first it looks empty, devoid of everything but the fireflies that skirt the fountain’s still water. Until, that is, he looks a little closer, as this castle has taught him to. It bends subtly to its inhabitant’s will, turning spirits to stone and keeping the roses blooming well past their time, it is only him who seems exempt. He looks a second time at the rosebush, which at second blush does not seem quite so lonely.

Through its brambles he sees the shape of a wolf, curled into a shape as small as his body can manage. Solas sights when he spots it, loud enough that the buth shudders, leaves shaking against the starry sky.

He sets the plate down on the stone path. The motion is careful, but the clink of ceramic against the ground is loud with his petty intent. For a moment, he contemplates leaving without a word, but he opens his mouth and his thoughts come tearing out. “Eat alone, if that is what you’d rather,” he says, “but next time I ask to eat with you, tell me ‘no.’”

Three. Dozens of drawings are spread before him, each representing something from their small, shared world. Fen’len watches intently, his tail still from the fear of disturbing Solas’s hard work. He rolls his wrists to ease of the stiffness the endeavour had worked into his tendons. The gaze of his companion is sharper, apparently unaffected by the hours of study, which Solas does not want to go to waste. With a small inhale, he draws up his spine, then his eyes, to meet the other’s.

“Are you ready?” he asks. The response is subtle, a mere twitch of a tail that sends out a pulse of air, rustling his sketches. Solas settles them with a gentle press of his fingers, then pulls back his sleeves so there is nothing obscuring his hands. “Watch me.”

He points to himself, pressing his finger into his chest before pulling it to his nose, hand flat as he gestures outwards. As he signs, he speaks: “I will met you in the garden.” Canine ears angle flat against his skull, then forward in time with a rush of clarity, so strong Solas is smiling before Fen’len answers. The wolf’s paw lifts, falling first upon a likeness of Solas himself, continuing the sequence until it ends with his interpretation of one of the many rosebushes in their garden.

“Precisely.”

Fen’len’s mouth falls open, tongue lolling out in what looks like a grin. He fidgets, tail sweeping under his seat to prevent it from scattering the pages. Each phrase Solas signs is recognised in turn, and each time the candle on the mantle burns a little brighter. It is another step towards a whole conversation, towards being truly understood, and understanding in turn.

One final prompt occurs to him, heat rising in his cheeks as he signs it, “Will you accompany me to dinner.”

Fen’len’s tail escapes from beneath him, its happy reply sending his drawings flying in all directions.

Four. His fingers tangle in thick, ruddy fur, separating it into five distinct rows before he smooths them with the palm of his hands. Fen’len goes loose the longer they lie together, eyes falling shut as a contented sigh flares his nostrils. He looks more like a tamed dog than a beast, but neithr assumption wuld be right. Solas can grasp at his thoughts, only half-formed in his semi-conscious state, but firm enough that he recognises that he is still mulling over the books Solas had read aloud earlier that day.

He hears a memory of his own voice, far gentler than he remembers it. It’s soft and intimate, remembered as though it is the only sound worth hearing, and brings something elvhen out in its listener. Solas abruptdly cuts off the sound of the memory before it provokes more questions in him. It’s too late, of course. He has asked himself these questions before, and does again now.

What is this? What could it become?

Solas gives himself no answers, hands burying into Fen’len’s coat as a distraction. They run against the grain and down again, along the cuff of fur around his shoulders, where his fingertips ghost over a ridge of raised skin. He traces down it absently, desiring to know it before he truly knows what it is. It comes to him in a memory, the twang of a bowstring his only warning before he feels an arrow lodged in his shoulder. Fen’len shudders and moves beneath him with a monstrous snarl. For a moment, he is a beast again, as vicious and threatening as their first meeting. Solas falls back, heart hammering in his throat even as he fights to hide his fear.

In an instant it’s over, and the veil fades from Fen’len’s eyes. Ears remain pressed flat against his skull, shame reflected in round wolf eyes. Solas opens his mouth, but his throat is thick and too choked to speak. Beneath his thumb he can still feel it, web-like and keloid, risen with painful memories. There’s a pain in his shoulder where the arrow’s ghost hit him, the hunter’s intent forged into a steel point will stay with him longer than the pain.

“I am sorry. I did not mean to…” He remembers doing the same with the animals in his village, feeling the wound to find its cure, but Fen’len is no animal, no matter how much he looks it. Solas breathes in, hands motioning as he speaks. “I will not act so thoughtlessly again.”

When he reaches one hand out, the wolf cringes from him, though in the flurry of emotion Solas cannot tell which he fears more: Solas, or his own capabilities. A high, keening whine issues from within. “You’re safe,” he assures him, “and so am I.”

After a moment of hesitation, it seems to sink in. Warm fur presses against his palm, Fen’len delicate as he settles into Solas’s waiting arms.

Five. Ian’s skin is a freckled landscape. Solas is sure there must be one for every strand of wolf’s fur that grew from his skin before. They lay in bed, no colder without the beast’s thick coat, skin against skin that warms them in the waning sunlight. He ghosts his finger up Ian’s back, enjoying the sight of the gooseflesh that rises along his spine.

Ian turns over, the tips of their noses touch, he feels a smile against his lips. They are too close to sign, too tired for words, but the flood of affection he senses speaks as loudly as any declaration of love. It envelopes him as two arms wrap around him, tying them together through the night.

#dalishfreckles #( asks )#i have found a home in him ( ian x solas )#( my writing )#v; ha'era la melava ( beauty & the beast )

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theharellan · 6 years ago

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Not a Beast at All

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

solas

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

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

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

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

“I promise.”

the beast

He’s dying.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

solas

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

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

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

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

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

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

the beast

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

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

Don’t touch me.

Don’t–

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

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

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

He doesn’t understand.

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

solas

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

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

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

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

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

the beast?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

solas

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

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

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

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

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

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

the beast?

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

He knows it from long, long ago.

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

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

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

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

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

Not so unlike, but then…

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

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

solas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the beast

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

solas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

the beast

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

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

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

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

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

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

solas

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

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

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

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

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

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

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theharellan · 7 years ago

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♛ fill in the blanks | fluff otp edition

Who’s more likely to find who wearing their clothes?: solas is more likely to find ian wearing his. usually if solas is seen wearing ian’s clothes, it’s because ian stole whatever he was going to wear that day. ian’s clothes fit a little tight on him. in their modern verse they more or less share a wardrobe. Who iniates hand holding?: both equally, solas a little more often during the beginning of their relationship. Who likes having their hair washed by who?: ian is the only one with hair, so. even in verses where solas has hair when they meet, he shaves before ian gets opposable thumbs. Who likes to slow dance?: solas. he teaches ian the basics at the winter palace, though they don’t get the opportunity to often. Muse that’s more likely to fall asleep with their head in the others lap?: solas, not that ian doesn’t put his head in solas’s lap, falling asleep is always a little harder for him. Muse that does all the cuddling in a blanket fort?: i can’t see solas being a blanket fort person, but if there was one then they’d be equally cuddly. Who hogs most of the covers at night?: ian. luckily for him solas doesn’t get cold easily. Muse who nuzzles the others shoulder to get them to give them a head rub?: ian, especially when he’s shapeshifted into a wolf. How do they share a desert? Two forks or one?: one. less to clean. Who gets jealous more easily?: neither are particularly jealous, solas is too confident to feel jealous over other people flirting with ian and ian, despite having an overall low self-esteem, is secure about their relationship. solas is more inclined to non-romantic envy, such as his envy of cole. Who gets angered more easily?: post-tranquility reversal, ian. how he gets angry, however, is often bottled in a way that hurts him more. How do they go to sleep at night?: typically, whether they’re at skyhold or in the field, they spend some time talking and/or cavorting before they try to sleep properly. sometimes they spoon, or sleep face-to-face, and it is almost always solas who falls asleep first. before ian’s tranquility (and months after its reversal) they meet in dreams. Who gets the most shoulder rubs?: solas, if only b/c ian has scars on his back that he is often self-conscious about and doesn’t like touched. What are there arguments/fights like? How often do they fight?: not often. their arguments will sometimes stew a few days if ian is the one angry, b/c ian often internalises his anger in such a way that he doesn’t let himself feel it. their fights are never easy, but generally result in them learning to adjust their behaviour. Who is more likely to throw things in fights?: neither? they’re adults not two-year-olds. How do they make it up to each other/apologize after an argument?: holding one another, solas reassures ian he loves him. mostly try to wear the edge off so they can return to how things were. Do they have nicknames for each other?: both call one another “vhenan” although solas will occasionally call ian “vhenan’ara” which literally means “journey of the heart” and ian will use “ara sal’shiral” or “love of my life.” when married solas will occasionally refer to ian as “ara’lin” or “ara’len,” basically calling him his spouse. Caring for each other while ill, how does the other muse go about it?: ian is a wimp when he’s sick, so solas doesn’t have to go out of his way to find him. he tends towards magic and natural remedies, but will sometimes have to insist that ian take them. when solas is sick he’s more inclined to continue working, so ian has to convince him to stop before any caring is to be done. Who’s more likely to be patching the others wound?: solas is more likely to be found in combat, and ian is one of skyhold’s healers. Muse that says ‘I told you so’, after they come home from the beach and other muse is burnt to a crisp while whining how bad it hurts for not listening and putting on sunblock after the other muse repeatedly told them they’d get burnt?: ian just goes brown and freckles. solas uses magic to prevent burning, so. neither? Your otp has a newborn baby, who gets up in the middle of the night when he/she cries?: solas can wake up an instant if he has reason to, and his kid crying is one of them, but when they do adopt in their default verse ian has trouble sleeping in the first place, so it’s a toss-up. Your muse’s of the otp reaction to finding the others crying about something? And how do they make them feel better?: when ian’s upset solas’s primary concern is ensuring he validates ian’s emotions. there’s often a lot of handholding and cuddling. What would they be like as parents?: as a parent solas is not particularly strict, and mostly wishes to encourage whatever his children are interested in, even if it’s not where his interests lie. ian is a bit of a pushover but the more emotionally engaged parent. What would they have been like as childhood sweethearts?: the only verse they meet as children is their harry potter verse, in which ian is a ghost and therefore not open to dating. i tend to imagine that if they ever were in a verse where they dated when they were young, they would have been a happy if somewhat less functional couple. solas takes time to become as empathetic as he is, and wouldn’t be able to handle ian’s anxiety as well as he does as an adult. ian, too, becomes more understanding of other people’s issues as he gets older and thus solas’s own struggles aren’t quite as well-received. i do think that if they met again when they were older and wiser they may begin dating again. Who initiates taking a bath together?: solas. i even wrote about it lmao. Who likes who playing with their hair?: solas, obviously, given he’s bald. though in the period in their batb au where solas does have hair (and ian has no fingers b/c he’s, well, a wolf) ian does like shoving his face in ian’s hair after he’s washed it. The place they mostly likely accidentally fall asleep together?: the skyhold garden, the rotunda, any couch ever. dating solas you’ll learn he can fall asleep most anywhere.

meme | tagging: @youriinquisitorialness, @vigilflight, @afirmbelieverinnopantsfridays, @valorcorrupt, @exnobis (nox / astra), @asomniari, @mercysought (himsulem / priestess), @archontem (if you even can??? flksdjf), @dalishfreckles (for another one of or ships)

there wasn’t technically a section to tag ppl for this meme but i’m tagging ships i enjoy on my dash leave me alone...

#( headcanons )#i have found a home in him ( ian x solas )#[ just gonna tag the verses mentioned ]#v; ha'era la melava ( beauty & the beast )#v; what are we going to do with all this future? ( modern )

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