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Chapter Text

Rock and ash tumbled; The earth still shuddered with the settling debris. Corypheus had been defeated. The battle had been harried and their roles were set, the party just proficient enough in coordinating together that they destroyed a would-be god. Lavellan had been magnificent. As rocks still crashed to the ground, Solas found the remains of the orb. He bent and gingerly touched it, his heart aching as if he’d lost a close friend. The power in the orb had been his but he’d been too weak to unlock it when he woke from his slumber only a short time before… all of this. The orb was destroyed, cracked in two, and he could see that his plans would have to change. He needed to leave and set new plans in motion. He felt the hairs on his skin rise and knew the Lavellan was nearby. He couldn’t let her see the pain in his eyes and hear her words. He had to leave, to flee, to escape the draw of her. He couldn’t let himself love her or be loved by her. He remembered he had already made so many mistakes. His relationship with her was just another mistake that he should regret.

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Two years earlier, Solas had woken from his nearly eternal slumber and had been as weak as a child. Unable to unlock the power of his hidden foci, he let Corypheus’ spies learn of the orb’s existence. He hoped the fool could unlock it’s power where he could not and then Solas could take back what was his. His ancient magic would never want to inhabit the walking-talking-blighted-corpse that was Corypheus.

When Corypheus had been interrupted by the brazen Dalish elf the orb had chosen her as the vessel for Solas’ power. It was a bitter pill to swallow when Solas found her on the mountain, incoherent and stumbling as the mark crackled to life in her hand. It had nearly consumed her. He had been loath to take Lavellan’s hand in his when the mark appeared to be killing her, Solas had imagined that she was all of the things he hated about the Dalish, that she was fanatical in her worship of her ‘gods’, blind to magic, and ignorant of her people’s past and potential future. He had been so wrong thinking she was just some foolish quickened child. Realizing she was something more, that she was not so unlike himself, was the first chip in his stoic armor.

He played the role of the wise hermit, the elven apostate that saw one of his own in need and wanted to help. It had been a terrible lie and the foundation in which their relationship began. He had never intended to love her, or anyone again, but especially not her. She was a pawn in his game, a game she didn’t know she was a part of. He made them all dance like puppets. He led them to Skyhold. He fed them tidbits of information through his network of spies, just enough to lure them this way and that. The Inquisition was a joke. Everything was accounted for and he could plan circles around, he knew what to expect – except for Lavellan. She was a beautiful, fiercely passionate, and insightful woman. Their relationship was a mistake.

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Only months before, Wisdom had told him that Lavellan was dangerous in ways he hadn’t considered. He’d dismissed his friend with a hearty chuckle. How was one little Dalish elf any threat to him? She was no one and nothing of significance. She was a woman out of her element, surrounded by ‘shemlens’ that accused her of killing their Divine Justinia and trying not to be killed, then hailed as a hero and a Herald of Andraste! It was laughable, truly. It was his pride and feelings of superiority that lead him to show off his knowledge, to tell Lavellan small hints of the elven history that she was ignorant of. He had thought she was little more than a foolish child, annoying at times when she questioned him or stumbled across something that challenged her delicate Dalish worldviews.

He enjoyed the looks she gave him when he educated her as well as the confusion, the furrowed eyebrows, and pursed lips when she discovered or learned of something that refuted her people’s customs and beliefs. He had wanted to feel the distance and differences between them – that she truly was so far removed from her heritage and incomparable to ‘true elves’ because it made his actions more justifiable. It was easier not to care when she was just a poor unfortunate soul, barely even a whisper of what an elf should be.

It was her responses to this knowledge that surprised him – she wanted to know more. Lavellan wanted the truth – not the ‘truth’ that the Dalish desired. They wanted to believe the humans had destroyed their people and were the cause of their fall from grace. They didn’t want to admit to the truth, the elves destroyed themselves. Solas had been the final nail in the coffin when he’d sealed away the veil to protect his people from their ‘gods’ that played with them like they were toys to throw away with when they were bored. The elven mages that the Dalish worshipped were monsters. They had killed Mythal. These so-called gods had committed horrific acts against their own people just to entertain themselves.

He only gave her small truths, given sparingly like treats during their travels. Sometimes they would sit together late by the campfire and he would tell her of all the things he ‘saw in the Fade’, not admitting that they were glimpses of his former life. Lavellan would listen with rapt attention and share her meals with him, even offering him tea. He would wrinkle his nose and grimace at the offer and politely decline. Her quiet laugh was infectious and delightful as she tried not to wake their sleeping companions.

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He didn’t remember when she’d wormed her way into his heart. Was there a single moment that stood out to him? She had come back from Redcliffe with Dorian in toe, the smarmy Tevinter that had Solas on edge. Blood magic practically oozed from the man’s pores. Lavellan spoke of time travel, red lyrium, and had stared at him with a strange expression. She was clearly shaken and looked on the verge of tears. Solas felt a pull deep inside himself, as if she had tugged on a single heartstring. When they were alone, she whispered her recollections from the future that never came to be. She told him that he’d died for her, that many of them had sacrificed themselves so she could come back and make things right. Lavellan had admitted that she couldn’t let their lives be sacrificed for nothing and she had to fix the mistakes of the past to build a new future. It stunned him, to hear someone admit so plainly what he felt so strongly in his own heart. She knew how he felt, though she didn’t actually realize it. He felt a kinship with her and a draw that he previously was unaware of. Maybe he was wrong about her. Maybe she wasn’t so unlike him as he had thought?

He had tried for months to pretend that it had only been lust that drove him to her. He avoided her touch, but couldn’t help but peer at her in the Fade when she slept. He thought she felt something for him too, but hoped he was wrong. Attraction was normal and it had been actual ages since the last time he’d felt the flesh of another in intimacy. How many had shared his bed in his long life? He had wanted her to be nothing more than that, just another temporary companion, just flesh and desire. Demons teased him wearing her skin in the Fade and he felt the hot-blooded anger of his youth. Wanting her was wrong in so many ways. He wanted to feel superior, to feel like she was barely even an elf, a shallow reflection of the people of old. He blamed the mark for the draw to her that felt practically irresistible. Surely it was his magic trapped in her palm that truly tied them together. He found himself captivated at her natural beauty and carefree charm. She was stunning when the dappled sunlight spilled through the trees, or when she warmed her fingers with puffs of breath in the cold.

She was also completely uncouth and uncivilized and yet she made him smile. She licked her fingers after eating. She chewed on jerky while talking and seemed too willing to make fast friends with idiots and geniuses alike. On the note of idiots, she and Sera had established a strange camaraderie that bordered on familial ties. Sera was like the idiot younger sister and Lavellan was the older one that tried to keep her out of trouble. She was only just so successful; Sera ran amok in her absence. He would watch as they stomped around like drunken halla after long visits to the tavern. Once, Sera had put lizards into his bedroll. He was positive that Lavellan wouldn’t have allowed it. He got a proper vengeance though and got a dark pleasure out of Sera’s fear of ‘elfy-ness’ and magic. Lavellan would scold him for scaring the fool, and he’d smile and act innocent. He loved that despite her scolding he could see her smiling at him with her eyes.

She was witty and loved humor, but clearly also had poor taste in literature. She and Cassandra would discuss the writings of the dwarf often after they discovered their mutual joy of reading. It was better than their rocky start, but so annoying on long journeys. Solas would roll his eyes at the dramatic discussions of the love lives in Varric’s horrific novels. The two would ply the dwarf for details on his upcoming releases, which he would refuse with a grin. Solas knew that Lavellan was graceful, but so often she surprised him with her lack of grace and skill. A chuckle spilled from his lips when she nearly fell from her mount when testing out unfamiliar harnesses. He watched as Blackwall stopped her mount and they worked to untangle her ankle from the leather straps. Solas felt a warmth in his skin that spread to the tips of his ears. She warmed his cold heart.

He needed a distraction from her, so he painted the fresco in the rotunda of Skyhold, but also because painting brought him joy. He soon unwittingly learned that her attention could be directed toward him. Lavellan had been visiting with her spymaster, Leliana, before winding her way down the stairs of the rotunda. Solas had been drawing and painting for hours. She found him mixing colors with raw pigments and binding agents with blue pigment dusting his clothes. She said nothing as she came to sit perfectly still on the stairs and watched him in silence. The Dalish were hunters. It was rare for her to use her stealth and silence on one of her own companions, but she later told him she had been captivated and didn’t want to interrupt. Solas paused with his palette and brush in hand before making both careful brushstrokes and hurried ones. Hours passed before he noticed her presence as he cleaned his hands with a rag. He remembered feeling such shame that he’d been so deeply engrossed in his painting that he’d been unaware of her, but he felt something else too, a sort of pride and excitement that he’d stolen away her attention when her time was precious and almost always dictated by a strict schedule. She had smiled at him and he had smiled back. His ears turned red at the tips and he felt his cheeks flush with heat. 

Every draw to her he tried to resist. Every chuckle he tried to suppress. Every smile he tried to hide. She seemed drawn to him too and he found himself in her party even when others were better suited for the mission. Lavellan was honest but shared little of her feelings with others. With him, she was different. He had thought it was because they were both elves, but when he saw how she acted around Sera he knew that wasn’t it. He really was almost clueless to her feelings despite their flirtations until she had kissed him on her balcony. He had enjoyed it and it drove him to want more. As if he were afflicted by some lingering illness, Solas slowly felt a love that was so blindingly strong it took his breath away.

He remembered her cunning at the Winter Palace and how she took his breath away at her part in the Game. The palace was dangerous and full of malice that night, with assassins waiting to strike in every darkened shadow. He’d drank too much expensive Orlesian wine and eaten too many tiny cakes as he watched the events unfold. He’d been pleased with the progress of his plans thus far. Briala served him and his goals, stirring up malcontent in the elves in the palace and Orlais itself. When the last drops of blood had been shed, Lavellan graced the ballroom floor with a lithe movement that spoke of the delicate beauty of the great elven dancers of the past. He had watched her with rapt attention, keeping himself in a darkened corner of the room. When the dancing ceased, she commanded attention and announced the murderous plot to all of the guests. He had nearly choked on a little cake when she deftly weaved words around the wants and desires of Grand Duke Gaspard, Briala, Grand Duchess Florianne, Empress Celene, her ladies, and the aristocrats.

They seemed unable to phase her. To Solas, they looked like fools stumbling in the dark. He had seen Lavellan command an audience before but not like this; He’d seen her studying human customs, families, and the aristocracy’s rivalries with Josephine for days before the ball. Solas had felt transported to a previous life, like being thrown back in time to his youth in the courts of the so-called-gods of the ancient elves. He had been lucky to be a servant then, waiting on these selfish and beautiful creatures that called themselves the Evanuris. He had also been a fiery young man that was bold and brash and fell in and out of beds more often than not. Solas had considered Lavellan to be attractive, albeit plain looking because the Dalish looked strikingly similar to one another, but tonight she was radiant. He should have paid attention to the proceedings, but when the music and dancing resumed and he saw her escape to a balcony for air, he felt such an overwhelming desire for her. He bowed to her and asked her to dance. Her expression was one that was seared into his memories, precious and priceless.

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Lavellan had almost broken him after their battle in the Arbor Wilds, after the Well of Sorrows. She never knew how close she was to defeating the greatest threat to life on Thedas with nothing more than a flushed smile and a tender expression. She had been hurt when he shared his ‘knowledge’ on her vallaslin. The Dalish wore these blood-bound tattoos, their vallaslin, with pride not realizing they were branded like cattle. They would never believe that they were living with the marks that signified they were property. The Dalish could never accept that they worshipped monsters. He assumed that as all evidence supported that belief.

Lavellan listened to his words and believed him. It hurt her to know she wore the marks of a slave. She accepted the truth and it made her all the more amazing to him. Was Lavellan an anomaly? Did the mark change her into this wonderous creature? Or had she always been like this? Solas pondered that if she could be so accepting, so surprisingly, so unlike what he had witnessed in his long sleep and in the Fade, could others be like her? It made him feel a nagging doubt for his purpose, his goals. If the elves of this age could be as great as those of the past, then why was he trying to restore them in the first place? He tried to let these new doubts dissipate but they troubled him.

Solas had told her that she was beautiful. Lavellan had that tender look in her eyes that showed him the depth of her love, as if he was someone worthy of that love. It was then that Solas felt his heart nearly break. He wanted to share everything and throw away his plans completely. He wanted to tell her his truth, his past bubbling to the surface, with a desire for her and peace.

He could tell her who he was, who he truly was, and she would believe him... He could walk away from it all and live his life with her. Without his power he’d likely only live a little longer than she would, but they could be together. They could be happy… she never had to know what he had planned for the world. She could know he was once the Dread Wolf. She’d accept him if that was all he gave her. If he only told her the good deeds that he did, the slaves he freed, the monsters he sealed away, and not how he had killed so many in the process and since; Solas was willing to sacrifice every last living person if it brought back his people and restored the world of old. He desperately wanted to be worthy of her love, that he could be a hero instead of a villain. It was a mistake. He was a liar. He was a fraud, a trickster. Fen’Harel was a monster. He was no hero.

What sort of hero would save people just to watch them be slaughtered by demons and spirits that he unleashed? Those were his plans, ultimately. He knew if the veil was destroyed that the fade and the world would reunite. Spirits, and yes demons too, would return to the planes of the living on Thedas. Magic would be everywhere again. People would be slaughtered by the millions. Some would survive. Those people that the Inquisitor and her allies saved would likely suffer horrific deaths soon.

Solas hated to see people die needlessly. So many would die, so many that were innocent. He hated it, and yet he would not only allow it, but usher it into being. He knew he was a horrible madman and yet his purpose was defined and necessary. Who else but him could save his people? It was his burden to bear and his own poor judgement and mistakes that he had to correct. Lives would be lost. Solas had convinced himself that the veil being destroyed and the deaths that followed were inevitable. It was tragic, yes, but those that died… it was like they were lost to a force of nature. It was beyond his control, wasn’t it? It was an unfortunate expense that some would die so that the elves could be restored.

In the privacy of the little pond by the cave, following the moment where she accepted the truth of the vallaslin, they kissed. He told her how he felt about her and how it had all been real. His veins felt like they were on fire. He felt a revulsion for his past, present, and future. The Dread Wolf ruined everything he touched; Her love could be no different.

Solas needed to step back and be cold and calculating. He knew that his plans or the mark would likely kill her, and it was then that he wanted it all to just end. Either he would love her for however long he would live with this pittance of power, or he would run from her so he could complete his plans. He struggled with the thoughts, the regret and pain. Solas needed to end their relationship so he could end the world. He could not let her break him, crush his resolve.

He ended it. Solas told her it was all a mistake. Lavellan was stunned. She must have thought it was because of the Well of Sorrows, about how fiercely he had argued that neither she nor Morrigan should drink from it – that binding herself to Mythal was tantamount to slavery. Her love had to be a form of divine punishment because it was never meant to be. It was a mistake meant to distract him from what needed to be done. Ultimately, Lavellan meant enough to him that she could stop him and his machinations to end the world.

He retreated from her as if she were made of fire and he was made of ice. Her touch could sear him and melt his heart, destroy his resolve, and could tear him away from his destiny and make him weak. He had to be strong despite her. Solas needed to remove her from his life, her love from his heart, her touch from his skin, her words from his ears, and her from his gaze. Solas loved her. It was all a mistake. He adored her and he would do anything for her, and that was the problem. He would walk away from everything for her and he couldn’t let all of those who died have died for nothing. All of the deaths were because of him, because of Corypheus finding the orb, because of Solas leaving it for him to unlock. They had to be for something as he was not a wanton killer. He left her side, he abandoned her to her own thoughts and heartache and hoped she would forget him quickly.

The weeks that followed were hard on him. He had to stuff away the hurt, shut away all that was threatening to break free, and be the solitary wanderer he pretended to be. He avoided Lavellan as if she were blighted and did not share in any levity or playful banter. He was brief in his responses to their companions, quiet and morose. Solas kept his distance and his guard up. Not all of their companions were blind to the sudden fracture between the two elves. Dorian surely plied at his “favorite Inquisitor” for information. Solas was unsure what she told him, if anything. He did not like the human blood mage and liked him even less because he was from Tevinter. Solas didn’t understand why she trusted him so implicitly, but he knew her judgement could be doubted considering she’d taken Solas to her bed.

 Varric had watched him like a hawk and even tried to question him, getting nothing but a fierce glare and clipped words in response. He knew that Lavellan must has spoken with some of them when Sera had stopped pranking him. Solas had never imagined he’d miss finding inappropriate and quite fake love letters in his belongings or miss the uncomfortable questions about “bumping bits” from the Red Jenny.

Solas felt pangs of regret grow as the days and weeks seemed to slow to a crawl. The rotunda felt stifling, and he found himself often left behind when missions were ready. It was smarter that they spend less time together, so he tried not to let it hurt when he was in Skyhold more than he’d like.  Solas often thought of her even when he tried his damnedest not to. Was she crying over him? Was she lost in another’s arms or in their bed to chase away the thoughts of him?

His imagination ran away from him, and he began to analyze every interaction he witnessed between her and others. A smile between her and Blackwall; Was it something more? Solas sneered at the thought; The man was a liar and a traitor, Thomas Rainier. He had been against freeing the fake grey warden from his doomed fate in Orlais. He hated how similar their pasts were, that Rainier could live a new life as Blackwall and be pardoned of the crimes he’d committed while Solas had to live with his guilt and suffer. He wouldn’t wish death upon him, but he was furious when Lavellan had him freed and returned to Skyhold for her supposed ‘judgement’. No inquisitor would pardon Solas for his past crimes and demand nothing but his service. He would give up his very being to spend the rest of his live by Lavellan’s side. His people demanded that he fix what he had broken, right his wrongs. It was only this belief that kept him from begging for her forgiveness and confessing his sins.

Every evening Commander Cullen had late private visits with Lavellan in his tower. Solas didn’t trust him for many reasons, including his power over mages with his templar skills. He could plainly see the man was handsome, even for a human, and lonely. He’d heard that templars took a vow of celibacy and wondered if that made Cullen even less trustworthy than he imagined. Was it so farfetched to imagine him confessing his feelings to his beloved Inquisitor? Would the human be overcome by her beauty and take her friendship and good nature as an invitation to try to kiss her, touch her…? It made him sick with worry and jealousy. Solas glared at Cullen’s tower and wanted to badly call down the elements upon him. It would be satisfying to force a meteor down onto the tower or freeze the giant oaf and kick him off the edges of Skyhold, watching him plunge down to the abyss below. He avoided interacting with Cullen as much as possible, which was luckily not difficult.

It became difficult to sleep. Every time he walked the Fade, demons greeted him with her face. For the first time in his long life, he envied the children of the stone and their dreamless sleep. He could not afford to let his walls drop again; he could not allow himself the selfish desire for companionship. Fen’Harel was a monster and monsters didn’t deserve happy endings.

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After the final battle, Solas had only allowed himself a moment’s rest to pause and look to the Inquisitor, checking to see if she was alright. Her mark flashed and crackled as Lavellan gasped, looking around in the crumbling remains of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He saw her head turning, her large eyes scanning the final battlefield – she was looking for him.

Lavellan would have asked him if he was alright even though their relationship had ended, and they barely spoke to one another. He felt he didn’t deserve her concern and no, he wasn’t alright. Solas was physically fine, but his heart was sundered and his conviction faltering, just as it had after the Well of Sorrows. He knew Lavellan would be horrified if she knew the truth; he planned to end the world. Solas would rend the sky apart and tear down the Veil to restore his people to their former glory, return them to the immortal lives they lost. He wanted to feel like for once his good deeds would matter. He did everything for his people, and yet those that remained sang of him as a villain, a trickster, and a monster to scare young children. The Dalish were a poor facsimile of his people, their people. The city elves were even more pitiful. Gone were their immortal lives, their long and delicate features, their language, history, and songs.

It was very possible that every Dalish and City Elf that walked Thedas would die when the world was remade. He barely convinced himself that it was acceptable, because the modern elves weren’t elves at all. Lavellan was different and unique and he couldn’t allow himself see these people as his own. He would let them live their insignificant lives for a few more years until it all came to an end. It was kinder than for them than to know what was coming and think that perhaps they could stop it. He couldn’t stomach the thought of Lavellan knowing his plans, knowing what he was going to do. She would try to stop him, or worse – understand him, pity him…or sacrifice the goodness in her soul to join him. He could never let her be twisted into the horrible thing he was. He would not have her regret her actions and feel the blood of millions on her hands. Let her live and die as a hero, a Herald of Andraste, a Dalish elf that brought peace to the land and healed a hole in the sky. If she survived the end of the world, it was just as likely the mark would kill her anyway. He wanted her last years to be those of peace – without him there to ruin it. 

Their companions, no – her companions drew to her side and distracted her. It was then he turned away and quickly made his exit. Solas stumbled as he made his way through the snow down the mountainside, his toes slipping on icy rocks. He could not bear to see her questioning stare. Would she think that he was abandoning her? That he was angry about the orb? That what they shared between them had been meaningless? Solas felt like he was being choked. He could not swallow the pain and regret quickly enough. Distance seemed to grow and he moved numbly through the Frostback Mountains. His eyes stung as tears threatened to fall, freezing in the miserably cold winds.

He needed to forget her. He needed to pretend everything he felt for her was meaningless. Their lives were incomparable. Her life would end in a heartbeat and he would live on eternally. In a thousand years’ time he probably wouldn’t even remember her name. He had his own mission and he knew where he could get the power he needed to move forward. Solas hoped he would forget the feel of her skin and the warmth of her lips, the scent of her hair and her laugh. He didn’t pray to the gods, he just hoped he was strong enough to save his people.

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Solas looked heartbroken at the sight of the orb, destroyed after the battle with Corypheus. Lavellan frowned at his words and only turned away at the sound of the others calling for her. Cassandra was the first to get to the stairs, dirt and grit dusting her hair. The sky was healed; the only remnants of the giant fracture were flickering aurora lights dancing across the expanse. “Inquisitor? Are you alive?” Cassandra called out before Lavellan stepped into view. The seeker’s shoulders sagged as she let out a sigh of relief, “There you are…” She smiled at her friend in earnest. The battle had been hard and they all were coated in a sheen of sweat. The Inquisitor turned back to see that Solas was gone and frowned. Solas had lost much, their people had lost much, when the orb was destroyed – when the Vir Abelasan, the Well of Sorrows, was destroyed. It seemed like it was all too much for him. Lavellan felt her eyes sting and didn’t realize she’d been holding her breath. She let a sigh escape her lips. “Perhaps he just needs time…”, she thought sympathetically before giving her companions her full attention. Now that Corypheus was defeated there was time to celebrate as well as time to mourn. She noted that maybe Solas would blame her for the orb, and that thought staggered her. “Let’s return to Skyhold” she said to her friends with a wavering smile.

Lavellan chewed her lip as her gloved hands held tightly to her mount’s harness. The people in her retinue chattered and laughed, their lives feeling leagues lighter and better than only hours before. Her mind was elsewhere. The memories of the past few hours, the past few days, the past few weeks, the past few months – it all nagged at her and forced their way into her thoughts while journeying across the careful narrow paths through the mountains. She had pretended that the end of their relationship, that the hurt Solas left in his wake, was insignificant. Now their battle was concluded, the world saved, and she had no distraction from the plaguing self-doubt.

She recalled her memories from the night it all ended after the Temple of Mythal. Solas had held her to him, his eyes peering deeply into her own. “You are so beautiful…”, His words to her were like honeyed poison, sweet and yet they wounded her. She wished that she had seen the end coming. Was their relationship just mutual loneliness with a bonus of physical intimacy? Solas had pulled away from her after their kiss, after revealing the truth of her vallaslin. His words cut through her like a knife, “… I am sorry. I distracted you from your duty. It will never happen again.” And yet he still dared call her vhenan. She was shattered, broken, confused, and angry. They had just been sharing a wonderful moment and then just – nothing? Lavellan glared at the snow that fluttered onto her cheeks and eyelashes. When Solas returned to Skyhold she wanted answers.

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Celebrations had begun as soon as they returned to Skyhold. The people gathered everywhere with cups in hand sloshing liquid gold: the main hall, the tavern, the stairs, the courtyard. It was a wonder that they had so much liquor on hand. Lavellan tried to suppress a snort of amusement as she imagined rooms stuffed to bursting with kegs of ale. “Maybe that’s why we could only host so many dignitaries at a time...”, she grinned. The main hall was lively with music and many loud conversations. Lavellan smiled and weaved through the throngs of people, making small-talk and thanking those who helped their victory. She had never received so many hugs, cheek kisses, and hearty slaps on the back in her life. The last slap on the back left her nearly coughing for a breath of air.

A familiar hand waved to catch her attention. Lavellan recovered her composure and smiled in earnest. Varric looked up over his cups and tilted his most recently filled one in her direction. “There you are! I thought maybe you’d run off in all of the commotion.”, he said with a chuckle. Lavellan smirked as she observed he clearly had been celebrating quite some time with how red his face was and how he nearly lost his balance as he shifted in his chair.

“You know how I am…”, she teased before drawing up a chair beside him. “What will you write of this night in your books? ‘The glorious Dalish Inquisitor saved the world and then ran from the afterparty’?”

A servant ran by with a full tray of fresh ale, but not before the Inquisitor snagged a cup for herself with her deft hands. Varric grinned wryly over his cup, “Nah, I think it would be something more like: ‘The sassy Dalish Inquisitor saved the world and got sloshed with her friends, the end.’ Whatdy’a think?” Lavellan chuckled, “Terrible ending. Someone should really teach you how to write.” She said with a wide smile. “And where are all these friends you speak of? I only see a drunk dwarf…” She teased him before she took a swig of her ale. The taste was foul to her elven tongue, but it got the job done just as well as any Dalish moonshine. Varric laughed as she scrunched up her face from the bitter aftertaste.

As if summoned by her words, within minutes she had her familiar group of companions, her friends, joining them with smiles and laughter. All but one, it seemed. More than once she scanned the party for the familiar bald head as the candles melted and the flames grew dimmer. Sera hugged her tightly, tearing Lavellan from her search of the thinning crowd.

“Oi! I can’t believe it – we really did it! You did it, I mean! Coryphe-spit got his arse handed to him an’ we came out jus’ fine in the end!” Sera said and then giggled much too loudly. Lavellan’s ears hurt at the volume of her friend’s voice. She smiled but it felt more like a grimace as she found her fingers in her ears. Cassandra shot her a sympathetic look.

Sera couldn’t stop herself as she climbed a chair and proclaimed, “Here’s to Inky saving th’ day! And to bees!” She shouted and thrust a half-full cup into the air, spurring on a loud “Hurrah!” that erupted from the many people crowding the hall. Dagna cackled loudly, unmistakable even from a distance because she sounded like a loud seal barking. Sera wobbled and then squealed as she was pulled from the chair with the help of a few of the scouts. Lavellan laughed, “Thank you for saving her from herself.” She said quietly to Charter and Harding. They nodded and smiled.

It was easy to be distracted from her nagging thoughts by the party guests and her companions. Dorian noticed her sometimes pained expressions and gave her a comforting smile. He saw an opportunity to rescue his ‘favorite Inquisitor’. The mustachioed man turned to the group, “Oh, look at the time! I should be getting to bed for my beauty rest. You’ll have to excuse me. It’s been delightful.” One by one they said their goodnights, though some clearly would be staying up further and drinking on into the early morning hours. “I’ll have to remember to thank him tomorrow.”

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The Inquisitor should have gone straight to bed. Instead, she slipped out of the main hall and into the rotunda. Shutting the door tightly behind her nearly extinguished the noise, making it a dull thrum that she could feel even in the stones beneath her feet. Without the distractions of the celebration, she could finally look for him. The air smelled of paint and plaster, old books, and the musk of Leliana’s menagerie of birds and nugs. The rotunda itself was bare except for the almost finished fresco on the wall and the empty desk. Solas wasn’t there, but neither were his sparse belongings.

Lavellan felt suddenly uncomfortable and lost; Even though this keep had been her home it felt like she was standing in an unfamiliar place. It felt as if she was plunged into an icy river. A cold sweat trickled down her spine. “How could he? He couldn’t just leave…” she felt a nausea as bile rose in her throat. Her hands grasped at the wall to steady herself. The anchor crackled painfully as the green light sparked in her left hand.

She wanted to be angry, but instead she felt naked and stripped of her sense of self. Lavellan had been tough, she had to be to survive this long both in the Dales and in the Inquisition. Life hadn’t been easy for her. She was a stubborn child and constantly got into trouble. With no siblings and an overwhelmed father, she was more than a handful. She didn’t want to be a scared rabbit, which the shemlens had yelled at her while pelting spoiled food at their clan members when she was a small child. They had scared her and the idea of them hurting her people weighed on her heavily as she grew up. Not every human she interacted with was a monster, but those that came after Clan Lavellan were not there to make conversation.

These humans were usually drunk villagers or angry lords’ men on horseback. There were the occasional darkspawn. She had earned her fair share of scars fighting for the safety of her people or herself. One prominent scar could be attributed to her foolishness as a youth. She had been nocking arrows and firing into the forest, confident in her abilities as a child. She did not notice a Sylvan while retrieving her arrow. The adolescent Lavellan tripped over its roots, waking it. She had screamed and scrambled away. In her fear, she’d run into another tree – one that luckily wasn’t sentient – and sliced her cheek on the rough bark. The blood had dripped into her eyes and she’d cried all the way back home to the safety of the aravels and the scent of halla. It had been an eye-opening experience that made her feel such shame at her supposed strength. Lavellan learned that she had much training and efforts to be truly strong. She dedicated herself to learning as much as she could from her elders and the hunters of their clan.

She questioned everything since she could first speak, asking why enough that her elders were very glad when she spent more time in the forest than in the camps or the aravels. The Keeper had not enjoyed her nitpicking at his guidance, words of wisdom, and history of their people. As a teenager she’d nearly been exiled for her antics – Sera reminded her much of herself when she was younger.

She wasn’t the most popular elf in her clan, in fact a lot of the others thought she was just a little weird, a little off. Lavellan had not worshipped like the others, in awe of gods she could not see nor hear. She had loved the stories of the gods as if they were fairytales, especially the tragic ones. No, she had looked to the statues of the elven gods with questioning eyes and doubt. If they were so powerful, why were they outwitted and defeated so easily? She never cowered with fear in front of the statues of Fen’Harel, though she had a healthy respect for him. She would stare at his statues and wonder, How did you trick them? She wanted to learn from the mistakes of the gods and the mistakes of their ancestors. She never wanted to fall prey to someone, to be outwitted, or outclassed in strength or skill. As she got older, she played a role of the dutiful elf more than she let her true self show. She was looking for an escape from the life of the clan, she was bored and dreamt of something more. She dreamt that had some sort of destiny that she had yet to realize.

She learned to be crafty, to be stealthy, to be invisible in battle. Lavellan had grown into a fierce woman with skills honed over thousands of hours of practice. She considered herself strong and had never relied on anyone before she met her friends, before Corypheus and the orb had marked her. She had felt affection, attachment, and love, if the love of a teenager or young adult was truly love.

With Solas she had felt something so much more, a word like love couldn’t describe it. She had felt whole with him. He was her vhenan and she was his. And now he was gone. It felt as if the world had been torn asunder under her very feet. A wave of nausea nearly knocked her down.

Reality seemed to warp as her vision spun until she pressed her face to the cold bricks of the wall. The brickwork was lit with the eerie glow of the green radiating from her mark. The rotunda seemed to spin around her with the frescoes a blur of color. Panic. She felt like it was overwhelming her. It was so foreign in the calm quiet of the rotunda that she choked back a laugh. It sounded more like a sob. She swallowed back bile. Her legs felt like they were stuck in mud as they threatened to collapse and pitch her into the floor. She stumbled across the room. “Air!” Her pulse raced and her head pounded. Running, she threw open the exterior door. Lavellan gasped in a deep lungful of brisk mountain air.

It was cold; Skyhold was always chilled at even at warmest times of day. The air cut through her like a knife. She then promptly heaved her upper body over the banister and vomited into the bushes below. After a minute, her stomach was emptied and all she could bring up was spit. Lavellan let herself slide down onto the stonework and cry. She couldn’t fathom what she’d done to wrong him, to turn him away from her, to chase him off. Did she see something more to their relationship? Did she fool herself into believing he truly loved her the way she loved him? Plenty of men would whisper sweet nothings to bed a woman. Her head dipped and she pulled her knees up to chest. Tears fell in heavy streams. She hiccupped and sobbed and wished he’d come back to her. After a time, her eyes were red and her lips and nose raw.

Perhaps if he had witnessed such a scene, Varric would write: The Dalish Inquisitor vanquished the blighted Tevinter Magister and then broke down sobbing over her former lover, the apostate hobo elf named Solas.

Chapter Text

The Inquisition really couldn’t take a ‘day off’. The following morning the birds were much too loud, the light much too bright, and everything seemed to make one’s head hurt. Lavellen sat up in bed, still dressed in her clothes from the night before. Most of the residents of Skyhold were grumbling and keeping their heads down, desperate for tea or coffee to dull the throbbing in their heads. Lavellan stared at the floor, at the wood grain and stones, trying to forget the sensations from the previous night. “I can’t believe… - No, it was just too much to drink… too much everything…” Lavellan said quietly to the silence of her bedroom. She wanted to believe her reaction the night before was just natural because human drinks and some foods just didn’t agree with her, or it was a moment of weakness, nerves leftover from the battle with Corypheus. She tried, but her voice didn’t sound convincing and so, she wasn’t convinced. She refused to admit that Solas leaving so suddenly had literally knocked her off her feet, the air from her lungs, and rattled her to her core. A few minutes passed and the day was already scheduled. She let her bare feet scuff the floor and wiggled her toes to feel a little bit more Dalish in a place surely no Dalish had ever called home.

Lavellan stood up and stretched, grimacing at a stiffness in her lower back. She had to keep her mind on her schedule: Breakfast, updates from Josephine and Leliana, training with Cassandra, and find out the status of troops with Cullen. Then gossip with Dorian during lunch, check on the Chargers and Iron Bull, visit her mount and give it a good thorough brushing, look in on Blackwall, keep Sera out of trouble or join her in troublemaking, and avoid Vivienne. Usually, she’d follow up with a visit to the rotunda and ‘borrow’ Solas for some private time, but obviously she’d have to cancel today. Afterwards she’d go to the library and talk with the scholars before she wrote letters to gain further influence. After nightfall she’d take a bath. Lavellan savored sinking into the hot water, submerging herself to her chin. It was a human luxury, but she would miss it when she returned to her Dalish life – if she ever did. Dinner was almost always with Varric in the tavern. She would ply him for juicy details on his new novels to tease Cassandra with, though Lavellan was becoming a fan herself.

------

The day progressed normally until lunch with Dorian. He was insightful, thoughtful, and sometimes brutally honest without ‘kid gloves’, as he called it. Lavellan picked at her mutton stew without much appetite. “So, no sign of the heartbreaker yet?”, Dorian said as he took his friend’s hands in his. Lavellan flinched. Rumor had it, for months now, that the Inquisitor and her Tevinter blood mage were an item. Dorian flirted with her openly since the day they’d met, and Lavellan had thought he was so amusing, though devilishly handsome, that she flirted back to be playful. Dorian had spotted the look that the bald elf had shot him the first time he kissed Lavellan’s cheeks, and he made sure to be extra – well, Dorian – around the man.

“No, but maybe he just needs a few days to cool off.” Dorian smiled suavely and leaned across the table, his frilly shirt nearly dipping into her bowl. “Well, then that leaves more time for the two of us! No more denying how you feel about me, my dear” He nearly purred it with sexual innuendo dripping from his voice. Lavellan, despite her mood, laughed. Dorian wrinkled his nose at her reaction, feigning insult. “Oh you tease! I thought we had something here…” He said dramatically sweeping his hand to his forehead and throwing himself back with further drama. Lavellan snorted loudly and covered her face as her cheeks burned a bright red. Dorian grinned like a scoundrel at her reaction – snorts were rare and he cherished every one he earned from his beloved Inquisitor.

“You’re just toying with me, aren’t you?” Dorian asked. He stared at her with a puppy-dog eyes and overly expressive pout. It was ridiculous and so was he, and she adored him.

“Always.”, Lavellan smiled at him and made an attempt to eat. He smiled and leaned back in his chair, satisfied that she would feel a bit better for the day at the very least.

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               Later that day she stood in the main hall with her hand on the door to the rotunda, frozen in place. She had to confront the reality that going in there was incredibly painful. It hurt more than the fact that her bare face would make her unwelcome among the Dalish elves, Inquisitor or not. She felt bile bubble up and grimaced, shaking her head and pushing through the doorway. “I will not let this control me.”

The rotunda was relatively quiet, the upper levels echoed with faint footsteps and conversations. Lavellan stood there and looked up at the high ceiling. She took a few deep breaths. She slowly turned to look at the space around her, taking in the beautiful frescoes on the walls. She saw colors, but really her mind just replayed memories “of us…”.

They were in love, she had her vhenan and nothing could stop her from saving the world… and then what? Solas smiled and took her hand.  

“Come with me, vhenan.” He brought her to an ancient elven ruin to tell her…something. "I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me." He said with a smile that reached his blue-grey eyes. She stared at him lovingly, letting him go at his own pace. She had learned in the past year that he could not be rushed. For him, Lavellan was patient.

“You are unique. In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me, more important than I could have imagined.”

Her heart soared to new heights. She wanted to cry, but she was strong and tough and didn’t want the moment ruined with tears. There would be time for tears later, so much time. "Then what I must tell you... the truth..."

The vallaslin - she wore slave markings. Her momentary joy was replaced with a shock of revelations that she was branded. The Dalish got it wrong, scrabbling to grasp onto a history and culture that they misunderstood and was nearly lost. She felt lost. He let her make a choice, and she made it thinking at least she would have him by her side. How could she live with a bare face? Her clan would think she’d been bewitched, and other clans would reject her outright. She would be an outcast. Humans would think she was a city elf, and that wasn’t much better. Lavellan still asked him to remove the tattoos, her eyes tearful as she tried to make peace with her decision and who she would be afterwards. She would be no one, with no people. Did he understand how much she loved him, to accept his words as truth and commit to being alone? This stripped her of her family, past, present, and future – her people, her clan, everyone of the Dalish. She felt his fingers brush against her skin as he cast his spell. It was both warm and cold, making her skin flush but her hairs stand on end.

Then the vallaslin were wiped from her, her identity stripped – but she had him, she had her vhenan. Everything was okay – she knew who she was, who he was. He could be her future, her only future. She was no longer Dalish. She was not a city elf. She was no Tevinter slave. She was only his vhenan.

Moments later he drew away. “I distracted you from your duty. It was a mistake. It won’t happen again.”  She was stunned and stared at him in disbelief as her dreams crumbled into ash.

“You bring me here, take the vallaslin from my face, and now you just end it?”

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Fenedhis!

 Lavellan spun and threw a dagger with a fury and speed that was unmatched. It pierced the wooden table with a nearly silent thump. “It was sheer luck we won against Corypheus...”, her head hadn’t been in the game. Neither had been her heart, which Solas had stomped on and crushed so easily only a few weeks before. She and Solas had a rhythm in battle. They moved like dancers, partners in an agile weaving of spells and daggers. He struck from afar and kept her shielded with magic, kept her energy high so she had the stamina to stay on her feet in the thick of battle. Lavellan leapt and threw herself into the fray before disappearing and backstabbing opponents, flanking them, or rushing through the lot of them. The rest of the team makeup was a rotating crew, but he was always her first choice until – well, until he’d thrown her away like trash.

She was loving, good, and kind. She had done all she could to support him, to save his friend, to preserve their culture, to share in his interests, to encourage him. She had told him how she’d use her power after defeating Corypheus, how she’d make things better. She hadn’t done anything wrong. He was selfish. He was wrong. He needed to come back and apologize to her. Maybe she’d just tell him off and wash her hands of him. Maybe she’d… she’d do something.

It was easier for her to let anger swell than the heartache that threatened to have her crying on the floors.

She stood there, nearly shaking before she stomped over to the table and tore the blade free.

“May the Dread Wolf take you!”

Chapter Text

He had yet to reach his agents, but he also hadn’t exactly been in a rush. Solas knew what he needed to do, but everything would take time and patience. It was easier to travel alone with his mind a jumble of thoughts and doubts. Solas struggled to justify how he could have any relationship with her with what he needed to do. Was it loneliness or weakness?

Solas tried to forget her, but she seemed unforgettable. How could he possibly forget all that she was? The way the sunlight made her hair look like it was made of flames, the way her smile took his breath away, and – Solas hissed in pain as he drew the blade away from his scalp. A small red rivulet trailed from the nick in his skin. His reflection scowled in the small mirror. Tsk. He rinsed the blade in a bowl of water before resuming his shave. Afterwards, he dried his scalp with a cloth and sighed heavily. Healing the small cut would be no feat, no effort at all, and yet he didn’t want to. Let it bleed.

Solas finished dressing and ate a meager breakfast before sitting at a desk to plan his next moves. The ramshackle house that he temporarily called home was rather barren, with old worn furniture, a small fireplace, and a creaky door. It was clean and functional, though a draft chilled him each night. He had suffered worse accommodations. Solas liked to think of himself as practical and a minimalist as he had aged.

In his youth, he had wanted for much and his drive, hunger, and greed often got the better of him. When the opportunities presented, he would wear fineries. He had a desire for women, men, drink, food, possessions, and anything that he saw of value. He toyed with lovers’ hearts and thought it all a game. He was reckless. Gambling was nearly addictive; he was a thrill seeker. It was common for him to lose it all in a risky gamble. His skills were developed over centuries. He had to lose to learn how to win.

Ages ago, he loved to feel the rush of dominating another or being dominated to fulfill his sexual appetites. He would sometimes have an urgent need, but sometimes his preferred method was to drag out sensual acts over days, weeks, months, years… It would be hard for any mortal to understand the pleasure derived from sex that lasted for a good portion of their short lives. His sexual wants and needs were not greatly changed with age, but he suppressed them best he could. He had hidden his urges and darker appetites from Lavellan, worried he could hurt her, break her, or scare her away. Sometimes he watched her with the eyes of a predator, of a wolf. Sometimes after a particularly fierce battle he would look at her and hunger shone in his eyes. Lavellan would never know the wonderous torture that her body could feel if she were like him, and the world was right again. This world could never compare to the world he’d destroyed.

He took risks because the reward was worthwhile, but the risk itself was exciting. It was why he was such a good rebel, a brave and fearless fighter. He lived for the risk of the game, and the higher the risk the more he felt the thrill of it all. The visit to the Winter Palace in Halamshiral had stirred up old urges, old desires. It was difficult to live in the moment when so much of his past felt like it was at his fingertips. Not whisking her off her feet during their private dance on the balcony took every bit of his effort. He wanted to taste her and make her scream. Instead, he was ever the gentleman and did not lead with their physical relationship. He let her initiate, and even then, he was hesitant. It would be all to easy for him to get carried away. They would never have years together to explore each other’s bodies, so he needed to be as chaste as he could manage – They had pressing matters and time was a factor; They had to save the world. They had to save the world so he could destroy it. Even though their time was short, their intimate moments a blip in time considering his lifespan, he had loved her. It was a mistake.

Solas had learned to be who he was now by being that hot-blooded elf when he was young and his people paying the price for it. I was a fool, but no more. There was a pride in him that he had learned from his past mistakes. He would rebuild the elvhen empire despite the odds. Nothing and no one could stop him. He had his clothes, his bedroll, supplies, a few trinkets, some paper, ink, and quills. Solas pulled out a roll of parchment, chose a favored writing quill, and carefully unscrewed the lid to the bottle of ink. He dipped the quill into the ink, careful not to overfill the reservoir in the tip. Then he prepared to write and found himself drawing a blank.

Things would be easier if he could keep his mind focused on the task at hand, but instead his mind drifted again and again to his beloved. He lived as true to himself as he could by her side, as Solas and not the Dread Wolf. He told what truths he could. It was difficult, but he tried not to mislead her unless she got too close to his truth. Even when he was happy with her, fear and doubt nagged him. Purpose was why he was still living, and he needed to save his people – his love life ultimately didn’t matter.

He particularly couldn’t forget the expressions she made. The look of joy as she delighted in the subtle ways he expressed his love for her; A single flower placed in her bedroll, a seashell placed in her hand with a sleight of hand, or his gentle hands deftly removing any trace of leaves or debris from her hair. His thumb would brush over her chin and he remembered her lips in a provocative pout. He grieved what he had discarded.

The woman could be his undoing, but if this world were different he would gladly let her. Her body was crisscrossed with scars, beauty marks, freckles, and soon his kisses. After their first meeting his attraction was nearly instantaneous; Solas was not blind and his long sleep had not calmed all parts of him. It was all too easy to recall when things became more serious, when the game he thought they played was more than just playfulness. They had shared kisses in and out of the Fade. They had touched and enjoyed one another, but never had they done anything more than playful teasing with their clothes on.

“You look tired, Inquisitor”, Solas remarked. Lavellan smiled that sort of exhausted smile that meant she agreed but she said nothing in response. The past few weeks had been trying and seeing the Dalish struggling so much had brought a gloom upon her that he worried she wouldn’t be able to shake. He took her hand in his and brought it up to his lips, “What would you give for a hot bath?” He teased her. He delighted in how her eyes lit up and she seemed to regain some of her energy.

“I know better than to say anything… What would you want?”, she had asked. Lavellan was careful not to be too hasty or put pressure on him after their first kisses, he said he needed time. They snuck away from their camp in the Exalted Plains to the crumbled elven ruins on the Evanuris river.

Sneaking around made him feel foolishly young again, and he took simple pleasure in her good mood at the prospects of a hot bath. He led her to the water and told her of the history of the place and traditions lost. “Men and women would bathe together, or separately in groups, or couples. They could soak for days or longer…”

Lavellan smirked at his words, “Well we don’t have that much time and I prune easily.”

He chuckled. Crouching by the river, he ran his fingers over the surface of the water and let his magic seep into the area he’d chosen, free of sharp rocks with a shallow sandy shore. He had thought to be subtle about his intentions and then ask to join her – because he needed to take things slowly, lest they get out of hand. He was experienced in flesh, but not courtship. With that, he felt as awkward as a young man could be. Solas wanted to be gentle and take his time – make it count. He couldn’t risk hurting her, scaring her. The hungry wolf inside him would eat her alive if given the chance. When sex in the ancient kingdom could be a single act enjoyed over years, a single night seemed to pale in comparison. It made the possibility all that much more precious to him. Perhaps they would only ever be together this once and that memory would have to sustain him. 

After warming the water with a spell but his Inquisitor was not one for subtleties. Unbeknownst to him, she had decided to take the initiative. Lavellan disrobed when his back was turned and then crept up behind him with all of her marvelous stealth. She really was a wonder, moving like she was a fluid creature made of Fade and nothing more. He had excellent hearing, and yet he heard no footsteps as she closed the distance. “I hope it is not too warm for you”, he remembered saying as he turned only to see a flash of her skin as she leapt onto him. He was rarely surprised or startled, but he felt the hairs on the back of his skin raise. He choked on his laughter and then felt himself crashing into water in a tangle of limbs with a naked temptress.

She could surprise him like no other and made him feel like a young man again. The depth of her character, her capacity for goodness despite the odds and power dangled before her, and her heart… for that he was grateful. She was not what he expected. She was not what he would ever think he wanted. She was what he needed, but he did not deserve her.

He felt horrible. The look on her face when he told her it was over cemented in his mind that he truly was meant to be alone. He had seen millennia of pain and suffering, he had felt plenty in his long life. Seeing the pain he caused her made his breath catch in his throat and his chest feel tight. Why did it matter, really? He had known her for so little time, a year and a half perhaps? He had cast spells that lasted far longer than that. What made this relationship love? In all his years, he had never spoken the words ma vhenan. They were powerful words that expressed so much that he couldn’t show her; It was not something said accidentally or flippantly. He had told her that he loved her, and he had meant it. That didn’t mean that he would stop what he meant to do. He didn’t even think it was possible that he could stop. He had to save the people, his people. He was promised to them first, and he made good on his promises. He would not abandon them, not even for love.

Words have meaning. He groused as he finally put quill to paper.  

Chapter Text

Solas struggled to sleep soundly. Lately the Fade was not as welcoming to him –fears could easily become as real as reality itself in the Fade. Solas had his own fears, fears of failure, fears of being powerless again, fears of chains on his flesh, fears of…

Vhenan…

Solas found himself staring at his beloved. The Inquisitor struggled to stay standing as the mark in her hand flashed ominously. The magic in it had built up so much and every spark that fell from it sent her body spasming with pain. She stared at him with pain in her eyes, but it was more than just physical pain. The mark flared and burned so brightly that he was nearly blinded. Lavellan screamed.

He ran to her side as the mark sent veins of magic up her body like a burning green wildfire. He stared at her in horror as the magic ate through her very being. She lit up like a bright veilfire torch. He tried to reach out for her, tried to grab her, call magic to himself to save her – anything.

“Vhenan!” Solas called out.

Lavellan shrieked as her body burned away. Pieces of her tore away like paper and scattered in the air in a gust of wind. Only her spirit was left.  He couldn’t breathe as he stared at her; With transparent green ‘skin’ made of nothing more than light, she trembled and stared back at him with wide eyes.

“No… no… no.” He tried to touch her, but instead he felt slips of magic pass through his hands. She was so precious to him, even as a spirit. He wanted to cradle her, to whisper she would be okay. Instead he stared at her and felt trapped, speechless.

Her left hand crackled and the mark tore through, spilling sickly green light from her fragile form. He couldn’t fathom this happening; The mark was a death sentence, but that power shouldn’t extend into the Fade.

The spirit of the Inquisitor stared at him while the mark flared again. The light blinded him and he drew his face away. The spirit screamed and it was all he could hear, he felt it echoing in his skull and reverberating through his bones. He turned back to see her burst into an explosion of green light. The air churned around him and he felt whispers of her touch on his skin. There was nothing left of her but his memories.

“NO!!!”

He cried.

Solas woke up in a cold sweat with his eyes wide open. It was just a dream, a nightmare. His heart was racing and his mouth felt dry as a desert. His fingers twitched against the sheets.  He tried to take deep even breaths. Staring at the ceiling helped a bit, and he rubbed his forehead before closing his eyes again.

He knew that mark would kill her. The magic of his foci was too much for a mortal body to contain. It was supposed to kill Corypheus, but instead it would kill her. Even if she lived out her entire life, it was a blip in time in comparison to his own. Their love was tragic. It was never meant to be. He still loved her and he wouldn’t wish pain upon her, death upon her.

Solas sat up with an exhalation of air and stared out in the darkened room, blinking back the visions that seemed to still swim in his mind. He furrowed his brow and wondered what he could do to make sure this never happened. Even if he was ending the world, even if everyone of the mortals died, their spirits were precious. Lavellan was just like the rest of them, and they deserved mercy and compassion. Solas was not cruel. He was not uncaring; He wanted them all to live what lives they could while their time was short.

Shortened.

In Skyhold, Inquisitor Lavellan was working late into the night. Her candles had burned low, wax dripping down forming a little puddle on her desk. She crossed the floor of her quarters and grabbed a handful of reports left on her desk.

“What do you have for me Charter?”, she said to the darkened room. She may be overtired and sleeping poorly, but she could get some more work done while her eyes still could stay open. She flipped through the documents written by her scouts in the field. She hoped beyond hope that they’d turn up some traces of Solas. Leliana had told her there was no sign of him and it seemed he was purposefully avoiding the Inquisition scouts, wherever he was. She sighed softly and rubbed at the corner of her eye, trying to hold back a yawn that threatened to escape her lips.

There were nightmares of the past, of the present, of the future. Lavellan was avoiding sleeping because she felt safer in this screwed up world than she did in the Fade right now. She’d slept less in the past few years than in her entire life, and surely that wasn’t doing her body any favors. The sleep deprivation of months, years even, was adding up and she was making mistakes so often that she was a little worried they might soon be fatal. One wrong instance in battle could be the end of her. She huffed out a breath and tried to focus on the words on the pages, but her vision was blurry and the words were hard to concentrate on. She yawned and blinked sleepily but resisted the urge to climb into her bed, a few scant feet away and looking particularly inviting. She glanced at it with a frown, not wanting to enjoy the soft goose down or plush pillows. Despite herself, her mind drifted to memories of the exploratory and heated moments in that bed with a certain elf, of the soft kisses and large warm hands on her skin. She shook her head, as if dazed and in a dream and hoping to chase those memories away.

I need a distraction… Lavellan turned toward her chair with a pile of papers in her hands.

Suddenly, her mark flared an angry bright green. She cried out and nearly fell from the intensity of the pain tearing through her. The flash of light illuminated the room and it resembled the Fade for just a brief moment. Tears stung her eyes and braced herself against the back of her chair. She breathed as slowly as she could manage, trying to focus past the pain. This was nothing new.

Over the past few weeks, the mark was flaring more often. Whenever it crackled to life it felt like her hand was being set on fire. Usually, it pulsed with a slow radiating pain that she could almost forget about, almost.

Another flare up of both pain and light sent her reeling. Lavellan bit down hard on her cheek and tasted the copper hints of blood. She nearly fell, grasping the chair as if she were clinging to debris in hopes of not drowning.

“Nn..Ahh!”

She managed to push off the chair and stumble to her bed. A sharp lance of pain tore up her spine and she gasped.  “Fuck!” She spat as she pushed herself face down into her pillows. It was intense and all she could focus on, swallowing back the blood and trying to ride out the pain that came in waves, up her back and up her arm. If it hadn’t been so intense, she’d probably laugh at the absurdity of it all. Instead, she choked on her tears and after a time her pain dulled to an ever-present throbbing in her lower back and a singeing heat in her left hand. At some point she fell asleep.

The Inquisitor woke to birdsong and bright skies lighting up her bedroom through her large balcony windows. Her body was contorted into a strange position, partially wrapped in her blankets and hanging off the edge of the bed. She hissed at the brightness, the sound, and felt a dull ache in her back. She was not thrilled with the lasting pain, but was glad she managed a dreamless sleep. It was hardly refreshing though, and she felt like she’d been trampled by a herd of halla. It took longer than usual for her to drag herself to her feet.

Lavellan undressed from the wrinkled clothes that she had fallen asleep wearing. All of her movements were slow and careful as she pulled on her smalls. She sucked in a sharp breath as a painful twinge in her back made twisting harder. Her chest wrap took longer and made her strain. Her fingers slowly wrapped the fabric around her chest and breasts, but even that seemed to hurt just a bit. She winced. Everything felt just too sensitive, too sharp, as if just the barest gentle touch was a knife blade to her flesh. A heavy sigh escaped her lips as she began to don the rest of her day’s wardrobe. She was slow to lace things, slow to pull fabric over her head, slow to slide her legs into her trousers. Her boots were last and she grimaced as she bent to put them on. That pain in her back objected and she gasped before recomposing herself.

She felt like nug shit. “Great… just great.”, she said with a irritated tone. It was time to get to work, but first: Breakfast.

The inquisitor usually took her breakfast to go, or ate with Josephine while receiving her reports for the day. Today, she opted to eat with her friend and advisor. She walked to the office door and was about to knock when Josephine opened the door with a bright smile, “Good morning Inquisitor!” she said cheerily. Josephine’s mood lately had been greatly lifted by the defeat of Corypheus. Life was good, her family’s legacy was restored, and the Inquisitor had saved the world. She had an integral hand in making all of that happen. Lavellan was not in a cheery mood but seeing her friend smile to brightly pulled her from the dark grumpy place she had been and managed to bring a smile to her lips. “Good morning” she said with a little smirk.

The smell of coffee and tea floated through the doorway to her nose. “Started early?”, she asked Josephine with a questioning look. Josephine smirked a little bit and opened the door wide for her friend to enter, “No, you’re just late.”

 “You don’t look like you’ve slept much, tea?” Josephine waved her inside. Lavellan nodded, to both the lack of sleep and the offer of tea. Soon a kitchen servant brought a tray with bread, fruit, sausage, porridge, and soft-boiled eggs. Josephine took a breakfast of freshly cut fruit, warm bread and butter, and a small bowl of spiced porridge. Lavellan looked over the choices. The scent of the meat made her stomach reel and was worrisome enough she wondered if it perhaps had spoiled. She wrinkled her nose and took a sip of tea. She decided that a light breakfast might be best. Her hands reached for a warm roll of bread.

“There is further word from Wycome and Halamshiral, requests for your aid or support.” She chewed on the bread thoughtfully as Josephine spoke. “Varric has some concerns about Kirkwall and is eager to return home…” The inquisitor nodded with her mouth full of bread. She had always known that Varric was very attached to that city, and it did need help rebuilding after the attack by the Arishok, after the explosion, after… Well, that was his story to tell – but she understood his want to return.

Lavellan let her mind drift to her own people and her former home with her clan. They needed her, yes – all elves were precious lives to be treasured because there were so few of them left; And the Dalish were even fewer in numbers. There were so few that practiced the old ways. Solas spoke angrily of them. He said that the Dalish were misguided and would never listen to the truth, they’d “mock a flat-ear and his stories”. It had sounded like he spoke from experience.

Her heart constricted as she remembered his words, his hands, his magic taking her Vallaslin. Her skin was bare now, she felt a pang of regret and sadness at her actions and the truth of it all. Now her people wouldn’t trust her, because of her face. They were proud of their vallaslin and used it to signify who they were and where they came from. It was just another thing the Dalish got wrong. They were just foolish children fumbling around trying to tell stories they had long since forgotten. She finished her bread and scooped a bit of porridge into a bowl for herself. It smelled nice, with hints of cinnamon and cardamom. She ate a spoonful and was happy for the pleasant warmth.

Josephine stared into her tea cup for a moment, pursing her lips and thinking how to broach the next topic for discussion. She was unsure how aware the Inquisitor was to the dealings of her friends. Josephine had spoken with each of them at length about their plans. It was her job to make sure there were seamless transitions, that everyone that needed to be informed was informed. She arranged everything. Varric wasn’t the only person that looked back to their home and saw a need to return, to make things better. It wasn’t easy to say goodbye.

“Also… Dorian is leaving soon for Tevinter.”

She froze. “What?”

Chapter Text

Josephine looked up from her tea and saw the looks crossing the Inquisitor’s face. Shock, disappointment, sadness, anger… She was stunned speechless. The ship had already been commissioned to sail from Kirkwall to Tevinter, and then onward to Qarinus. Josephine memorized the date and time, locations, names, and the ship itself: The Stalwart Stallion. She was pretty sure Dorian would make some suggestive comment about the ship name, so she kept it off the documents she arranged for him for the time being. Dorian was going home in just a few short –

“Inquisitor?”

Lavellan moved like lightning in a bottle and ran out the door in a flash. Josephine stared at the open door and frowned, pitying Dorian and hoping for the best. “Oh dear…”

The rotunda and the floors above it were lively with chatter. The Inquisitor didn’t hesitate to shove her way through the doors, huffing and puffing like an angry bull. She moved like a storm up the stairs, like a force of nature, two or three steps at a time. So suddenly and silent was her approach that Dorian had yet to even notice her. She slid to a stop across the floor from him. He smiled and chatted with one of the other mages, pointing out something in a book they had spread out on the table closest to the bookshelves. “Really, it’s a rather simple mistake, but when you combine –“

“How could you not tell me!?” The Inquisitor felt her cheeks burn as her voice rose over the din of conversation. Lavellan couldn’t handle another thing, another stab to her wounded heart, more bullshit, and she knew she really should be more peaceable. She was the Inquisitor – not some lovelorn fool, not some crushed little thing desperately clinging to her friends for support. She was supposed to be strong, fearless, deadly. Unfortunately, her mind was singularly focused on Dorian. She was furious. Really, she just wanted to strangle him, or tie him up so he couldn’t leave. He wasn’t allowed to leave her. He couldn’t leave too. It was all too much.

All of the voices died as heads swiveled in her direction. Dorian, to his credit, didn’t jump out of his skin despite the very deadly and very angry rogue’s sudden appearance. He managed to blink twice, swallow and suppress his initial replies. The mage next to him flinched and was frozen in place, looking like they might just shatter into bits.

Dorian tilted his head and motioned toward the nearest egress, “Inquisitor… I- Shouldn’t we discuss this in private?” He looked at his friend with a heavy expression shining in his eyes. He wouldn’t want her to embarrass herself, or himself, in front of their captive audience. She had an image to uphold, and he knew it. He was trying to be a courteous gentleman. Well, she was having none of it. She could get away with some bad behavior, she’d earned it. This was not a temper tantrum by a grown woman, not at all. She had everything under control.

Lavellan glared. Those puppy-dog eyes would not work on her; No, they would not. Maybe she should punch him? No, that would be a scene. It was bad enough people thought they were secret lovers. She was about to scream at him when she was keenly aware of the eyes on their not-so-private and not-so-quiet ‘conversation’. The hairs on her skin rose and prickled. A picture of Josephine shaking her head came to mind, “Oh Inquisitor, you are a figurehead. What will they all think now? The rumors were troublesome enough but now?” Lavellan wouldn’t want Josephine cleaning up her messes, more than she already did. She wrinkled her nose and balled her hands into fists.

Again, he made with the puppy-dog eyes, an expression that made Lavellan’s heart squeeze tight in her chest. Dorian let out a deep sigh and looked pained. He was definitely pouting. She stared at him for a heartbeat more.

Damn him!

It was a valiant effort, but she could not resist the draw of his charm. “Fine!” she said gruffly as she stomped forward, snatched his arm, and pulled him quickly along. “Ah, not so rough, the silks!”, he sputtered. Whispers began in their wake.

Fenehdis!

Away from prying eyes, she finally stopped and threw his arm down as if the very touch had burned her. “So talk!”, she demanded with her eyes clearly sparkling with tears. Dorian made a little grunt as he seemed to carefully inspect his clothing, if only to avoid looking at the expression on her face and those soulful eyes. He knew that look of hers, that heartrending look could easily break a man. He’s seen her trying to hide that look for countless days and nights. He hated that the hurt was just piling on top of his dear friend.

“You knew I was leaving-”, he started to say with a voice a bit too quiet, straining over emotion, to be considered normal conversation. She sucked in a breath as if he’d punched her. Dorian’s brow furrowed and he shook his head. That was probably not the best start if his objective was not to upset her further. He sighed and looked at her finally. She looked on the verge of breaking apart, with doe eyes and it made him want to promise to stay with her forever. He couldn’t stay. There was too much at stake.

He stepped forward and put his hands on her shoulders and looked into her eyes with a seriousness that he so rarely showed.

“My dear, I promised I would stay until this business with Corypheus concluded. Then I promised to stay a bit longer….” He said, trying to find the words to fit. He couldn’t hurt her like that bastard had. Dorian knew though, he was hurting her now and would hurt her further still.

Lavellan took in a shaky breath as her bottom lip trembled and her eyes were on the verge of spilling their liquid contents down her face. “I thought we had more time.” She said with her voice cracking. He swore he heard her whimper.

“My dear, we still have some time yet. You will not be rid of me that easily.” He reassured her with a gentle smile. She looked up at him with eyes swimming with tears. With how strongly he felt for her he couldn’t understand how Solas could just walk away. Was the man blind?

He’d never met someone like her in his life. She was unique. She was precious. The dam burst and her tears rolled down her cheeks. She looked pitiful. Dorian sucked in a ragged breath and felt like crying too.

She doesn’t deserve this.

Dorian wrapped her up in an all-encompassing hug, cradling her against his chest. He kissed the top of her head and let out a deep breath that he didn’t realize he’d been holding. They were a pair, to be sure. She complemented him so well. He had always been a misfit, an other. He had never fit in anywhere.

And neither does she.

Lavellan had been a nobody before the Inquisition. She too was just out of place and didn’t belong. She’d confided in him about her life before the anchor, before the conclave and the rift in the sky. She was first seen as a burden to her clan as a child, a trouble-maker. As she got older, she was just the strange one. The blasphemer. The one that didn’t really believe but went through the motions of their rituals. Her keeper had sent her alone to the conclave. It was not just to spy on the Chantry, to see what was going on with this war among human mages and templars. It was to get rid of her, albeit temporarily. Lavellan had laughed about it, but he had heard the sadness in her voice. She was a ‘bad influence’ on the children and made them question their past, their people, their everything.

Lavellan provided for the clan. She hunted. She protected. She wasn’t particularly valuable to them. They had plenty of hunters, losing one wouldn’t affect them much. She had always been following along their footsteps and yet wandering her own path. She was also an other, just like Dorian. Now with her infamy as the Inquisitor and her missing vallaslin she was practically a leper to her people. She couldn’t go back to them. Lavellan could never be who they wanted her to be, and if she went as herself well – there would surely be chaos to follow.

The Dalish were proud of her, if by proud one would say happy to enjoy the fruits of her labor but contribute nothing. They would lord her accomplishments as their own, but disavow her missteps.

The Inquisitor was a target to many enemies. The Dalish didn’t welcome threats, from outside or within. They also did not want someone who stood out as different. They were a singular community, and an upstart could destroy a clan, maybe destroy their entire way of life just by questioning their greatest held beliefs She had admitted to Dorian that she believed that her people were averse to change. They clung desperately to a culture they didn’t know about and were so stuck in the old ways that they couldn’t move forward.

Keeper Deshanna had warned Lavellan about sharing her thoughts, her opinions. “Words have power. Even quiet ones could be poison”.

Dorian shared his own history and remarked that they were so similar, and yet so different. He had rejected as much of his Tevene life as he could. He rallied against his culture, his heritage, and said he was a rebel. In actuality, he was just a drunk attention-seeking brat. He had to grow up.  His father had him kidnapped and tossed into a cell to reconsider his lifestyle choices. That was a wake up call, and yet he didn’t heed it. He still ran from his problems instead of facing them. He was a child pretending to be a man. Dorian was tired of running away. It was time to make a stand. A rebel mage, as glorious as he was, couldn’t be much of a rebel if he was hiding away across the world from the place he was supposedly rebelling from.

The Inquisitor showed him he was just playing the fool, when he could make real change in the world, back home. If someone was going to start a revolution and change his country for the better, it might as well be him. His father and the rest of those stuck in the past, well they could be damned for all he cared. He’d built something from the ashes if he had to burn it all down.

She had shared her struggles with him. She laughed about how afraid she’d been at Haven after the conclave. Lavellan had been all bold and bluster, but inside she was terrified. What would the humans do to her? She knew what happened to elves, to Dalish elves that were seized by humans. She was afraid of being locked up, and all the implications a pretty little elf might experience as a prisoner. Of course, Dorian was horrified at her confessions.

He felt deeply for her almost immediately. She was kind, caring, and ever the champion for those who needed one. Her sense of humor was dark, but so was his own. He was stubborn and didn’t back down from arguments. She was also stubborn, rough around the edges, and prickly at times. They should have been like oil and water, but instead they fit together like two puzzle pieces. In fact, the entire Inquisition was the puzzle that his puzzle piece fit into. They were a group of misfits that he didn’t know he needed his whole life. Dorian found love; He found friends that he would never abandon. Now he knew who he was, what he was meant to do. He squeezed her tighter and felt a tear escape his eyes as he buried his head into her wild mane of hair.

Thank you.

They held one another for a few minutes before Dorian spoke into her hair, “Mm… I’m sure this will help the rumors greatly.” He smiled as she drew back and looked up at him. Her tears had stopped flowing.  Lavellan sniffled and wiped at her eyes as if her wet skin were acid. Dorian let a chuckle escape his lips and stepped back, grasping her by her shoulders once more. “Shall we end this pity party on a high note? Herald’s Rest surely has our favorite seats available…”

The Inquisitor laughed through her hands and finally let a smile grace her damp face.

“Fine…but you’re paying!” She commented.

“That’s my girl.” He said with a husky purr.

“Did anyone ever tell you that you talk too much?”, she said with a hand on her hip and a smirk on her lips.

“Well, whatever else should I do with my lips?”, he said as he waggled his eyebrows suggestively.

She laughed again and shoved him.

“Hey – the silks!”, he said as if she’d wounded him.

Chapter Text

Solas was well aware of his flaws. He was a liar, a murderer, and a thief. He was a master manipulator. He was cunning. He could be cruel, though he made efforts not to be. He would take advantage of people’s weaknesses and strike. He was deceitful. He was a betrayer. Little would stop him from his goals, he would rarely pause to change course. She had given him a reason to pause, even gave him a reason to just stop. Lavellan – she was everything that he never would have wanted.

Lavellan was also a liar. She was also a murderer. She was also a thief. Lavellan had stolen his heart, like the rogue she was. She hadn’t given it back either. He knew he didn’t deserve her. She was so pure, so raw, so real. He’d swallow her up and destroy her very being, if she knew who he was, what he was.

Luckily, she never has to know.

He smirked with a grim knowledge that in his youth he would have simply used her in his war campaigns. He would have thrown her away. She was just a pawn in the game. He would have been a much more dangerous Inquisitor than she, and understandably ruthless. She was disposable, a bit player in a great game that she didn’t know she was a part of. He moved pawns around and didn’t think twice about them. They were the means to an end. Even after the conclave and the anchor rooted in her hand, he saw her as nothing more than the unfortunate byproduct of a miscalculation. She existed because of his initial mistake thousands of years earlier, and then his secondary mistake with the orb and Corypheus. She was unimportant. She was powerless. She had been no one; she’d told him just that.

It was a cruel twist of fate that she encountered Corypheus, the orb, and then stole away the power within. She lived when others died. She stood when they fell. Suddenly accused of murdering the Chantry’s Divine Justinia, she fought to prove her innocence. Soon after Lavellan was considered a miraculous prophet, the Herald of Andraste, which was downright laughable. She was the furthest thing from divinity, the furthest thing from being a prophet. He was stunned that they were so blind to their own faith that they’d raise up an elf as a figure of import, all because of the Maker. They were fools.

The odds were stacked heavily against her. She was burdened with a magic she couldn’t control; It was killing her. Her foe was powerful enough that he corrupted the Grey Wardens, controlled armies, and had effective immortality. He watched this little nobody, this elf of no renown, a mortal that could be easily overlooked, inspire others to her cause, raise an army, and grow into a force to be reckoned with.

She should have failed, time and time again. Lavellan was not intriguing or beguiling like those he fancied before. Her personality and motives were not a mystery. He shouldn’t have been interested in her at all, but she piqued his interest almost immediately. She seemed to have a spirit that could not be stopped.

That first night in Haven was nerve-wracking for her. She was first held prisoner, then forced to seal a rift and then suddenly made into a divine hero. Humans that previously had wanted her strung up and killed now wanted her on a pedestal.

He shook his head at the sorry state of this world.

She approached him and he watched her with an analytical eye. He stood with his hands behind his back, his shoulders held high. He could hear soldiers nearby, whispers of people staring at her. They called her Herald as she passed them.

“The Chosen of Andraste, a blessed hero sent to save us all.” He remarked with a sarcastic bite in her voice.

The Herald furrowed her brow and looked irritated, upset, and tired. She had bags under her eyes and her hair was frazzled. She reminded him of an orange tabby cat. Clearly, he’d hit a nerve and she had very few left from the day’s events.

“I’ve no interest in being a hero. All I want is to find a way to seal this breach.” She said with a bit of a huff.

Solas gave her a scathing look and nearly shrugged. “Pragmatic, but ultimately irrelevant.”

He turned away from her and walked to look over at the village of Haven. She followed. He remembered he thought her like a child then, lost and seeking guidance from her elder, her better. He didn’t mind providing some insight, clarity, and much needed knowledge to this lost little elf. He doubted she’d be any different than the other Dalish he’d already been unfortunate enough to interact with.

They had been unpleasant.

Solas spoke to her with the wisdom of thousands of years of life and wrapped it all up in a neat present, explaining away his wisdom as journeys in the Fade. It would have to do, because the truth would be too unbelievable to this simple little thing.

“I have journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations. I’ve watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past of wars both famous and forgotten.”, he said as he looked at her. She paused, her brow furrowed. She looked like she wanted to say something or ask a question. He continued.

“Every great war has its heroes. I’m just curious what kind you’ll be.”

Lavellan stood there with words clearly on the tip of her tongue. He thought he had her cornered into answering him, but instead she seemed to pivot the conversation elsewhere. She immediately asked him about the Fade, the ruins, the battlefields. Her curiosity made him take a step back and reframe how he looked at her, how he spoke to her. She managed to navigate the conversation repeatedly to his journeys in the Fade, looking at him with eyes full of wonder. He felt a smile pull at his lips despite himself.

Interesting.

Eventually, Lavellan relented to his firm look and finally told him her thoughts on what kind of hero she’d become. He recalled her having so much conviction in her voice, so much hope.

“The kind who makes the world a better place.”

Solas let out a sigh.

Optimistic or foolish?

Her story would likely be short, and she was very unlikely to succeed. There would be no songs about her, no glory at the end. That was what he believed at the time.

“It isn’t always that easy… but I wish you luck.” He said, looking past her to the rift in the sky. “I will stay then, at least until the Breach has been closed.”

She looked up too, then glanced to him with a question in her eyes. “Was that in doubt?”, she asked. She thought he was there by choice, because he was a good person looking to help, and he smiled at her naiveté.

He sighed. He would have to pretend that those were his motivations. He had to be good and helpful. Solas knew he should be concerned about the templars, and he was slightly. His powers were barely acceptable for a child in ancient elvehnan, so it was insulting to walk around in this state. The situation in Haven, in Ferelden, was tenuous at best for anyone of magical talent. She was ignorant. He’d just have to spell it out for her. The Dalish were like children and simple. He was still angry they’d rejected him and the knowledge he bore.

“I am an apostate surrounded by Chantry forces in the middle of a mage rebellion.” He turned his head toward the templars nearby and continued, “Cassandra has been accommodating, but you understand my caution.”

Lavellan frowned and stepped closer to him quickly enough that he felt hairs rise on the back of his neck. She spoke with a voice that was full of depth, and her eyes were quite expressive.

“You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you.” She looked at him with concern and spoke with conviction. She meant what she said. Her actions were unexpectedly tender and kind. It was refreshing.

“How would you stop them?” He responded quickly, almost accusatory in his tone.

She was too close and he felt unnerved. He saw the freckles and scars on her face. Unruly locks of hair scattered over her brow. The wind was enough to be biting. Snowflakes fell gently onto her skin before melting at from her warmth.

“However I had to.” Lavellan admitted firmly.

Solas was unsure what to think. She seemed genuine. It was quite different than he expected of her. She didn’t know what she was promising though. Even a child could make a promise in earnest. One that she could not keep. He doubted her strength and was unsure of her strength of character. Still, it felt comforting that she wanted to protect him from the dangers around them.

He didn’t quite smile, but he paused and bowed his head to let her see his honest gratitude.

“Thank you.”

In the early days of the Inquisition, she came to him because he was an elf, she was an elf, and they were surrounded by angry humans. All this came to his mind when she would spend her precious time asking him questions or sharing her concerns, her fears. He had thought to be dismissive of her but knew that would accomplish nothing. He might as well be civil to her, the sooner this business with the breach and Corypheus was dealt with, the better.

Solas pretended that she was just a curiosity or a wayward child. He was played the role of a teacher and her the student. Her activities drew his attention, as it would not do to leave a child unsupervised, especially one with a magical scar and a supposed divinity. He watched her with a careful eye but made sure that it was subtle, he didn’t want to be seen when he observed her. Lavellan was kind to him and  seemed so curious, and so inquisitive that it reminded him of his hunger for knowledge in his youth. Lavellan was actually interested in him, his knowledge, his past. She wanted to know about the Fade. She was curious about spirits. Any knowledge he shared she’d eagerly accept and then she’d ask even more questions.

He started to call her da’len, and she called him hahren. He enjoyed the respect she afforded him and he felt valued. Lavellan was smarter than he’d first given her credit. She saw that he was knowledgeable and she deferred to him when situations arose that needed his expertise, knowledge, or opinion.

She does not cover her ears and pretend that difficult words are not worth hearing.

She made him smile despite himself. It surprised him. It pleased him too, stoking his ego quite handsomely. He’d play the role of wise elder and educate her, happily. They sat up late into the nights, talking. He’d recall events for her, those from the Fade and those he simply said he’d seen in the Fade but had actually experienced long ago. She was always respectful, thoughtful, and vibrant. He felt like she practically glowed. When she was near him he felt a lightness he didn’t recall feeling at any other point in his life.

He, of course, associated it with the anchor and not her presence.

I am only drawn to the anchor, nothing more.

He grew to admire her and look at her differently.

As each day drew to a close, he mulled about the fires. Solas’s mind went over the litany of information he’d absorbed in his study of her.

Not all of this information was necessarily related to her anchor or abilities. He knew she hated wearing footwear. The Dalish ran around bare foot most of the time, and even he himself was without footwear. Each night she liked to take off her boots and let her toes wriggle in the snow. Lavellan was only a step removed from truly living a life of poverty, but she didn’t seem to mind or notice. The woman wanted for little. She did not really want to sleep indoors or in a human bed, and made such strange and amusing expressions at her new discoveries about human customs, culture, expectations, and daily life. He remembered her being confused that humans had large metal or porcelain tubs for bathing in.

“How do they carry it with them?”, she’d asked with all seriousness.

Solas had almost laughed at her. He managed to suppress the urge and just smiled.

”They don’t, da’len. They keep them in rooms in their homes.”

“Oh.”

She pursed her lips and he saw her cheeks burn with redness. She was embarrassed.

He smiled further.

Adorable.

Lavellan wouldn’t miss a meal for anything in the world. If food was cooking, she was there. She would always try to contribute though, never taking her meals before him. She would bow her head and let him get his dinner first. Elders always went first. Her dinner habits were unfortunate, a byproduct of her Dalish upbringing. She was used to eating with her fingers. He didn’t care for it, but he was warming to her mannerisms, though he would not be comfortable acting as unsophisticated himself. Sometimes she’d lick them and then look at him. He never understood the look on her face and blinked, feeling like he’d been caught doing something lurid and voyeuristic. He’d feel his ears burn and he’d look away. Her shoulders seemed to shake out of the corner of his eye.

Is she laughing at me?

He found himself distracted by her. He would scold himself silently when he had a moment of privacy. He was starting to look at her a little bit differently. Maybe she wasn’t so much a child as just ignorant. True, she was ages younger than him, but all elves now were quickened and short-lived mortals. Still, he needed to stay focused. Lavellan was an anomaly that needed to be studied to the finest detail. She had the anchor and he needed to understand how she’d survived it and managed to absorb its power. Soon after he started to watch her in the Fade, spying her in her dreams. It was probably a great violation of her privacy, but it was all completely necessary.

Surely, her survival thus far must have been due to something. She had to be special in some way to survive thus far and further still, with her countless brushes with death, her no-win scenarios that she turned into victories, her bravery in the face of utter annihilation. Perhaps, he had honestly meant only to discover how she survived but that was not how things played out. He was charming, even when trying to keep her at arm’s length. She kept returning to speak to him, to ply him for information on all the things the Dalish didn’t know – that she didn’t know.

Lavellan was weak while she portrayed herself as strong. She was soft but pretended to be hard. She was tender, but had to be brutal. As Inquisitor, she deferred to others with more experience and knowledge, she was thoughtful and careful not to sacrifice people’s lives in risky operations if she could help it, and she cared. Lavellan cared too damn much about everyone. It made his eyes sting and his heart seize when he thought how much she cared, and how much she had cared for him. He had torn her heart to pieces. He was dismissive and walked away. He had refused to answer her questions. He told her nothing and hoped that she hated him now.

It would make things easier…

Nothing about her should have been surprising, but she countlessly surpassed his expectations and left him feeling something. She could make him smile, make him need to stifle a laugh, leave him stunned, breathless, and even confused. She should have been meaningless.

And yet, to him she was priceless. The weakness he felt for her, the feelings that grew, they built until his heart was overflowing with love for her. She was amazing. He woke and wanted nothing but to share his time with her. She was like air he needed to breathe, he needed her so much. He loved her and knew it was unfair to her. She would never know him, never be able to love who he truly was. She was stronger than he had ever given her credit, but no one could love him for who he really was. He committed acts of mass genocide in the hopes of saving the world and he was committed to doing it again. Who could love such a man?

He couldn’t continue to lie to her, to live a lie by her side. Worse though, was the prospect of living forever and watching her age and die. It was better to run from her, from his own heart.

Vhenan.

Therefore, he pushed her away before it was too late. Before he told her the truth.

The Inquisitor was strong enough without him. She could weather any storm. She didn’t need him. He didn’t want to break a genuine, wonderful woman. He just didn’t want to twist her into something else just to have her by his side.

She deserves to be her own person.

Would have it been possible for him to not fall in love with her? He was unsure. He had tried not to love her and failed, miserably. If he could do it all over again, he’d probably love her even more.

Lavellan was a wonder. Solas thought of her fondly with a fresh wave of hurt that he tried to ignore. She was a treasure. The love that she inspired in him, well he shouldn’t have ever felt, let alone so strongly. She was mortal. She was Dalish. She was ignorant of her people’s past and practically lived as un-elf-like an existence as possible. She was only a step removed from Sera, which made Solas frown in distaste. The two were quite similar, and yet Lavellan was so wonderfully easy to love.

It made no sense to him. He was a man of many tastes, of refined tastes even. He no longer desired just a pretty face or a lithe body, he had types he preferred; She wasn’t any of them. Her body was crisscrossed with scars, her face pleasant enough but unremarkable, with hair that was downright unfortunate. The color was a lovely reddish brown, not quite auburn, not quite red, not orange. It was similar to his own from a time long since passed. She had hair that was wild and untamed, just like her. He shook his head with a sad smile at how she mistreated it, and proudly so.

He would never want to change her.

One year earlier in the Hinterlands.

It was just after dawn and the campsite was still quiet as most of the party slept, save for Lavellan, Solas, and one inquisition soldier keeping watch. Solas had just finished packing his bedroll and rose to his feet and spied her. The early morning light danced across her features. He wanted to say “Good Morning”, but instead found himself staring. He was doing that more often lately, he noted. She sat not far from her tent with a dagger in her right hand – which was not that unusual – except that it was pointed at her head. Lavellan smiled at him with a handful of hair held taut in her left hand. Her anchor crackled and green light filtered through her hair and across the contours of her face.

He was staring at her again.

She is so beautiful.

The blade was sharp and glinted in the morning light.

Wait – what is she doing?

“Inquisitor?” He asked with hints of concern in his voice, his eyes widening ever so slightly. What was she doing? Was she possessed? Was this some strange practical joke that he didn’t know of?

She laughed at his expression, “I guess you probably don’t need haircuts anymore, hm?” She asked with a playful tone in her voice.

He found himself blushing suddenly. Even the tips of his ears felt a long-almost-forgotten heat. Solas cleared his throat and attempted to speak.

“Well -“

Lavellan slashed with her blade. A chunk of hair fell to the ground.

His heart felt constricted. He wanted to tell her to stop, to hold her against him with a crushing intensity. He wished that she could live in the extravagance that she deserved with servants and attendants, a long soak in perfumed bathwater, a massage, delicate fingers brushing her hair, styling it, before adding sweet smelling flowers. He wanted to imagine her with long locks that cascaded down her shoulders and back. She could look like a goddess – instead of someone who just rolled out of her bedroll on a daily basis. He wanted that for her but knew that was not who she was.

I love her for who she is, not who she ought to be.

It was still remarkable: He loved her. These feelings still stole his breath away. He hadn’t told her yet. They had only shared a kiss! He hadn’t felt this before, ever. She was nearly all he could think of. She made him doubt himself, his purpose. For her, he could throw it away… How do you tell someone you love them when you have to keep them at arm’s length? This was never part of the plan.

Lavellan again was unknowingly destroying the plans of would-be gods.

He wanted her to experience something more than what she lived each day. It hurt to see someone he loved living what he felt was a miserable existence because of their chance of birth. It wasn’t fair. She deserved more. He would give her the world…

She continued to slice chunks of her hair until she had shortened it a fair bit. Then she put her blade down and shook her head, running fingers across her scalp. Excess hairs fell from her like a shedding beast.

Solas stared. He could never have her for his own, not truly. If this were the world of the elvehn empire and he back in his proper station as an elite servant of Mythal, a romance between them would be scandalous. She would be a slave of the lowest ranks, chattel. He remembered how they were treated. The beatings, the welts, the scars. Rarely, were they ever treated with kindness. At best, he could keep her as a pet, a beloved slave for his physical needs, wants, and desires. Love? No. Never. She was forbidden fruit. Soft words and gentle kisses could never be shared between them.

But that was then. This was now. He could stay by her side. She could be his and he could be hers.

She would not want me.

He pursed his lips and swallowed, hoping the redness had dissipated from his cheeks.

Lavellan hopped up onto her feet and smiled brightly. He returned her smile, though his was reserved. The freckles and scars moved on her cheeks with her expression of genuine happiness. Solas placed his hands behind his back. He glanced about the camp so he could avoid staring at her. It was becoming a bit obvious, at least to himself, that he was utterly smitten with her.

“Breakfast?” She asked.

His thoughts drifted. Her lips looked like they needed to be kissed until they were red and raw. He would gladly volunteer for the dangerous task.

His ears burned red again and he nodded in response, trying to not smile any further.

Damn.

“After you, Inquisitor”, he said as he motioned with his hand.

She walked ahead of him and he enjoyed the view from behind. His smile spread a bit wider.

He could enjoy her presence, and even love her. He wouldn’t tell her. He’d keep his hands to himself, his heart guarded. He’d look, he’d want, but he’d remain steadfast to his purpose. He had to save the people. He had to save the world…

One woman was not worth the entirety of the people.

Not even her.

Solas glared at the sky and made his way across the Hinterlands. He had been such a fool. He thought he could resist her, that he was stronger than his basest desires. He tried to play it safe. Don’t kiss her and definitely don’t touch her. He’d quickly thrown that out the proverbial window. He had thought she couldn’t possibly develop feelings for him, love him. For her, maybe it would just be a casual dalliance. The Dalish were very open like they, weren’t they?

He never meant to hurt her. He thought she couldn’t feel anything for him. In fact, he remembered at first that he thought she was barely even a person. None of them had been people. They were echoes of what people had once been, shadows of the past. He didn’t realize they were real.

She was real.

I was wrong.

Now he knew they were truly people. It hurt. It didn’t change things, well – it did, but not enough for him to stop.

Solas knew his flaws.

He was a heartbreaker. A world-ender.

And he’d do it again too.

Chapter Text

Lavellan believed Solas left because of her.

She’d chased him off, she’d done something wrong.

It seemed so simple to her. She wasn’t a good leader; she was a fraud. She just pretended, she played with people’s lives as if it were a game. Sure, she tried to be a good leader and she tried to keep people safe – but she’d failed on that front many times. People were sent to their deaths, families destroyed, homes razed, temples burned to the ground. She had to stand in judgement of others and felt she had no right to it. Lavellan never wanted this power, never wanted to be a leader, to run the Inquisition, to represent every damn elf on Thedas, to be the Herald of Andraste.

The orb was shattered because of her. It was a priceless piece of their people’s history, a power that they could have used to better their lives. She’d destroyed it.

The Vir Abelasan? The Well of Sorrows? Gone because of her – knowledge lost forever.

Lavellan was plagued by guilt. She felt sick to her stomach.

Every misstep she analyzed with a fine-toothed comb. If she had just done this or that, what would have been the outcome?

I should have made better choices.

She saved the world, but at what cost? She’d sacrificed the soul of her people to stop a monster.

Was it worth it?

It was clear to her that Solas had made his judgement of her.

She wasn’t sure she disagreed.

Their current mission was to flush out and eliminate the remaining Venatori. She was looking forward to a distraction from the guilty conscience that plagued her. She looked forward to getting into the thick of battle and letting her blades dance.

Lavellan followed the map of the Hissing Wastes, her friends trudging along behind her in the sands. The Venatori were still out there, and they were doing their damnedest to flush them out. Dorian had insisted that they follow up on their leads before he returned home. The Inquisitor agreed.

“I hate sand”, complained Varric. “Make sure the next mission is somewhere nicer and definitely shaded.” Varric was voicing complaints that they all surely had. Her skin burned in the scorching sun and she was looking forward to lying somewhere dark, cool, and slathering her face in creams and ointments.

“Oh?”, she quirked a brow and turned back to her friend who stumbled through the sand on the sloping hill they were struggling to carefully navigate down. “And where do you suggest? Val Royeaux? Or perhaps the Emerald Graves? I bet we could get a nice chateau and have drinks with tiny umbrellas in them.” She said with a tease in her voice, but she also was sick and tired of sand.

“See, now you’re thinking Clover…” He smiled back at her, which was painful. The skin on his forehead was burned and so was the bridge of his nose and cheeks. Solas used to have a spell that kept them from burning. He only shared it with them after everyone noticed he hadn’t even turned the slightest shade of red in the intense suns during their first excursions there. They had to ask about his secret and then he relented.

The heat wasn’t improving Varric’s mood. He furrowed his brow with irritation at the selfishness of their missing elf. Missing by choice. He walked out on them, or rather he walked out on her.

“Fuck him”, he thought. Varric was aware that she was clearly nursing some major heartbreak from Solas leaving her high and dry. He would really like to punch him. Maybe twice.

Dorian huffed, looking tired with a sheen of sweat on his skin, “We should just vacation then. I think we’ve earned it, saving the world and all. Tevinter is lovely this time of year – not too warm, and slightly sunny with a chance of slavery.” He said in his usual sardonic way.

Lavellan choked on her laugh and shot her friend a not-so-scathing look. Her hair was plastered to her forehead with sweat, which dripped between her eyes and made her look like she was melting somewhat.“Yeah, I’m going to pass on the slavery part. I wouldn’t look good in chains.”

“I beg to differ…”, Dorian said with a flirtatious grin.

Varric groaned, “Ugh, You two need to get a room…” He said and shook his head.

He knew Dorian and Bull were an item, but the constant sexual innuendos with the Inquisitor were getting to be too much, even for him. He felt like Dorian was starting to come off as a character in one of his raunchy novels, not that he minded the inspiration.

Maybe Solas left because he thought there was competition. Varric thought about that for a moment, then dismissed it. Sure, Blackwall had a major soft spot for the Inquisitor that bordered on a slight infatuation. And then there was Cullen. Curly had changed around the woman, stumbling over his words like an idiot around her and blushing at her compliments as if she’d blown him a kiss. Varric remembered when the commander had first met her.  He was all rules and bluster, gruff and as harsh as a winter storm in the Frostbacks. He practically oozed distaste and distrust in the elf with the glowing magic hand. What a change, from a stubborn ass to someone who clearly had adoration and respect for the Inquisitor.

They hadn’t had faith in her. She persevered. She’d won them all over.

She earned respect. She deserved it. The woman had gone through hell and back and somehow still cared about people. She’d seen the worst in people but still chose to see the best. Her unofficial biography wouldn’t do her justice, but he’d write it to the best of his abilities.

Blackwall, to his credit, just grumbled and followed them.

They settled into a while of rather quiet travelling, all of them much too hot and tired and sweaty for their usual banter. She was well aware that she was chafing in places she should never chafe. She was looking forward to peeling her sweaty clothes off and just lying on cold stone.

Ice would be better.

She felt like she was moving automatically through sand and over rocks. A sandstorm kicked up in the distance, almost obscuring figures milling about. Lavellan held her hand up and they stopped. “Looks like we’ve found them.” She said in a whisper. She could count about ten Venatori, maybe more, kicking over tents and pulling items out of storage chests.

The party knew the standard methods she used – she was the first offensive strike. Then they’d overwhelm and overpower their enemies. She had enough stamina to fight in short bursts, but not longstanding battles. It was best to hit hard and fast. If needed, she’d retreat and let them take over until she could return to the fray. Lavellan was the risk taker, and everyone else elected to fight a little safer. It worked though, at least so far.

The Inquisitor was poised and drew her blades. They shimmered with the magic imbued by her runes, making her look a little bit demonic in the light. Her skin lit up with traces of blue and red.

Varric tried not to make a noise when he felt sand sinking into the tops of his boots. “Shit”, he grimaced and shuffled in place. Blackwell drew his sword and shield but kept them tilted down and low to the ground to avoid the sunlight bouncing off the metal and giving away their position. Dorian wiped sweat from his forehead and whipped his head back dramatically before he took his staff and prepared for the fight.

“Stay here… You’ll know when to come.” She said in a whisper that was swallowed up by a harsh desert wind. A moment later and she was gone, only an imprint in the sand as evidence she’d ever been standing with them. She was frighteningly fast, Varric would give her that.

The Venatori were camped near some overturned pillars, digging around in what looked to be the remains of a campsite. She thought of them as scavengers. Sand whipped up and the sky was blotted out briefly, making the area almost as dark as it would be in nightfall. It was the perfect camouflage for a rogue. A smile graced her chapped lips as a harsh wind buffeted her.

Let’s dance.

Lavellan rushed in as an unseen blur. She approached them from behind and then threw a dagger with a force that could puncture most armors. Despite the wind, it found its target. The blade slammed into the back of the man’s neck and lodged itself in his spine. He collapsed with a cry. The Venatori soldiers spun toward her and drew their weapons. They tried to close in on her, but she leapt across the field of battle and flanked them again. Another thrown blade, another man stumbling to his death. A shield broke through the whipping sands and rushed at her. She leapt away only to slam her blades into the back of the shielded opponent.

Dorian’s magic had a scent and taste to it, it flavored the air sort of like cooking might; She’d recognize it anywhere. It was spicy and sweet. When he cast, the fallen soldiers stood up again as spirits took over. The Venatori didn’t suspect a thing until the bodies turned on them. Swords clashed and the noise was muffled by another gust of hot desert wind. She disappeared back into the shadows.

She felt the familiar buzz of blood magic in the air. A mage was casting. She couldn’t see them in the haze and sand kicking up into her eyes. She wasn’t a fan of anyone trying to kill her, but blood magic just tasted like copper, iron, and well – blood. Usually, blood mages tried to crush her to death or something especially brutal and bloody. She hadn’t enjoyed feeling the tendrils of that sickening magic on her skin in the past, and doubted that she’d suddenly change her mind.

Come on…come on! Where are you?

She moved as fluidly as she could, tasting that copper flavor getting stronger in the air the closer she got to her target.

She got close enough to glimpse a figure with a staff and book.

Gotcha!

Then a cry bellowed in the storm. Blackwall smashed into the Venatori mage with his shield, moving like a charging bull. The strength and speed of the man could take her breath away sometimes. She took a single step back and watched as he crashed toward the remains of a temple long since lost to time. She practically felt the crunch of the man’s bones as he was pummeled into a pillar. The feeling of blood magic cut out, like a string had snapped.

Good job, Blackwall.

The sandstorm was getting out of hand, and she had to shield her eyes for a moment before turning to where she thought she saw movement. The visibility was terrible and now it was even a hinderance to her. She kept her mouth sealed tightly to avoid getting a mouthful of sand.

In the swirling sands, a huddle of soldiers seemed to pop up out of nowhere and all move toward her. She furrowed her brow and took a few steps back to put distance between them. There was still time to finish this. She pulled a flask from her belt pouch and poured it on her weapons as quickly as she could. Varric’s arrows tore into the men closest to her, making them turn away from her toward the source of their pain. She didn’t know how he saw them, or how he managed to place such good shots, but she was thankful.

Bad move.

Someone should have told them you never turn your back on a rogue.

Time seemed to slow down around her; Everything was sort of fuzzy and her body felt electrified. Lavellan ran for the soldiers. They had barely moved and still had their backs to her. She leapt and her blades found blood. She moved like a force of nature, striking like lightning. Her blades punctured and slashed into armor and flesh with deadly accuracy. Blood sprayed. The Inquisitor weaved in between bodies as they fell, striking the others down in rapid succession. They too soon collapsed. Her hair still crackled and sparked before everything seemed to return to a normal pace.

Lavellan was a force to be reckoned with. She felt unstoppable.

A year earlier. A dance with death.

She had been struggling to keep her own for a while during their hunt for Corypheus and trying to seal rifts. She found she had a delicate constitution, and kept trying different armors to keep herself from serious injury on the battlefield. One particularly nasty battle left her coughing up blood from a maul hitting her in the chest. She had stood up from it and thought she was okay, just a little woozy. She coughed up blood. While she wanted to walk it off, she stumbled and let out a wheezing gasp of pain. There was a sudden feeling of weightlessness. Her companions looked after her, and for that she was thankful. She probably would have died otherwise. A healing spell and restorative potion later and she was surprisingly back on her feet.

Cassandra was worried and practically babying her, checking her for broken bones and any further injuries. Lavellan dismissively waved her off, “I’m okay now, really.”

“Good job, Clover”, Varric said as he inspected her from a distance, looking a bit concerned but also relieved.

“Clover?”, she asked and looked at him questioningly.

“Yeah. Clover. You’ve got the best worst luck I’ve ever seen.” He shrugged.

“It fits…”, She laughed and then winced in pain, holding her ribs.

“I’ll try to avoid being squashed again. Just in case my luck run’s out…”

Later that evening, she came across a strange little scrap of leather. It had some unrecognizable embossed design and a buckle, with a tuft of orange fur stuck in it. She had almost thrown it away. Lavellan felt a draw to it, a whisper, a gentle touch. It made her envision a little girl hugging her orange tabby and whispering her love. The leather in her hands just felt comforting, warm, like a hug.

The Inquisitor had a faraway look in her eyes. Varric took a step back. He was visibly creeped out by the item and more so when she wrapped it around her neck and proclaimed it her newest trinket.

“Uhh.. That doesn’t seem like a bad idea? That thing looks haunted as shit”, Varric noted.

“You’re wearing a kitty’s collar? Really?”, said Dorian as he wrinkled his nose in distaste at the sight of it. “Is that what the Dalish find fashionable? Bondage wear?”

“Inquisitor, I believe that is garbage…”, Cassandra said with a pitiable look on her face, as if Lavellan had made a faux pas that even she recognized.

“We Dalish make fine items from the scraps of others. I think it’s perfect.”, She said with a grin. They weren’t sure if she was kidding or not.

“Surely, we could get you something… nicer?”, Cassandra said thoughtfully, not wanting to insult her friend at her truly awful choice in fashionable accessory.

“I like it. Look, it’s even got fur.”, Lavellan said with a smirk as she secured the collar around her neck. She swore she saw Cassandra gag a little bit.

The party looked at her like she had grown a second head.

The leather felt warm against her skin, as if it were alive. She didn’t find it creepy at all. She kept the collar and wore it every time they went into the field. Little did she know, it did make her just a little bit luckier.

Lavellan sort of played dirty. She was a rogue, but a rogue of rogues. She never claimed to be a saint when it came to battles. She’d take any advantage she could. She moved like lightning in a bottle and struck so rapidly that you could swear there were more than one of her. She had specialized as an Artificer, using powerful potions to turn the tides of battle in her favor. Despite this, she had effectively double-dipped in specializations by using Hidden Blades, a skill only known by Assassins. It was all thanks a custom dagger she had Dagna craft especially for her. It was crafted with a master demon-slaying rune-inlaid into the pommel. The dagger whispered to her, and she could feel her body move, using skills she shouldn’t know, and yet she did. It was remarkable and pushed her body beyond what it was capable of. She could tear through even the best armors. Paired with her second dagger that would heal her and freeze her enemies in their place, she felt unstoppable. It had taken countless journeys, many locks picked, even more enemies looted, and dungeons raided for her to find the components to make these specialized weapons. They were worth all the efforts and gold. They made her a terror on the battlefield.

Lavellan was still defensively weak and knew that just one powerful blow could end her life. She wore what armors she could, but had to balance speed, maneuverability, and stealth with her protection. She’d had a lot of close calls. Too many.

She should be dead at least five times over by now.

Shortly after adding her new accessory to her regular battlewear, she nearly had her head cut off. An axe had swung for her neck. There’s no reason she should have survived. She definitely hadn’t moved fast enough to dodge it, despite being evasive and swift on her feet. The axe pinged off her skin, as if it were blocked by the strongest shield. The wielder stumbled backwards, confused that the leather strike was completely shrugged off. Lavellan didn’t have time to wonder, she sliced the enemy’s throat and thrust her second dagger into the underside of its jaw. Her collar felt warm, soothing.

I must have imagined it.

A few weeks later, another near-death experience. They were surrounded by red templars and monstrosities in a valley surrounded by rocky terrain. It was cold, snow and blood and red lyrium littered the ground and made their footwork treacherous. Lavellan couldn’t be as fast as she usually was, for fear of slipping on snow or ice. She’d still been moving too quickly and done just that.

She was uncloaked and unguarded by her allies. A red templar charged her as soon slid to a messy halt. Varric’s arrows narrowly missed hitting her as they bounced harmlessly off the twisted man’s armor. She saw his sword lancing through the air. She barely recognized the sound of her own armor, flesh, and organs being punctured. She must have cried out, or at least gasped. The red templar ran his sword through her, skewering her utterly on the blade. Lavellan’s blood ran down the grooves and covered the hilt and pommel.

She remembered that there were hands soaked in her blood and her brain not quite understanding that was her blood. Her adrenaline was running so high that the pain was negligible at first. The heart was racing so steadily that all of her life was draining out of her with every beat of her heart. The snow was stained red under her body and she fell to the ground.

The snow is warm.

She was dying. The puddle under her bloomed, unfurled like a big red flower as it spread across the ground. The anchor flickered as her life drew to a close, her spirit barely held on to her body. She glimpsed blue-grey eyes. There was a look of shock, horror, and pain crossing someone’s face. It was all a blur.

Oh.

The red templar kicked her off his sword and turned away to return to her allies, who were faltering in this battle. “No! Hold on!” someone yelled.

Everything was fuzzy.

This isn’t so bad.

Then she felt everything get dark, quiet. Silent. She didn’t have to save the world anymore. She didn’t have to be brave or pretend to be someone she wasn’t anymore. There was no more reason to even worry. She felt a spirit, an embrace, cradling her like she were a precious child. It filled her with such warmth, a strange feeling that almost tingled. It felt like she was submerged in warm water.

This is nice.

Then suddenly it felt like she was plunged into ice water. She was thrust back into the cold. She was on her feet, gasping. The wound was mostly gone, save for a nasty bruise, a few broken ribs, and raw looking red skin where previously there had been a massive hole. Everything was loud, bright, but slow. She saw Cassandra stumble behind her shield. Varric had to keep retreating and throwing traps to stay a step beyond the enemies’ reach.

She heard Solas call out.

“I need help!”

It put her back into the present, into the battle, and spurred her into action.

Solas was cornered and panting. He looked hurt and his mana must have been low, because otherwise he’d be readily casting. She could see him sagging a bit from his expended magic, struggling to call up a spell. He glared at their enemies with focus and concentration on his face. His eyes were reddened, his expression dire. There was a cold fury in him.

Their enemies would tear him down all too easily. A wall of rocks to his back and a group of templars surrounded him. They rushed toward him with their weapons glistening.

He could still turn this battle, he could still be okay. He just needed mana. He needed lyrium.

Use a potion!

She remembered staring at him for a heartbeat, expecting him to drink a flask of bright blue lyrium and then his magic would sing.

He was out of lyrium potions.

In fact, she’d pushed them on without restocking at a camp. There were no more health potions either. It was a death sentence. She had doomed them all. It was her fault they were in this situation. Now he’d pay for her mistakes. He was cornered and couldn’t cast fast enough. There was a white-knuckle grip on his staff as he backed up and his heel hit the rocks behind him. He could barely move now. There could be no more flourishes of his magic or spins of his staff in such a tight space. Swords came for his life.

No!

Lavellan moved as fast as she could push herself. She was across the field that was littered in bodies, blood, snow, and ice but they were no obstacles in her path. She leapt like a wildcat. Her daggers dug into the flesh of their enemies, slicing, stabbing, striking, cutting. She threw a dagger into a skull, moved like there were five of her with a flurry of blades, and tore them all down in the span of a single spell. While her defense was not great, his was nearly non-existent. She could not let him fall because of her own weaknesses. Lightning crackled suddenly and she leapt in front of Solas to protect him from any blows that might come his way. His magic tore through the red templars, shocking them with the fury of a lightning storm. Bolts crashed through them. Light danced before her eyes. She threw daggers to avoid getting electrified herself from contact with their armor. When the lightning died down, the enemies sizzled and stumbled.

Cassandra charged into them with her shield drawn, sending the monsters crashing into the ground in a heap of sizzling limbs.

Varric rained down arrows, turning the pile of cooked red templars effectively into pin cushions.

“And stay down!”, he yelled in victory.

They were surrounded by death. Twisted bodies, the burning scent of hair and flesh, offal, and more offended their senses. Varric thumbed at his nose at the scents heavy in the air. Lavellan finally allowed herself to breathe. Cassandra stood and relaxed the tiniest bit, craning her head around to make sure the valley wasn’t going to suddenly fill again with enemies. It was quiet.

Lavellan watched Solas breathe. Cold breaths of air escaped his lips.

She chewed her bottom lip, her eyes darting over him. His eyes met hers and she looked away as guilt wracked her. This battle was a mess, and it was her fault. They were there because of her.

My so-called leadership.

Solas looked like he’d aged years in the span of minutes. He held his staff for balance and Lavellan offered her arm. He shook his head, his eyes looking at her with a strange expression crossing his features.

“You live…”, he remarked quietly.

He looked spent and sounded like he was in disbelief. He should be, she couldn’t explain how she was alive either.

She smiled but looked conflicted as a flicker of something darker flashed across her face, “So it seems.”

Lavellan noted that from this day forward they’d stop for supplies and restock as often as possible. She wasn’t going to play fast and loose with their lives. She couldn’t throw them to the proverbial wolves.

Chapter Text

The sandstorm died down and the party was eager to get out of the sun and heat. It was late afternoon and the night would be cold, freezing cold. It would be best if they got to a camp before nightfall. The Inquisitor looked at her daggers and frowned, they were soaked in blood. Usually, she’d just wipe them on her pants, but her pants were soaked with sweat and she didn’t want to add blood to the mix. Lavellan wiped her blades on a Venatori mage, since he had an excess of fabric and robes were very absorbent. After the daggers were hooked onto her back, she grabbed the body and started to search him. First she checked his pockets, then the pouches on his belt, and patted him top to bottom. She even tugged off his boots and checked to see if there was anything hidden in them.

Nothing.

The Hissing Wastes seemed like a waste of time. The environment danced in their vision with the rising heat from the sands. The group wavered on their feet and tried to expend as little energy as possible as they looted each body. Lavellan tugged on her gloves. They were so wet that they stuck to her like glue. She grimaced and twisted her wrists, trying a different angle to shimmy her hands out. No luck.

She nearly swore. It disgusted her that her gloves were like a second skin. The skin between her fingers was feeling more than a tad bit uncomfortable. Making an aggravated growl, she bit down onto the leather fingertips and tugged with her teeth. The first glove started to let go of her skin despite the suction going on between leather and flesh. She pulled it off the rest of the way with her other hand. Then the other glove, fingertips in between her teeth, tugged, exposed to air, and her hand freed. Her fingertips had pruned.

Ugh.

Lavellan’s face made an expression of disgust before she wiped her hands on her trousers.

She paused to drink from her waterskin, then pulled a stick of jerky from one of her pouches carefully marked that it had snacks. It was important she keep herself organized and not mix up a snack with a jar of bees. It was hard to mix them up, with one being bees of course, but sometimes she was a little addled from blood loss or concussed. It was best to just avoid eating bees. Lavellan smiled a little, thinking of Sera looking at her with a strange expression ‘You ate what?! You’re havin’ a laugh!’.

She tore a piece of jerky with her teeth and chewed, trying to let the moment feel like a relief. Instead, her stomach churned and her senses seemed offended at her choice of snacks. It was so difficult to get anything down these days, but she hadn’t shared that with her friends. She didn’t want them to worry about her. They’d saved the world; Everyone deserved some relative peace. Lavellan chewed and searched, looted, and repeated.

“Anything of value?”, she asked as she paused to wipe sweat from her eyes.

They grunted a negative.

She fought through the rising nausea and continued to eat until the jerky stick was finished and her pockets and pouches filled with anything worthwhile. Lavellan jangled as she moved with pockets of coins and other trinkets. Her favorite item of the day was a little carved halla statue. It was a marvel of craftsmanship with smooth bark and gentle sloping curves. She stared at it and ran her fingertips over the smooth worn surface. It had been well loved once, probably by little hands, a little one’s most prized possession. It didn’t bode well that it was here, instead of passed down in a clan from parent to child, generation to generation. Her heart felt like it was squeezed tightly in her chest. It just fit in her palm. She tucked it away carefully.

Lavellan frowned. Why did the Venatori have it? Probably a spoil of their dark deeds. She hoped that giving it a better home would help wash some of the blood away, help some of the spirits find peace. She wasn’t a believer in much at all but things she could see and experience, but spirits were real and she didn’t think anyone should suffer – spirit or otherwise.

“Okay well let’s finish this up…”, she said with a heavy sigh. The heat felt so oppressive that it was like she was being slowly cooked by a massive suffocating force, as if she were in an oven, or on a spit over a lake of fire. She could imagine herself tied up and burning on a pyre – in fact she’d feared that very thing when she was imprisoned in the Chantry by Cassandra in Haven only a short time ago. She felt a prickle of her hairs raising in response to the memories and fears, and shivered.

Varric yelled out first, “Hey look everyone! I found – wait for it -”

“Sand.” He held up a handful of sand and then let it pour out from between his fingers.

He smiled with a ‘I’m done with this shit’ sort of expression. The others all stared at him with a mild annoyance, mostly that they’d bothered to look up at all. Lavellan glowered at him half-heartedly, if he had the energy to make jokes then he could work a little fast. The others groaned their disapproval of both his brevity in a field of dead bodies and the fact they were still in a field of dead bodies in the stinking oppressive heat.

Blackwall dumped out a few pouches, sorting through the trash and random assorted objects. He did spy a deck of playing cards, so he swiped those. He groaned quietly. Blackwall wasn’t the youngest soldier anymore and his joints made a popping sound as he stood up.

Dorian was surprisingly quiet, likely too tired to be sassy or use even some deserved colorful language.  

Actually, Dorian was suspiciously quiet.

Lavellan paused to look at her mage friend with a quirked brow. Usually, he was only quiet when he was reading. She had spent plenty of nights in Skyhold, standing beside him waiting for him to notice her standing there while he was deep in a book in the library at Skyhold. Their library was extensive, thanks to Leliana and Josephine’s efforts to ‘rescue’ rare books. Dorian seemed so pleased with the offerings and she loved his joy. Unfortunately, she was not so patient as to love waiting for him to read about ‘Enchantments for Everyday Gentlemen’. Lavellan knew she was quiet and stealthy; She didn’t like to startle people and often would make extra noise when approaching them. She had tapped her feet, hummed, and even coughed to no avail. Dorian seemed oblivious to the goings on around him when he was engrossed in literature of all. She thought he zoned out so deeply it was as if he had disappeared and was in his own little world. Every time he was like this, hunched over with his leg crossed over the other, nose nearly touching the pages, she had to ultimately put her hand on his shoulder. Of course, he’d startle and jump in his seat.

“Dorian?”, she called to him quietly.

He was crouched over a Venatori soldier that looked like he was someone important. She based this on him having much shinier armor and sparkly parts to his whole ‘look’ going on. Dorian had attempted, only once, to teach Lavellan about the fashions of Tevinter; “Everyone wants to sparkle”, Dorian had tried explaining. She stared at him and couldn’t wrap her head around it. He then went into a talk on color palettes and what colors were ‘in’, the must have ‘brands’, and ‘fashion statements’. Lavellan had started to fall asleep. Her best guess was that this particular corpse was a commander or something similar, with lots of gold trim and gemstones on his clothes, his armor, and runes on his weapons. The regular boring dead enemies were not so sparkly.

Lavellan walked a little closer to him, “Dorian, anything?”

Dorian dumped out the contents of a leather satchel. Garbage. Worthless trinket. Broken dagger. Wax, ink, and quills. Something rustled as his hands gathered onto a stack of papers under all the junk.

“Hmm?”, He responded before unfolding a small stack of papers and smoothing them out with his hands. His eyes darted from page to page, then he stood up with a bit of a smirk.

Dorian spoke up, “Well, I’ve found something of interest. What’s my prize?”

He smiled and despite the heat, he still was handsome enough to make Lavellan a little envious of the Iron Bull. More than a few heads regularly turned at the sight of him anywhere they went. It was hard to not notice him in Ferelden or Orlais, with glistening browned skin, his well coifed hair, and impressive build. Shopkeepers stumbled and sputtered over their words. Servants tripped and walked into walls and doorways. Lavellan knew her friend stood out, regardless of appearances, by his flare for drama and feisty personality. The Inquisitor appreciated her friend and noted that life was never boring if he was near.

Dorian’s moustache curled more than usual from the sweat and heat. It made him look practically villainous. She didn’t mean to smile, but she did anyway. One – she was thankful he’d found something. Maybe this wasn’t a waste of time afterall. And two – she’d never want to be romantically involved with  a dastardly villain; Not even a handsome one. To her sensitive ears, Dorian made a playful imitation of a villainous ‘Muahaha’ that had her eyebrows raising. She wanted to chuck something at his head. The closest things at hand though were her daggers, so she held back despite the urge.

“Yeah? So, get on with it then!”, Blackwall said with snippy and irritated tone. He sounded crabbier than he usually did if and when Dorian got on his nerves.

Dorian waved a stack of papers and then held it out dramatically as if he held a royal decree. He inspected it with an air of nobility resembling a caricature. He even cleared his throat. Lavellan looked to Blackwall and Varric, worried they might just snap and kill their friend because really, he was pushing it. Varric could just turn him into a human pincushion or Blackwall could crack him with his shield, or stab him with his sword. Either would dispatch him rather quickly right now.

“Your prize is we can get the hell out of here sooner, the sooner you talk.” Lavellan said quickly with her hands on her hips. Her mood was not improved by the aching in her back and the chafing on her thighs.

Varric finished digging and gave the last body a glare before turning to walk toward Dorian with his shoulders raised. He looked like he was about to swat the man, but instead just stood beside him with a heavy huff of air leaving his mouth. The skin on his cheeks was definitely going to be peeling over the next few days. Lavellan scowled as she looked over her companions and noticed the burns they were already sporting.

“Let me see…” She said as she got closer. The letters looked like, well, scribbles and such. Not every Dalish could read, and city elves were often illiterate. Lavellan was decently educated despite her antics in her clan. She did like to read, just not the reports in the Inquisition, or Jospehine’s letters. Basically, she could read but she had yet to find books for pleasure, save for Varric’s novels. Confusion crossed her face and Dorian nodded as if to affirm, ‘Yes, it’s Tevene’. She huffed.

Of course! Of course, it would be in a language I can’t speak or read. Silly me.

“It’s a hastily scrawled mess here, so bear with me.”

They milled about and as the seconds ticked by they were all more likely to strangle their friend and travel back with one less party member.

“Tsk tsk…  Terrible handwriting. Look at the ligatures! The flourishes are simply atrocious.” Dorian said with a tone that sounded sarcastic, and yet was likely serious. She furrowed her brow and looked at him, cocking her head to the side. Her pants continued to bite into the tender flesh of her inner thighs. If she got much more uncomfortable, she might very well just strip and walk back naked, except the prospect of having sand in every crevice was awful enough it made her think twice.

“Uh… what is it?” Lavellan was close to losing her patience.

“Well, it’s the dangly bits and the swirls at the ends of the letters.”, Dorian proclaimed as he continued to eye the letter, specifically the signatures. 

Of course, he’d studied handwriting.

She returned a blank stare. They all did.

They can kill him, I’ll take his boots.

She didn’t even like boots, shoes, or footwear in general, but she liked his. Maybe it was fashion that drew her to them. If you should happen to kill a man, particularly a friend, take his pretty boots. Dead friend? New boots. Waste nothing. It was a Dalish saying. It made sense to her.

He glanced at them all with a strained smile, as if he was unsure of their mood and only just ‘reading the room’. He coughed gently, “Oh, you meant the documents…” He got the point.

“They’re letters to and from someone in Minrathous. Looks like our Venatori here were on the hunt for some magical artifact – aren’t they all?”, he said with a droll response. He paused, sighed at the lack of commentary, and then continued.

Dorian cleared his throat and read the most recent letter verbatim, at least translated anyway.

“We’ve found the path to the ruins and made our way there according to your directions. There was no sign of the artefact. We spotted a few strange elves in the area and will try to follow them. Expect another letter in a few days’ time. We don’t expect trouble.”

She snorted at the ‘we don’t expect trouble’.

Well, they got it.

“Strange elves?” Varric asked, “What would these guys consider ‘strange’? Like not shackled in chains?”

Dorian looked down at their dwarven friend with a thoughtful look, then shrugged. “No idea. Each few days they checked in, no further sightings of elves, no sign of this artifact they were looking for either.”

“What’s the artifact?”, she asked.

Dorian shrugged again.

Lavellan scowled and pushed back the wet hair from her forehead onto her scalp.

“So, we’ve got nothing.” She said with a finality in her voice. Her shoulders sagged and she let her exhaustion show. She felt like she could literally deflate, or melt, or both.

“Well, the letters have a little more information but not much, so… yeah, I guess it’s mostly nothing.” Dorian sighed.

Varric shuffled in the sand and looked toward the closest landmarks in the distance. There were paths leading high into the plateaus and into crevasses that spanned the territory. The trek would be long, hot, and uncomfortable. If they hurried, it would take about two hours to get to the nearest campsite. He wasn’t looking forward to the journey back, but the sooner they left, the sooner he could get his boots off. They all looked ready to fall over.

Lavellan wrung the sweat out of her gloves, scowling. “Okay… okay.. So, we have something, but it could be nothing. These letters were going to and from here to someone, so I’ll have Leliana look into it.”

Blackwall said what they were all thinking, “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

Chapter Text

The heat of the sun was still beating down on the Inquisition party. Lavellan felt like she was going to get sick, but swallowed her excess saliva and tried to focus on putting one foot in front of the other. When they reached camp, the sun was finally low on the horizon and the heat was letting up. Varric put Bianca in his tent before heading over to the potions table to restock his pouches. Blackwall and Dorian left for their tents without a word.

“Wow.”, Varric said when he looked at her. He really took her in and frowned. The sunburn wasn’t doing her any favors, but he felt a bit surprised he hadn’t really noticed sooner. It seemed remarkable, that she looked as she did. He was her friend. He should put it delicately. A careful choice of words to let her know…

“What?”, she asked.

“You know, you look like shit.”, Varric stated to the Inquisitor.

She snorted at his commentary.

“Oh thanks. You look fabulous too.”

“No, really. You look awful. When was the last time you ate a full meal? You’re wasting away.”

She didn’t remember. It was yesterday, or was it the day before? She ate. She tried to, anyway.

“It’s called the Hissing Wastes for a reason.”, she quipped irritably.

Varric shot her a concerned expression.

He had a point. She turned away and didn’t meet his eyes. She thought of saying something but had nothing to say on the matter. It was easier for her to just ignore her own needs for the sake of others.

She just didn’t want to deal with it. She was tired of having to deal with shit. She never wanted this job. Herald of Andraste? It was bullshit. Inquisitor? It sucked. She couldn’t go anywhere without being recognized with her glowing hand and leagues of soldiers and party of misfits. She sometimes just wanted to blend in and disappear. There were always eyes on her. It was tiresome being looked after, looked at, looked up to.

I’m no fucking role model.

Lavellan couldn’t just go back to the Dalish either. That bare face was testament that she was an other, untrustworthy. She didn’t belong anywhere. Her heart beat steadily in her chest and she tried not to yell at her friend. He was right. She needed friends like him… Except her friends were leaving soon. She couldn’t just relax. She always had some responsibility to attend to, people to look after. She wanted to run and hide and just shut out the whole world.

I wish I could have walked away…

In some ways, she was envious of Solas. She felt a growing bitterness. In her mind, he got the easy way out. He got to retreat into the wilds and disappear, as if he had never been there by her side. He was barefaced, but no one knew his face, he had no discernable markings to make him particularly noticeable. He had been helpful to the Inquisition, yes, but there was nothing he could have done would have made any impact on the world. The damage that he did was only to her heart.

He said he loved her, but it must have been that he loved what she could have been, not what she was. As Inquisitor, she’d destroyed enough of their people’s history and made a mockery of being Dalish, being an elf. Solas had tried to help steer her to make better decisions, to preserve their culture, and she had tried to listen to his guidance. He could not be both her teacher and lover. The damage she’d caused to the people was done. There was no way to bring back that sliver of history, that glimpse of former glory. He had pushed her away, but Lavellan had thought it was just nerves before the final battle. He would want her back. He would take her back. He would wrap his arms around her and they would be together again. Instead, it felt like doom upon her.

The orb had been the last straw for him, she saw that as clear as day. He was done. Lavellan felt like a fool to think she could share her life with him. That someone like him would stay with her while she suffocated in the spotlight. No one should be subjected to such intense scrutiny. Solas was just a man, an elf that preferred the solitary quiet of the forests. He didn’t want to bother, that was clear to her. He stepped away. He washed his hands of her. He got to go be alone and feel peace while she worked herself to death.

Her heart had broken, and she had taken him leaving deeply personally. She was envious and angry. She deserved some peace. She deserved so much more. She ground her teeth together, thinking of how he might be enjoying a leisurely nap and roaming the Fade, while she sweat her ass off in the desert trying to stop Venatori from bringing back dead gods and causing chaos.

He couldn’t do this.  

She felt that he could never do what she did; He could never run a massive organization that had spies under every nation’s banner. He could build up a force such as hers, never train mages and soldiers to fight for the future of the world. He could never inspire hope and give the entirety of himself, body and soul, to a cause because it was just and right. She did.

Of course, he could just walk away from her, from the Inquisition. He didn’t need to burden himself with such responsibilities. Instead, she just did her damn job.

I have shit to do.

Regardless, she turned away to get back to work. An Inquisitor’s day never ended.

She waved him off and was stubbornly hesitant to consider taking the time to eat. She didn’t want to; Her stomach was constantly unsettled. It churned and she swallowed hard. No, she didn’t think she could eat just yet. Her eyes darted to her snack pouch. She frowned.

Maybe the jerky spoiled.

She could skip eating until later.

Varric watched her for a moment, as she strolled over to the nearest scout. He was honestly worried about her, for many reasons. He sighed in frustration. Sometimes he wondered what was going on in that head of hers. She was not a quiet woman when it came to opinions, but lately she’d been bottled up so tightly that he thought she might just burst. He knew his time with the Inquisition was coming to an end, but he’d watch her and make sure she was okay while he still could. That’s what friends do. That’s what he did. He tried to be a good friend.

Varric nodded to himself and headed to his tent. He pushed the flaps aside and barely had to duck to get inside. He felt the tents weren’t much better than the outside, they were only escaping the heat for a slightly less oven-like but still stiflingly hot shaded space.

Lavellan checked in with the Inquisition soldier for an update on needed requisitions.

“Wait, we need that again? Why?”, she asked the scout with an incensed and rising voice. The scout seemed to shrink back from her, then nervously shrugged and looked away. She rubbed her temples with irritation. She didn’t want to raise her voice to them. It wasn’t their fault. It still seemed stupid though.

How many fucking logs of wood do we need? There are trees everywhere! Fucking chop some down!

It was probably not very Dalish of her to think that way, but Lavellan considered herself a poor representation of a Dalish elf. They could plant new trees.

“Fine. Yes, I’ll look into it.” She said with a little less venom in her voice. She still sounded angry, but tried to not direct it at them.

Lavellan huffed and reached into her bag, rifling around until her fingers hit paper. It crinkled as she snatched it irritably and unfolded them in front of herself. Her body moved and she sat near the campfire with maps in hand.

When the Inquisition was formed they needed maps, detailed and accurate ones. Good maps cost a small fortune. They didn’t have much in the way of funds. It might take them a month, maybe two, to scrounge and loot enough to purchase a small set of maps for Ferelden. The maps of Orlais cost twice as much. “Delicate paper”, Josephine had stated as the explanation for what was tantamount to highway robbery. Lavellan had hoped to avoid such waste, when they had alternatives.

Solas was an artist. They had only just met, but Lavellan noticed him sketch in the field, or scratch quill to parchment late at night in their camps. She had been staring at him with a curious interest and had yet to be caught in the act. At Haven, he would sit in the back of the tavern, watch people, and draw. Despite his best efforts to blend in and disappear, she could always spot him. He really was good at hiding in plain sight, but something drew her to him, like a moth to a flame.

It seemed so obvious that he wanted to keep his distance from her, from everyone. He was the hahren, and she was the da’len. She felt foolish around him. He felt wise. She wondered what the age difference was, really. She was already in her third decade, and he was what? Perhaps ten years her senior? Maybe fifteen, if he took particularly good care of himself or was just lucky to look so – respectable. Yes, she nodded. He looked respectable.

Solas was a scholar. He was clearly brilliant. She was just interested in his thoughts, his mind. Maybe he was attractive. Just a little bit. That chin, the high cheek bones, those eyes that reminded her of the blue wisps of smoke from a just doused campfire, and the rare moments when he smiled – that was beauty. His voice though, that sent a thrill down her spine. She could have melted. He could really say almost anything; She chatted him up more than anyone else just so she could-

Oh.

Her cheeks had burned and she had smiled a little at how silly she was being. She was much too old for an infatuation. He was attractive but in that sort of untouchable way. She felt like she’d have to handle him like he was made of fine porcelain. Lavellan was aware of how he looked at her, at the Dalish. She was all rough edges and as sophisticated as a stubbed toe. He spoke with eloquence, his lilting voice seemed almost melodic to her ears. He was her senior, her better, and she should look to him for words of wisdom. At least, so she could listen to him speak more. His language choices in common seemed practiced and she wondered if perhaps he spoke something else as his mother tongue. He had said a little elvish but with a focused look on his face that showed he was concentrating. Did he worry he would embarrass himself in front of her for lack of knowledge of their language?

She barely knew enough to string together a few sentences, but his elvish sounded better than hers. He was no fool, but perhaps he didn’t want to seem foolish. Solas. It meant Pride. He definitely had much of that. Even a ego, but probably well deserved. From what she could see, he was quite capable. All these thoughts mulled in her head as she took a sip of her drink and continued her new favorite activity. Lavellan was staring at him over a mug of ale in the quest for more wisdom; Nothing more. She was not interested in him except for his wise mind, not his handsome face, not his soothing voice, not the broad shoulders, or the way he moved his hips when he cast his magic, or when his hands–

Her had mind wandered and she dipped her head down to rub at her temples. It was just ridiculous. If she had wanted him, she could probably… She shook her head and took another drink. He wouldn’t be interested. She was Dalish and he had some history that make him more than just a little bit wary, if not downright repelled by her. She needed to deal with this crazy chaos. Her mark flickered green and she grunted as pain flashed up her arm and down her spine. As she turned her back to room she held her hand to her chest, trying to hide the pain. Across the tavern blue-grey eyes locked onto her, emotions locked behind storm clouds. She didn’t see him staring, eyes scanning every inch of her, with a flicker of concern escaping the carefully crafted mask of disinterest.

Lavellan was eager to impress him. She’d deny it, but she was. So it seemed to her that complimenting him would stoke his ego, and maybe win her some points. She had slept on it and decided that she’d speak with him as casually as possible, during their travels. She would act like everyone else, and he would be delighted at her interest in his skills. Maybe he would let her watch him with his masterful fingers manipulating - the quill. Yes, just a quill and ink. Or a stick of charcoal. She had to chase off little dirty thoughts as she went to bed that night, imagining those eyes smoldering for her. She still fell asleep with a smile, confident of her ability to charm him. She was charming, wasn’t she?

They were walking through the Hinterlands, just past the Crossroads, looking for horse master Dennet. They really needed mounts but didn’t have the coin for them. Lavellan rolled the thoughts around in her head and carefully chose her words. She tucked some errant strands of hair behind her ears and asked, “Solas, maybe we could make use of your artistic skills instead of throwing coin away on maps. What do you think?”, she asked with a hopeful smile.

“Would you also have me mend your clothes? I already donate my skills, what else do you want of me?” He spoke with a stern look of reproachment. She had been rather stunned by his response.

“I’m sorry I just-“

He cut her off.

“You just assumed.” He finished for her. Curtly.

She flinched and looked away.

Smooth.

Her first major misstep with him had taken her by surprise. After that, she was a little more cautious around him with her words. She let him talk during their travels and kept her thoughts to herself. She didn’t want to look a bigger fool than she had felt just then and there. He would speak to the others, and she’d listen with rapt attention, hoping to discover some way to talk to him. She hoped he’d forget quickly, that speaking with him would get a bit easier. It had taken her almost a full week to build up the confidence to approach him again. She would insist he was not intimidating, but she felt as if their age difference spanned centuries and not probably a decade or two, at most. He made her feel like she was a child begging to be picked up, desperate for his attention. She didn’t like that feeling.

Something about him made her feel like he was hiding, that he was just letting them see a sliver of himself. She assumed he’d lost many people in the past and likely didn’t want to risk feeling for others. She felt like he was as prickly as a rose bush with thorns to keep others at a distance. It just made her want to be that much closer with him, to him. She wasn’t afraid of a little prick.

Lavellan snorted loudly to herself at that thought, Sera would have appreciated that, then flipped through the stack of maps to find the locations she’d marked for resources. She wore a smirk that closer resembled a grimace. Thinking about him right now was not going to get her work done. She tried to push him out of her thoughts and focus on the task at hand. Resources. Logging stands…

The paper was dry and smooth against her fingers, except for areas of ink that were raised up or sunken slightly. Josephine had told her the maps were “engravings”, Lavellan had nodded as if she knew what that meant. It meant they were expensive. Her fingertip skimmed the map of the Hinterlands, trailing over drawings of hills and past waterfalls. She scanned but saw no marks. An aggravated sort of growl escaped her clenched teeth.

Why didn’t I mark the one we passed around here?

She always tried to mark resources immediately. This sort of oversight wasn’t usual.

She tried to remember what they’d been doing. It felt like a lifetime ago.

Oh yes, the rifts, the Breach, and the big black wolves. Supposedly, these wolves were hunting people and killing druffalo northwest of the Crossroads. They had set out to rid the people of such a dangerous threat. They were little thing, unproven as a force for good or otherwise. No one trusted them yet. In fact, they didn’t even trust one another.

At the sight of the black wolves, Solas offered up some of that indispensable knowledge.

“The Breach may have driven them mad... or perhaps a demon took command of the pack”, he informed them.

Blackwall looked at Solas with a strange expression, “Do you know a lot about wolves?”

“I know that they are intelligent, practical creatures that small-minded fools think of as terrible beasts.”

It was sort of strange, but she supposed Solas was educated in nature as well as the Fade. She knew a bit about animals, herself. The expression on his face though looked like he was unhappy. Well, Solas almost always looked unhappy, but he looked more unhappy. He usually moved more fluidly, but he trudged over grassy hills and paths and relied more heavily on his staff, using it as a walking stick.

He must have a fondness for them.

They tried to be quick to dispatch the wolves and end the threat to lives and livestock. Their newly formed Inquisition party was a mishmash of skills. They were not used to fighting together, so the battle was a bit clunky and each of them seemed to just get in the others’ way. Varric had tossed some caltrops to slow the wolves, only for Blackwall to nearly run through them. Solas stayed back, further than usual. Lavellan felt like he was trying to distance himself and part of her felt uneasy. She was still learning to work with a team, in a group, and having someone behind her set off all sorts of her mental alarms. She dashed and struck quickly, but was almost shot by a bolt from Bianca. Blackwall’s shield came down near her and almost clipped her shoulder. Fangs and claws wet met with metal. It was a wonder they survived long enough to become a well-functioning group. They managed though. The wolves were struck down. They laid dead at their feet. Some were killed by swords, others by daggers or bolts. Notably, none had been killed with magic.

Solas looked distant and his face was withdrawn as he stood over the dead animals. Their fur was matted in blood, their eyes open and wild looking. He looked pained as he took in the scene.

They moved on and headed west into the higher forest paths to get a better view of the area. Lavellan drank potions with them, as the day had been very long and they were what she considered ‘banged up’. It helped her sore muscles a bit, but her energy was still flagging. The Dalish were nomadic to a degree, but she wasn’t trekking across the entirety of Thedas daily before this Breach business began. She was not used to walking this much. Lavellan almost lost her footing a few times as they climbed and hiked higher and higher. She hated boots. She couldn’t get a good purchase on the earth beneath her without her toes.

“There may be other predators”, Solas said, breaking the silence that had settled uncomfortably on the group.

She had wanted to reply with ‘No shit’ but opted to be a little more heraldic. There was no need to be rude just because she was tired and cranky.

“I’ll take that under advisement”, she’d said in return before she hoisted herself up over some boulders to look around. The land below was a spread of farmlands and forest. There was a good spot in the hills east of them for a watchtower. Bandits had been plaguing the residents and they needed all the support possible for their burgeoning Inquisition. She spied something: a logging stand. It was nearly invisible behind the trees and thick bushes. Lavellan dug in her pouches looking for a stick of charcoal and their map. She never had the chance to-

A loud bellow sounded behind them. A massive furry creature lumbered out from behind the rocky crags. It was a bear. How had they not noticed sooner?

She grabbed her daggers. Blackwall mumbled something and drew his sword and shield. Varric let out an audible groan as he shifted his weight and pulled Bianca into his level grip. Solas blew air from his nose and drew his staff. They’d come too far to turn back now. She wasn’t afraid of a bear. Neither were they.

A single bear, not a problem. Except there were two. The second roared and charged them from the side.

Elven profanities slipped from her mouth, profane enough that she was sure Solas would scold her. No scolding came. Blackwall held off the second as it rammed into his shield. As if the bears were master tacticians, they shepherded the group and split them apart, making them two small groups of two rather than a party of four. Varric was stuck with Blackwall on an expanse of rocky ground. They had the higher ground, better for Varric’s aim but challenging for Blackwall to navigate with his heavy shield and sword. Lavellan flagged back with Solas behind her; They had to retreat further down the difficult terrain.

It was chaos. His staff swung, Varric’s bolts fired, Blackwall swung his sword and charged with his shield. A fireball erupted and the second bear let out a horrible cry as its body was set ablaze. For a moment it seemed like they might be able to chase off the second bear so they could deal with the first. Then the second bear shook its bulk into the ground and extinguished the flames.

Fuck!

It rose back to its full height mauling Varric as its massive paws swung for him. The dwarf tumbled down the edge of the incline, his body meeting rocks and dirt rather than taking the full brunt of the bear’s claws. She yelled something, looking nervous as Varric scrambled to his feet and attempted to fire on the bears from below. The angle was horrible. His arm was bleeding and he had a gash in his forehead that was just gushing into his left eye. Blackwall planted himself on the upper level, trying to force his way past the bear that had knocked his companion away. He was alone now, with a bear that was not backing down.

The first bear stormed toward Solas, and its size belied its speed. Corded muscle rippled under the brown fur. Lavellan dashed forward, but the bear snapped its jaws for her arm and she evaded, but just barely. He turned to cast frost at it. Ice flashed. A paw came swinging for his head. Lavellan leapt then onto the bear’s back, daggers sinking into the meat of its shoulders instead of its throat. She could have bled it out, but instead she just pissed it off. It bucked and violently tossed her into a nearby tree. The trunk didn’t cushion her so much as it broke two ribs on impact and her head cracked against the bark. It was not soft either and the skin of her forehead split open. She felt her teeth gnash and almost bit down on her tongue.

Shit!

She had still worn leathers back then, which in hindsight was practically suicidal. The blow stunned her so badly that she struggled to make sense of the visions swimming before her. The forest seemed to wobble. One bear, two bear, one Blackwall, Solas looked angry, Varric was somewhere below them all, and there were lots of trees. She pushed off of the tree trunk and a low hanging branch swatted her in the face. Pine needles scraped her cheek. 

They were making more mistakes, and their exhaustion and lack of potions was making the battle more than just little bit challenging. She thought that this couldn’t get any worse. She wasn’t that unlucky, right?

It happened quickly. Blackwall yelled something and careened over the edge of the outcropping, smashing into Varric like a boulder thrown from a trebuchet, one made of a man in armor with a massive shield and a sharpened sword. They crashed and fell and rolled in a mass of limbs and grunts. Dirt flew up and left a dusky cloud in their wake.

A third bear showed its face over the spot that both Varric and Blackwall had fallen from. It roared and she felt her stomach drop. It was massive. It must have been almost twice the size of the other ones and took her breath away. Actually, no; Her ribs were doing that as they pressed dangerously into her lungs. Her breathing turned into a wheeze, and she struggled to get fully upright. Solas backed up further, shooting furtive glances at her then to the others. He stopped casting to conserve his mana. They all saw their chances of survival plummeting. The third bear was the largest bear she’d ever seen, almost twice the size of the other two, with gray matted fur. This had to be a Great Bear. She’d heard of them, but hadn’t encountered one yet.

It wasn’t. It was just a large bear, but large enough for them to know it was time to go.

Unfortunately, no one had told the bear that. It flew over the rocks and came crashing toward them. Maybe she screamed. She didn’t remember.

“We must retreat!” Solas yelled to the others.

“No shit!”, yelled Varric in a voice a little higher than his usual tenor. He didn’t waste time to scurry and scramble down rocks and boulders and put distance between him and the massive beasts. Blackwall took the cue and hooked his shield on his back and leapt down to a section of earth that looked dangerously narrow. The man put his body through hell to run through the thick of the forest, trees and branches striking him in the face as he fled. She lost track of the two as her chest felt heavy and thick, pressure building and making her eyes water.

Solas grabbed her by the wrist and tore her away from where she stood, pulling her down the hill as quickly as he would dare. Her feet tripped and her chest burned, and she was making wet sucking sounds as she gasped. It didn’t sound good. Solas didn’t slow and his grip on her wrist only tightened. She remembered being stunned at how strong his grip was. Everything sort of blurred and they moved down, down, down. There were fields ahead, a little lower. She stumbled and Solas had to catch her as she fell. It wasn’t the roots or rocky terrain or her feet failing that tripped her this time. She coughed up a mouthful of copper red blood. Her head was spinning and she laughed, but it came out like a croak.

“Fenedhis!”, Solas swore.

He practically snarled as he moved her in his arms, none too gently, as if she were a thing to repair and not a companion in need of healing. The air felt colder suddenly as if she’d been plunged into not-quite- ice water. She smelled and tasted that magical scent she’d learned was completely Solas, like a fingerprint. It was like fresh mint and hibiscus. The flavor and scent mingled and made her skin tingle and her body calm. It was lovely. In her bloodied and addled state, she wondered why Solas’ magic tasted like her favorite tea. She smiled and her head tilted as if she were drunk. Solas looked impatient, his eyes darting back to the bears, then back to her. He looked focused, concentrating with difficulty. The bears were getting closer. He made a split decision.

The minty freshness cut off as if someone had thrown Lavellan back into the Hinterlands and smashed her face into the dirt. She coughed and looked confused. Solas jostled her like awkward merchandise, hooked an arm behind her thighs and wrapped his other under her neck. He tipped her into his arms and lifted her without considerable effort, but her squirming limbs made it just that much more difficult. She was practically flailing. It was refreshing. She felt a wash of magic pouring over her, into her. It made it easier to breathe.

He then ran with her in her arms, as best as he could descend the steep cliffs toward the valley below. He never lost his footing. He was surprisingly fast, surprisingly agile. She was mostly aware of her face against his neck.

It’s warm.

Oh, and she saw the bears being only a body’s length away as they chased at his heels. She thought it was funny she wasn’t scared at all. They were worried about her dealing with some major threat and here she was going to be eaten by bears. She almost giggled into his skin.

The bears probably would have overtaken them, but then Varric loosed a volley of arrows. The bolts rained down and stabbed into the ground around just shy of Solas’ feet. They also sank into the bears. The closest bear crashed to a mighty halt and fell with an arrow shaft sunk into its eye, dead. The two others had their hides punctured and they crashed into the first, tumbling over themselves and sending their arrows deeper into their flesh. They bellowed and whipped around in pain, staggered and stiff. The bears snarled and drool and spit and blood spattered on the dirt. They momentarily ceased their pursuit.

It was the opening they needed.

Solas ran with her cradled against his chest. They got away. All of them.

“That was a shit show”, Varric said when they were reunited. Blackwall was braced over his shield, using it to prop up his arms as he breathed heavier than the other two. He looked a little green, like he might get sick. Varric scooted away from him and closer to the angry bald elf. Blackwall would later complain he was a soldier, not a damn courier running letters. He was not one for running from a fight.

Solas breathed a little heavy, as one might after sprinting with excess baggage. He narrowed his eyes and looked down at Lavellan. She lay unconscious against him, looking small and more vulnerable than she usually did. His scowl softened slightly.

“I agree.”

Fuck bears.

She scowled. She didn’t want Josephine to judge her on leaving her ‘immature comments’ on the expensive maps. She pulled out a fresh sheet of parchment paper and used a quill and ink to write new notes for herself. She dipped the quill into the ink and scratched at it, writing her notes and including a tiny drawing made of a circle, four sticks for legs, two round ears, sharp teeth, and angry little dots for eyes. Under it, she crudely wrote “Fuck bears”. She watched the ink dry rapidly in the dry heat and then folded the paper and stuffed it into a pouch on her belt.

When that was finished, she went to her tent and began to peel off her sweaty clothes. Her skin was raw, red, and just all sorts of uncomfortable when exposed to air. The tent felt too small suddenly, constricting. Her world span round and round. Lavellan swore under her breath and tried to focus on just one thing. She stared at the halla figurine. Her stomach heaved. Again the nausea swelled and her head swam. She choked on her spit as the bile rose. Varric was in his own tent, dumping sand out of his boots and inspecting his blisters. She shoved her head out of the tent and vomited into the sand, rather than her bedroll. Varric grimaced when he heard her.

“Clover, you need to take better care of yourself.”

She would have rolled her eyes if not for the urge to gag that made her body shudder. She retched until only bile came, then only spit, before wiping at her mouth.

“I’ll get right on that”, she said with snark. She spit again and reached for her waterskin.

Varric had been saying the same things for the past year plus. He was trying to be a good friend and she kept being brusk and dismissing his concerns. It was easier to pretend she was untouchable, the Herald of Andraste. Sure, she should take care of herself but then she’d have to take a moment to breathe, to think. Thoughts and memories hurt. Her heart hurt. Physical pain was nothing in comparison.

She drank until she felt a little bit better. Sun sickness was common in the desert, but they’d avoided it until now. She supposed she was lucky it wasn’t anything worse.

She had the best worst luck.

Chapter Text

Solas took quill to paper, careful not to drip ink. It was quick, but it would have to do. He scribbled a fairly accurate map with notes, a legend, and instructions on an accompanying page. A miserable smile curled at his lips as he remembered Lavellan had asked him to draw maps once.

It was a wonder she ever spoke to me again.

The early days of the Inquisition, in the Hinterlands.

They were walking constantly and they’d been desperate for horses, and out of gold. Lavellan seemed particularly nervous about something. She kept fiddling with her hair and it was distracting him. He’d already tripped over a root and stubbed his toe. Did she have to touch her hair? He wondered what she’d look like if it was long. Would it curl? Would it lay flat? Would she braid it? He thought it would be very soft and he’d like to run his fingers in it.

She tucked some errant strands of hair behind her ears and asked, “Solas, maybe we could make use of your artistic skills instead of throwing coin away on maps. What do you think?”

He probably should have really listened to her question, but instead it was just an interruption from his new favorite activity watching her. Lavellan’s hair, her face, her thighs were quite nice and her rear in those pants? Spectacular. Her interruption made him slow down walking. Her lips were very… plush. They were also a little dry, with teeth marks in them because she kept biting her lips. Was that a nervous habit of hers?

He furrowed his brow and stared at her with a firm expression. He needed to stop looking at her all the time, she was practically dancing around in his vision when he shut his eyes. He did not have any attraction what-so-ever to this little elf. To even call her that was insulting. She was as elvhen as a nug. But he could understand how someone might find her attractive. Someone that wasn’t him.

What was the question? Maps? Drawing maps for the Inquisition? He felt the muscles on his face contort with a sneer. He gave enough to the Inquisition. And as for drawing? He would rather draw her than maps. He could enjoy her modeling for him…

He was tired of staring at her, tired of wanting to get a little bit closer to see the colors in her eyes. They were violet, but the edges seemed almost black. He wanted to reach out and see if her cheeks were as soft as they looked.

No. No this needed to stop. He let a huff escape his lips and his nostrils flared as a vein throbbed in his forehead.

“Would you also have me mend your clothes? I already donate my skills, what else do you want of me?” He snapped at her, practically bristling like an irate porcupine.

Solas wanted to just stomp off into the woods. Didn’t he do enough? He put up with her constantly being so… affable. It was enough to drive him insane. She was likeable, she was friendly. Lavellan was thoughtful, eager to learn, and genuinely funny. She was kind. She was open minded! It must have been a miracle or an accident in her Dalish upbringing, because she didn’t judge him for being barefaced. She never treated him as less than.

Yes, she could blunder her way through conversations as she tried to carefully navigate social situations without offending anyone, but she was truly a lovely person. Her difficult life changed into one that was nearly impossible – because of him.

Solas didn’t want to feel more guilt. It would be easier if he thought she were an asshole. If she were just like the Dalish, judgmental and small-minded. They had turned him away when he came to them with knowledge and offers to help them reclaim what they’d lost. They mocked him, jeered and taunted him, practically spat at him. If she were just like them, then he’d not feel such churning anxiety about the events he set into motion and the fate of the future. After everything was dealt with and the monster with his orb defeated, when it was time for him to finally tear down the veil, would he send her to her doom? He didn’t want to think about it. It shouldn’t be a hard choice to make. His people or hers. She was not one of the people. None of the Dalish or the city elves or any one of them walking on Thedas was worth being upset about. She made it harder. Each day he felt a warmer draw toward her. He blamed the mark. That had to be the source, the magic in the anchor was trying to find its way home to him. That’s why he wanted to take her hand in his and run his finger across-

Someone like her shouldn’t exist!

None of them should exist.

The woman looked at a loss for words. She stammered nervously, “I’m sorry I just-“

He cut her off.

“You just assumed.” He nearly growled it. Then he stiffened his shoulders and turned from her.

Lavellan looked at him with those damn doe eyes, as innocent looking as a newborn halla. Did she have to look at him with such empathy? Solas didn’t deserve her caring and her warmth. He was used to people mocking him, scoffing at his thoughts and actions, or outright ignoring him. Someone’s hate was easier to stomach than a person’s caring touch. A person who listened to him was practically unheard of. An ally that valued his opinions? It was terribly refreshing.

This woman made him feel better about himself. She respected him without a doubt and she listened to him. He was sick of it.

She made him want to be there, to walk by her side, to watch her tuck hair behind her ears, to see her freckles in the sunlight, to keep her safe, to keep her company…

He would think of those lips and it made him feel a stirring that he was not comfortable with. Lavellan wore a stunned expression at his reply. She flinched and looked away.

She was not innocent. Did she have to seem so utterly good, when he had seen her murder people? Sure, she only killed ‘bad guys’, but what did that matter? He was a bad guy too and yet she would be more likely to hug him than harm him.

She did not deserve to be treated like one of the people. She was a flawed pathetic little smidge of elf, with her bloodlines probably so diluted with the quickening – that was his fault - that she’d live for maybe 80 or so years in total. Solas had seen pets live longer in Elvhenan. It would be unheard of her her to be valued above a pet, and yet he did value her.

This world was cruel and dark and all wrong. All these mortals were insignificant and ignorant gnats, not worth his time, not worth his empathy, not worth his efforts to save. None of them were worth saving – not even her. What would he do when the Fade returned to Thedas? Would he whisk her away and keep her as his own? She could live her life beside him knowing what he was going to do? Even she deserved freedom, to determine her own fate – except no matter what, he was going to ruin any plans she or anyone else could ever have for the future.

That was fine with him. The world as it was didn’t deserve her. He didn’t deserve her.

He’d make a new world, a better world.

When the ink had dried, he sent the newly drawn map and letter off with a raven. Fen’Harel had given his agents the location of the object he needed; He had known of it from memory. Long ago it had been moved for safe-keeping. Then it had been disturbed since, but he found it again walking the Fade for thousands of years. He had provided his agents with a multitude of maps; maps of the Ocularum, powerful objects, places of interest, and the location of elven artifacts used to strengthen the veil.

Solas surmised that the Inquisitor would be furious if she knew she’d inadvertently prepared the veil to be destroyed. They did strengthen the veil; He just simply omitted information about their purpose; He was their creator. They kept the veil together by supporting its weakest points, as a way to preserve his hard work during his long sleep. The veil was weaker in some areas, and stronger in others. The orbs helped hold the veil together, like the leading between sections of stained glass. He had never wanted the Evanuris or other horrors escaping from his trap.

The Inquisitor, with his help, had activated many of the orbs, but not all. His agents were tasked with activating the remainder, as well as picking up items he steered them towards. Some things could be bought, easily done. For the most useful items, there would likely be blood spilled. Solas had planned to activate them all, then he would use their power to take down the veil, whole. If he tried to tear it down without their aid, he’d still have bits of veil here and there to deal with that would prevent the successful reunification of the Fade with the world. By strengthening the veil, he could pull it out like a pane of glass from a window in one fell swoop.

Soon, he would tear it all down.

Two days earlier in the Hissing Wastes.

The Venatori stumbled across a camp, recently abandoned, in the desert sands. They scowled and kicked through the now cold campfire, sending charcoal flying across the area. They scouted ahead, suspicious of anyone that might have been there before them. They were after a powerful item for their master. Their search proved fruitful hours later, when they sighted strange elves venturing past ruins and into a cave. The Venatori commander glared daggers at them. These elves were much taller than those in Tevinter. They wore golden armor and hooded cloaks. It was hard to make out much more in the heat with sand constantly barraging them in the face. The Venatori tried to follow the elves, but the closer they got the stranger they appeared to be. They did not look like the Dalish; They had bare faces. They did not look like city elves; they were much too well fed. They were not freed slaves from Tevinter or from the Qun, they moved with too much pride; These elves weren’t hunched over or fearful. After one mighty gust of wind made the Venatori turn away to shield their eyes, they lost sight of the elves.

These elves were different. They were neither Dalish nor City elves. They worked for Fen’Harel as his agents. They had pledged themselves to the cause; They were proud to be restoring their people, their kingdom. The agents of Fen’Harel made their way out of the desert, heading southwest. They had left with something ancient and powerful, something that was warm and pulsed with a magic that held the rhythm of a heartbeat. It had simply been powerful in ancient times, now it would be world changing. It was locked up in a chest and the elves carried it through the dunes and over craggy paths. Fen’Harel had a plan to restore the people and they were the means for him to enact it. They dreamt of what was possible.

Later that night, the commander sat in his tent and mulled over their findings. He wrote to his master and patron with a hasty scrawl. After rolling up the letter, he thought twice about sending it on a raven. “Let us investigate further, I won’t come off as inept.” He tucked the letter away.

The commander’s life ended when they were happened upon by the Inquisition. He never did send that raven.

That evening in the Fade, Solas struggled with his conscience and found that his memories were replaying around him for him to relive again and again. It was torturous.

He took a deep breath and tried to clear his thoughts, bring up a good memory, something that would help calm him.

He opened his eyes to campsite in the pouring rain. It was muddy, the sky was a blanket of darkness, and the area around him smelled of damp grasses and swampy muck. His breath was cold in the air, like little wisps of smoke. He frowned, cold and wet was not a good or calming memory. He could feel it on his skin and he felt like he was truly there.

Sometimes the Fade could be harmless, and sometimes it was as real as reality itself. He shook off the water from his arms and grumbled. Lightning flashed and he was suddenly in a tent, and it was warmer but only just barely. Then he saw her. He saw them both. He felt a melancholy at this bittersweet memory. After a deep breath, he felt himself merge into his Fade body and relive the moments as if they had never been the past, but the present.

They were in a tent together. Lavellan sat in his lap, a layer of sweat on her skin. He had his hands on her waist and they were quite intimately linked. He marveled at her, his fingers tracing bits of skin. He was very aware of her breath on his skin and the smirk on her lips, even in the darkness.

It had been difficult to see so he let his hand flicker with magic, mimicking her anchor, to give them just enough light to work with. She intertwined her fingers in his. Their hands were like sparking blue and green flares trapped between bodies. He thought he was clever. She seemed to agree and brushed her forehead against his own before kissing his hand. He could still feel her, smell her.

He took her face in his hands and wanted to stare into her eyes, but instead she pushed his hands down to the bedroll and pinned him. He remembered and wanted to laugh. A chuckle escaped his lips and she looked at him with mock outrage.

“You are awfully affectionate for someone who did not want to share my bed…”, she had said with a quirking smile. He wanted to reply, truly, but she always managed to steal his breath away. He could tell her how masterful she was but didn’t need to inflate her ego. He let her have her fun as she moved a little, rocking her hips against him. The things she could make him feel, make him want to do, it was a wonderful torture. He groaned.

Lavellan ran her teeth over his ear. He would have to compliment her some time. She could unravel him; He had prided himself on his own skills. It was a little embarrassing, but she seemed quite pleased at his stamina. What would take days in the past, she could make him fall apart in well, considerably less time. Mortals had less time to work with, so it made sense that the act itself would not last for days or weeks… but she still made him rethink his own pride.

He intended to show her how to truly enjoy such an experience with a lover, unrushed. There would be time. There was time. There might be. A hint of his pained heart flickered and he clung to the memory, desperately. He could not let her go right now, not here. All he had left were his memories. He would not dare let his present interrupt this past. He needed her.

Solas was breathless, staring at her with love that he wanted to declare for the rest of his immortal life. His aching heart was nearly shredding into bits and pieces in his desire to have this life and forgo his plans. The people had their chance. He should have his chance to live now.

He felt her lips brush his and it pulled him back into the flesh that clung to hers. “Mm..”, he laid back on the bedroll with a lazy smile.

Lavellan huffed when he didn’t return her eagerness. He closed his eyes and let his head tilt back and a chuckle escaped him. “Ah, well I did not want you to think I was easy to get.”, he said quietly with a gravelly voice, thick with growing need and a longing that may have grown since the true memory.

“Oh, well if you don’t want to –“

He moved quickly. He rolled her under him and held her hands to the bedroll with a wicked smile. His eyes flickered with a burning blue light and his mana surged. He rocked his hips into hers and she let out a muffled noise into the skin of his neck. Her fingers dug into his hands.

“You were saying?”, he said with a growl in his throat that had made her shiver.

Lavellan liked to think herself clever. He had to agree, she was. She also knew how to push his buttons, for better or for ill.

“I was saying you look much too tired…”, she said with a snicker of laughter.

“Too tired?”, he hissed it. Another thrust had her squirming. Her thighs clenched around his waist. He loved that. A ragged breath escaped his lips and he felt an urge to bite her. He knew that would make her squeal. He hoped the storm was loud enough to cover up the noise, but honestly he didn’t care that much. Their friends were understanding and usually discreet, or completely oblivious.

Our friends.

He felt another pang of guilt. Lavellan’s teasing voice pulled him back up, like a life preserver to save him from drowning in his own misery.

“I meant too old”, she said with a little mockery. Then, he had laughed. Now, it made his heart squeeze and writhe in his chest. She was so young and he couldn’t fathom watching her age and –

She stared at him with a wry grin and he felt his cheeks flush with heat. If she was going to give him sass, he’d just have to accept her challenge and sass her right back. He smiled and leaned up to whisper in her ear.

“Then I’ll have to prove you wrong. See if you can keep up.” He challenged her with a grin that seemed practically predatory.

“You’re on-“

He wanted her to regret doubting him. He was not too old, he was not too tired, he was not bored with her – he would never tire of her. If he could keep her for eternity by his side, he would. If only…

They didn’t need to be as quiet as usual, the weather outside was a torrent of wind and water. The tent wasn’t completely protecting them from the elements, but the warmth of flesh kept them comfortable. As time seemed fly by, they had to call their little competition a draw. Lavellan sprawled out with a satisfied groan and yawned.

Solas scowled that far more resembled a pout; He was confident that he was the victor. It was something he felt the need to prove. He looked at her and she flashed him a dazzling smile. He was impressed by her each and every day. She was practically perfect in her imperfection. He wouldn’t tell her though, it would give her an ego, or maybe she’d be angry.

I love how absurd you are. You are truly an awful Dalish elf but I will have you. You are wasted on them.

No, a draw was no good. He smiled as he watched her move with a slow languidness, she was woman ready to sleep. The tent smelled of ozone, sex, and her evening tea. She stretched an arm for her cup. His smile turned up a bit more than it should. Sometimes, he could not hide his feelings from her. Solas hoped to get a reaction from her, but the one he got wasn’t what he expected. He loved that she surprised him.

Solas ran a finger up her arm.

She squealed at his unexpected touch and dropped her cup of tea; The contents spilled all over the ground, luckily missing their bedrolls. Each of them froze for a moment, before she laughed. He took the opportunity to pounce, he wrapped her in his arms and pulled her back into the covers.

“But the tea!”, she’d giggled.

“It can wait”, he’d rumbled as his mouth found her neck.

When she admitted he was the victor he finally felt satisfied. He threw covers over her and she’d laughed, “Do not think I will be satisfied with second place…”

He chuckled and knelt beside her, warming the water and grabbing her pouch of teas. She smiled at him with heavy eyelids. Solas smirked a little. Lavellan was his heart, without a doubt. For her, he would do anything. Almost anything. He made her tea, as loathe as he was to smell it in the air. His chest ached.

Tonight, he could be what she needed. He could be the man that deserved her, though he knew he didn’t. The Inquisitor, his woman, his heart tried to keep her head up, but her eyes kept closing. It amused him to no end. The woman seemed to fight every battle ever placed in her path. She was remarkable and stubborn and wonderful.

He whispered in her ear when the tea was finished steeping, but her eyes did not open. She breathed the steady slow breaths of a dreamer.

“Vhenan…”, he brushed his lips against her cheek.

He let her rest and he just took in the sight of her, the scent of her, the feel of her. When his own senses flagged and his head dipped one too many times, he begrudgingly got out of the warmth of the covers. He took the tea and poured it outside the tent flaps and climbed back into the bedroll with her. Her hair tickled against his nose. Her feet were cold as ice against his warm legs, as if she purposefully tried to steal all of his warmth like some sort of sleeping demon. His arms wrapped around her and he felt her settle against him. He smiled and held her until sleep claimed him.

He hadn’t deserved her then. Now, he deserved her even less.

The memories were bittersweet. He could practically feel her, touch her, smell her – but it was all he could ever have of her again. His eyes blinked back tears and the smile on his lips faltered.

A figure approached Solas from behind. He froze initially, heart skipping a beat. He didn’t want to share her, his memories of her, with anyone. He forced the Fade to shape to his will and cleared the area. It stood as simply rocks and ground, nothing more.

“Reminiscing?”, they asked as they drew closer still.

Solas said nothing as they put a hand on his shoulder. He knew their voice and touch. He relaxed just a little bit. It was firm, strong, and immediately calming. He felt reassured. He was on the right path. Everything he was doing was necessary. It might be painful, but it would work.

“Sulevin”, he breathed out as if their name were a comfort in and of itself.

His friend smiled at him with a familiarity from their companionship through the ages. Sulevin had been by his side for most of his long, long life. They knew the true man behind the blue-grey eyes. Solas was a friend and had grown much, but he needed spirits like them, like Wisdom. They understood him. They had affection for him. They were ancient and Solas was comparably, just a child under their care. To them, Solas was just a little one, often lost to his overflowing emotions. He let out a weary sigh as he turned toward them.

“I wasn’t expecting you so soon…”, he said to the spirit.

“You had need. I am here.” They said plainly, bowing their forehead to his.

The spirit was both beautiful and powerful with a stature that would tower over modern elves.

He’d only woken a scant few years earlier, but already he was letting this world sink into his bones and change him. When he saw a modern elf before him, he had been stunned. They were so small. He had seen them in the Fade, but the reality of it was startling. He had not expected them to be a good two heads shorter than he was. It made him feel the distance between them, the years. Solas had changed his shape enough to fit in with these people instead of standing out. Even after his efforts to be smaller, he was still taller than most elves in this new world. He frowned at the size difference between them. He stayed small because it would reassure those he still need The world seemed larger when he was smaller. He was so used to being their size that he didn’t bother to return to his true height in the Fade or in the waking world. It was a waste of magic. He didn’t have enough to waste on vanity. But still, it irked him.

They were not his people, they were something else, something lesser. Sometimes it was hard to hold onto that. It was his people that mattered. The mortals were just a flicker in time, a mistake to correct. They suffered because of their short lives – and he would bring an end to the suffering. It was more humane to return the world to the way it was.

The spirit kept their hand on his shoulder. It was firm and made him feel smaller. After a few moments, Solas’s muscles released some of the tension he had coiled up inside.

The spirit embodied the essence of Purpose; They took the name Sulevin in the Elvhen language, using it interchangeably with Purpose over the millennia. They had a long head of hair, braided in a sophisticated display that seemed to speak of rank and status. They wore armor that had fine and decorative embellishments. Their face was long, with high cheek bones and full lips. They had been beautiful and terrible when Solas had first met them, but they helped direct him since then. Both Purpose and Wisdom had been there since almost the very beginning of his life. They could seem overwhelming, as if their very existence pulled at something deep within him. Sometimes they were his confidantes, and sometimes they helped him see the error of his ways or see the deeds of others through objective lenses.

Shortly after the attack on Haven, only days before Wisdom’s death, Solas met with his friend in the Fade. She had been intrigued when Solas spoke of the Inquisitor.

“She reminds me of someone…”, Wisdom said with a stifled chuckle.

She thoughtfully guided him to navigate around the social cues of the Inquisition, of modern people. Wisdom had a knowing smirk when he seemed impressed by Lavellan. He had thought of the woman often in the Fade, enough so to share some bits of the life he was living with Wisdom herself.

“Let’s hope not”, Solas said stiffly, crossing his arms. He saw the comparison and it worried him. Lavellan had accrued power and she could use it for better or ill. He would not want to see her travel dark paths, to watch the world fall at her feet and burn, possibly from her good intentions.

Wisdom moved closer to him, standing by his side. Wisdom had found him when his recklessness of youth and fury would have led to his death and the death of many others. Wisdom’s death, her demise, it broke something in him. She was a friend but she was also his family. She didn’t judge him, she just listened and gave insight.

She saw him for what he was, someone scared of what he felt compelled to do. She saw that he might lose himself along the way. She did not always agree with Purpose, or Solas. She did not like to see her friend suffer, and he had been suffering for so long. They two were the only companions he had over the thousands of years he slept, walking the Fade and seeing the world he once loved turned to something nearly unrecognizable. A lesser man would have gone insane. Solas, he held onto his hope because of them.

Wisdom looked at him. She let him talk, let him share what he felt he could, what he was willing to. She saw how his views were changing. How much was from the Inquisitor? The woman seemed to have a dramatic impact on Solas and rejuvenated his spirit.

Wisdom saw potential. She counseled him, “Paths are not always to be walked alone. They can be shared. We should learn from the mortals, as their time is precious. One must seize happiness when they can.”

Her words didn’t seem to move him at the time. She wouldn’t live to see if he would take such words to heart.

“Are you asking me to just forget the past, what I’ve done?” Solas asked, looking at Wisdom incredulously.

She shook her head, “No, remember but do not punish yourself. Guilt is a glutton and will consume you if you let it.”

Solas was a wonderful friend, but he had so much bitterness in his heart. He had felt so much loss, it was staggering. She helped him become wise when he could be reckless and foolish; She hoped gentle guidance would be enough to help him stay true to himself.

Solas had only considered the Inquisitor a lovely distraction, at best. Wisdom had encouraged him to try to see her differently. It was a hard thing to do, considering he had killed a loyal subject, a friend even, for thinking the mortals were worth saving. When Wisdom fell, his direction seemed scattered.

Purpose was the larger of the two. They were a head taller than Solas, even when he was his proper height. Wisdom was more reserved and thoughtful. Purpose was her counterbalance, with more passion and spontaneity. He felt so small beside them, as if they towered over him much like strict parents might stand over their wayward children. He wouldn’t be alive without them; He certainly wouldn’t have survived in the ancient times without them.

Following Wisdom’s death, Solas sought out Sulevin for comfort, to grieve.

He was filled with fury and wanted to act. Living in Skyhold had brought back a wash of emotions that he struggled to suffocate under his placid façade. After the loss of Wisdom, Solas’s tenuous hold on his darker impulses were slipping. It would not help matters that Purpose would have no one to keep them in check. Solas tried to push his pain down deep, deeper than his other hurts. He thought he could be the supportive one, to help Purpose process their own grief. Maybe this way, they could grieve together.

Instead, Sulevin doubled down, pushing him to act as if driven by Wisdom’s demise.

“The people cannot wait. Each day makes them that much weaker, the culture that much more lost to time. Would you let them all die so the mortals can have another day to war, another day to enslave, another day to suffer?”

Solas shook his head and the Fade changed around them to a familiar place, Skyhold. It was the Skyhold of old, his castle, his home. Sometimes it was so difficult to think in the Fade, too many memories, too many whispers of the past. Ancient flags made of magic, instead of cloth, waved in a multitude of colors. Everything shimmered and felt warm. The aravels floated as a group of traveling elves used magic to unload their belongings onto the grounds of his keep. The people here had been driven. They had purpose. They had been happy and looked forward to a glorious future. This was a fond memory, before the fall. Before Mythal’s murder. Before everything went to shit.

He stepped out onto a parapet and gazed at the courtyard below; Beautiful ironbark trees lined the walkways, and the garden was densely covered in a canopy, overflowing with richly colored plants, plants that now no longer existed. He could practically smell the scent on the breeze.

Sulevin wanted him to act, but he needed to stay with the Inquisition until they defeated Corypheus. He needed his foci. He needed that power back to do what must be done. It had nothing to do with his growing feelings for the Inquisitor. He couldn’t stop himself, his eyes glancing again and again to a familiar balcony. His heart lurched. It had been his room. It was her room

Solas ached for his friend and felt lost. She had always given him guidance, tempered him. Purpose had always been the one to push him when he needed to be pushed. Purpose helped him make the hard choices. Wisdom helped him consider his options.

Wisdom is gone.

“Imagine what could be done…”, Sulevin said with a voice that impressed upon Solas’s thoughts.

He furrowed his brow and his heart felt strangled. True, soon he could bring back the people, but what about her? She had given everything for this world, and he’d just destroy it and her with it. Was she not worth saving?

“I didn’t think I could be drawn away, but-”, He started to explain.

“-But your purpose has been clear for ages.” Said the spirit before they removed their hand from his shoulder.

She changed me.

Solas smiled pitifully. He would give anything just to see her again, one last time. He had lost so many people in his long life. Every one of them put a scar on his heart. He thought he had grown enough to be cold and uncaring, to shield himself from feeling so strongly.

He was wrong. He still had the passion of his youth, though he tempered it as much as possible.

Purpose stood over him and spoke clearly, firmly. “The world is at stake. The people need you more now, than ever.”

“And I failed them once! Look at what happened!” The Fade shifted like liquid across glass, showing an elven alienage. There were hungry children and gaunt adults with naked faces. They lived in tiny hovels, stacked upon each other, fire racing through and claiming many lives. Their sacred tree burned, as did their hopes. Then the Fade shimmered and shifted again, to angry elves with slave markings on their faces, warring with humans over scraps. Others still lived in chains and submit to the Qun, or were subjected to horrors at the hands of Tevinter slavers and magisters.

His eyebrows knit together. His eyes flickered with a shadow of his pain, his loss.

Purpose shook their head and their braids jostled delicately against their fine skin. Solas had been broken after the horrible discovery that sealing away the Evanuris had destroyed the delicate balance between the waking world and the Fade. He’d been too weak to even rise for thousands of years. It had been torture. He had been in agony, terrorized by his failures and this new world that was brewing and growing like a cancer. He’d slept and dreamt through battlefields and watched familiar places fall to ruin.

Surely, Solas would have gone mad if not for the friends had been there with him the entire time. They consoled him, held him, let him weep for the people long since dead, the people he had inadvertently doomed. It was a tragedy. Solas was a man that had not been dealt a good set of cards in his young life. Somehow, he survived. Faced with impossible odds and a situation that was out of control, he had done his best, and his best wasn’t good enough. Purpose did feel pity for their friend. The elf needed their gentle guidance more now than ever. Solas needed reassurance. He needed to be confident in his goals.

“You had to. It was the only way. You know that. What other choice was there? Annihilation.”

Solas turned to his friend with reddened eyes, “What happens if I fail again?”

“You cannot fail. There is nothing stopping you now.” They said calmly, juxtaposed with Solas, the smaller elf, who breathed heavily and stared up at them. He nearly shook with the efforts of containing his emotions. He felt like a dam might just burst. His control was the one thing he had left.

And if I can’t do it?

Solas felt the words die before they reached his lips. Instead, he let out a ragged sigh.

Sulevin looked at their friend with genuine concern, bending slightly so they could be face to face. The smaller elf stared at them, looking so much younger for a moment. Solas always had such a fire to him, that even with age hadn’t completely snuffed out. Purpose knew he was possible of great feats, but the world was in chaos and needed him to get make sense of it all.

The spirit took his hands in their own and squeezed them firmly but gently.

“You will do what is needed, not because it is easy, but because it is right.”

It didn’t feel right.

Chapter Text

Early Inquisition.

Feeling cloistered, sheltered by the Dalish, Lavellan was eager to make new bonds. She felt like she was finally striking out into the world and experiencing life itself, free to be herself. It was refreshing. She just wished she could have done it under better circumstances, without a hole in the sky, a madman and a glowing magic scar in her hand trying to kill her.

The early days of the Inquisition were a time to bond and develop friendships, and maybe something more. Lavellan mused to herself that she’d never intended to fall in love, especially with the sourpuss elven apostate that went by the name of Solas. He was a mystery to her, and she was curious. He was handsome, and she was attracted. While he would have been her first choice to flirt with, she was aware that she’d bungled up enough missions and tripped over her words so often that he saw her as a fool. He acted very haughty, very much the Hah’ren. She found herself rolling her eyes sometimes at his comments when he wasn’t looking.

She tested the waters and was playful with her companions, wondering if any of them were interested in something more than friendship. Lavellan had kept a distance between herself and Solas after the map incident. When she became more comfortable around everyone in her retinue, she became more eager to explore her relationships with them.

The Dalish were very close-minded to outsiders, but she again didn’t think she made a good Dalish elf.

She was open-minded.

She found that teasing them was an enjoyable way to pass the time. It was also an easy way to get more comfortable and let the others know she was open to… new experiences.

Maybe her companions would be interested in something casual? Not all of them, surely.

She caught herself staring at Blackwall one afternoon as they finished looting some bandits.

His beard and moustache were marvels really, constantly tearing her attention away from things that were actually important.

How did he grow them? They’re so big…! Did they tickle?

Blackwall turned and glanced at Solas thoughtfully. “I've just realized I've never seen an elf with a beard.”

Solas chuckled, “You haven't seen many elves then.”

Lavellan felt her eyebrows rise at Solas’s comment. Elves with beards were not usually a common sight, in fact, she’d only ever seen one elf with a beard and they had been very very old. The elf had been a keeper for a clan at a meeting of the Dalish, and she couldn’t remember his name or his face. She could only remember his vallaslin was for Andruil and his beard was a faded tawny brown.

During her years looking for suitable companions among the Dalish, the men seemed scruffy at best.

She looked at Blackwall again then boldly asked, “Your beard, do your lovers like it? It looks…nice”

He coughed, “Ah, well…” and sort of nodded, quickly turning away.

She grinned wide, “So… Would that be a ‘yes’? Now I’m curious.”

Varric chuckled, “Yes, please do tell all the details, Blackwall.”

Blackwall did not share additional details on his romantic endeavors, to her disappointment. She pouted at him and pretended to sulk.

The older warrior had definitely turned a red color. She grinned and decided that was enough for the poor man. She was still curious though.

Solas scuffed his foot into the dirt, sending a small rock flying across the grass. She glanced at him, but he moved to check a chest near a fallen stone wall, his back turning to her.

A few days later, Lavellan noticed Cullen pacing the length of the training yard. His shoulders were back and stiff, but he was stomping around as if he were stalking prey. She just watched him for a moment. “You need a break, commander.” She waved him over to join her side.

He let out a sigh, “I know what our soldiers need and I-“

“You need to take a break. Look at you, you’re wound up tighter than a ball of yarn.” She hooked her arm in his and pulled him alongside her and toward the tavern. He relented.

“Let’s get you out of that armor while we’re at it.”

“W-what?”, Cullen sputtered awkwardly. He gawked at her and nearly tripped over his own feet. Her fingers curled further into his clothes, wondering if perhaps he would fall.  Cullen stepped away from her, searching her face for something. Lavellan swore he forgot to breathe and his cheeks burned.

Oh, he thinks -

The Herald looked up at his wide eyes and laughed loudly at his reaction. 

“I didn’t mean it like that”, she said with a sympathetic smile, waving off most of his nervousness until she followed it up with, “– unless, that’s something you’d want?” She said with a teasing smile as she leaned in a little into his personal space. Cullen looked like he’d been faced with a dragon in only his smallclothes. His mouth gaped and his eyebrows shot up so high on his forehead she thought they might join his hairline.

“Ah, I- I’m flattered really…” There was a movement over his shoulder that caught her eyes.

The Herald grinned and further teased the clearly nervous and uncomfortable man, “I’ll be gentle”

She thought she saw a scowling figure stalk away a few buildings down, but when she looked over again, they were gone.

Maybe I’m just imagining it.

Cullen looked like he might just run, the tension in his shoulders elevated so high that it was practically an aura of nerves radiating off of him.

“Maker’s breath, I – thank you, but I should get some rest. Excuse me.”

She smirked as he fled.

Aw, there he goes. He’s cute.

She didn’t mind admiring him from behind.

Lavellan saw him as an easy target to unnerve with her flirting and teasing. It was unfair to make him so uncomfortable, but he was just too precious to leave alone. It didn’t hurt he was very handsome. She thought he was very distinguished with the scars. The stubble added to her curious intrigue.

The following morning, she yawned and made her way out into the cold snow of Haven. The hours were early enough that most of the village slept and it was fairly dark still. She found Varric already up with a cup of coffee, standing and admiring the roaring fire. He looked thoughtful.

Lavellan snuck up behind him almost silently, the snow masking her footsteps. It was probably silly that she’d sneak up on him, but sometimes she just wanted to be playful. It was nice to have friends. It was new.

He must know I’m here. Well, let’s see…

“Good morning Varric!”, she chirped suddenly as she leaned over his back. 

He nearly jumped out of his skin and had to scramble to keep his hands on his cup.

“Andraste’s tit! Watch out who you’re sneaking up on!”

His coffee surged up the side of his cup toward his chest, but he managed to recover the cup quickly enough.

She laughed, “What, you can’t handle it? What sort of rogue are you?”

Varric pretended to scowl, “The handsome and dashing type, obviously!”

“Obviously…” Lavellan agreed with a smile and a sidelong glance at him that was a bit warm for the frosty weather.

He usually had quick retorts, but clearly her response was not what he expected. He looked at her and his eyebrows rose as she kept grinning at him.

The Herald would not argue with a handsome and dashing rogue like Varric about how handsome or dashing he was. After giving him a moment to compose himself, the dwarf took a sip of his coffee and cleared his throat. She pulled a barrel up to the fire before taking a seat on it. Varric watched her with keen eyes.

“You were sneaking”, he said finally, his tone almost reserved as if he were feeling out the mood. She wanted to laugh. Was he worried she was interested in him? Was he confused? Was he interested and hadn’t considered her as a potential lover? She couldn’t say she hadn’t had a few thoughts of her own. She wondered what it would be like if she ran her fingers through his chest hair.

Teasing him was very fun. Lavellan tried not to let her smirk curl her lips too much, because she never expected to see him taken by surprise, let alone startled that she had agreed with his self-aggrandizing comments.

She had eyes! Did he forget how he dressed? His exposed chest did a number on her. She didn’t have a thing for dwarves, but well – maybe she could have a thing for him.

Lavellan scoffed with mock outrage at the accusation, “I don’t know what you’re talking about!” She waved him off as if he were a nobody, as if he had greatly insulted her and therefore the entire Inquisition.

Varric watched her body language, and he finally chuckled.

“Ah – So, Herald, what can I do for you?”

She smiled brightly, “I’ll take a coffee please.”

They made small talk and enjoyed the sunrise together. The coffee was warm and rich and bitter. It definitely woke her up enough to notice again, movement in her peripheral.

Lavellan felt eyes on her, which wasn’t unusual, but they practically burned into her. A few times she stretched and used the movement to swivel her head around and quickly scan the area.

No one stood out. She tried not to let the feeling nag at her.

Who was so interested in her lately? She knew more than one of the ‘new recruits’ seemed utterly enamored with her. Cullen had asked her to stop coming by the training yard because two had nearly skewered one another with real swords on her last visit.

It was really odd to her, amusing though. No one had paid much attention to her back in Clan Lavellan. She was good looking, but nothing special – that’s what she thought anyway. These people acted like they’d never seen an elf before, and with the poor elven servants running around that was definitely not true. Maybe they saw her as an exotic beauty simply because she was a ‘wild Dalish’. She wrinkled her nose in distaste. She did not want to be someone’s fetish materials.

Ugh.

Later that day, Dorian sighed and brushed the hair from his face. His cheeks looked wind whipped and a bit raw from the cold in the Frostbacks beating down on him. Lavellan frowned and approached him, “I have lotion, if you’d like some.” She opened one of her pouches and pulled out a little jar. Dorian arched a brow, “Well, I never expected you to have beauty products on hand…”

She laughed, “Well when you’re this beautiful, why would you need anything?”

Dorian smirked and put his hand on his hip.

“Well, I’m not going to pass up a chance to have your hands on me.”

“Wait, what?”, she gaped and looked at him with big eyes. He looked like he might just laugh, his moustache wiggled as his smile threatened to escape.

“You may apply your heathen lotion directly to my skin, O’ great Herald of Andraste.” He said with a smirk.

She laughed, “Oh, you want me to rub it on you?”

“Oh yes”, he teased her. His shoulders shook a tiny bit as he held back laughter.

“I suppose I could do that… because I’m so generous. But try not to fall in love with me, I have magic hands.”

“I’ll be the judge of that!”

A not-so-quiet disgruntled growl made Lavellan turn her head briefly. Solas seemed to be checking something on his staff, very intently, with his back to them. Dorian’s eyes flicked to the bald elf as well.

“Darling, let’s make sure I remember this forever”, he purred.

“Oh, you won’t forget it.” She teased back and snickered.

That afternoon, the Herald walked the long way around Haven to watch her favorite Seeker beat up training dummies. Cassandra swung her sword into the stuffed opponents, her movements quick with focus and precision. The woman was a fighter but she seemed kind, hidden behind a frosty all-business exterior. The seeker was powerfully built and made Lavellan wonder how firm she might feel pressed against her.

“Beautiful.”

Cassandra swung and missed, stumbling in the dirt, spinning wide-eyed to face Lavellan.

“What?”, she said breathlessly with a burning red face. She gripped her sword harder than before and looked like she might just fall over.

Oh she’s so cute…!

Lavellan smiled and held her hands up, “Your form, it’s beautiful.”

“Oh…” Cassandra’s eyes scanned her for any sense of mockery before nodding and letting her eyes dart back to the ground.

“I try my best”, Cassandra said with a little trepidation in her tone. Her voice was quiet in the noisy training area.

The Herald smiled, “You are also beautiful. I’m surprised you don’t have men and women flocking to you!”

Cassandra looked like she’d been caught in a beartrap. “I – I do not have time for such things!”

“Ah, yes. You’re very busy, Seeker.” The elf nodded but her smile curled her lips, “Couldn’t you try to make time for a special someone?” She walked closer to Cassandra. The woman was nearly vibrating in place, her entire posture showing her utter alarm.

Cassandra brandished her sword and looked around, wild eyed, in search of an escape route. She spotted Cullen.

“Ah! If you’ll excuse me!”, she fled to talk to him, as if she had forgotten something important.

Lavellan tried not to laugh.

That evening, Lavellan went to the tavern to relax. It was lively with music, singing, drinks, conversation, and the Chargers were there with the Iron Bull. He was chatting up one of the serving girls, smiling as charmingly as he could. Lavellan grinned a bit as the woman left.

“Any luck Bull?”, she asked with a smirk. Lavellan waved to the bartender to add a drink to her tab. The bartender grabbed a fresh mug in acknowledgement.

The Iron Bull shrugged, “Eh, you win some, you lose some. How’s it going?”

She nodded, “I’m doing well. It’s been a long day though.” Bull nodded, his horns dipping as he shifted his weight; His chair creaked in protest. Lavellan waved at Krem with a smile. That man was handsome too. It was nice to know so many good-looking people. Bull glanced at Krem and then back to Lavellan before he lowered his voice.

“Well, you know what I do to relax?”, he grinned a little and leaned forward.

“Do I want to know?” She quirked a brow and accepted the mug of ale handed to her by a passing barmaid. The woman artfully navigated through the growing crowd. It was almost prime-drinking-time.

Eh, fuck it. Let’s hear it.

“Actually, go ahead. Tell me everything”, Lavellan said boldly as she took a swig of her drink. The foam coated her upper lip, giving her a little bubbly moustache.

Bull grinned, “Well firstly, I’ve got a type.”

“A type?”

“Yeah. Red heads. Oof.”

Lavellan licked the froth from her lips and put her mug down, looking at him with a strange expression before she tugged at her hair in front of her forehead. It was a reddish brown, like a brick red, but definitely more on the side of red than brown.

“You mean, like this?”

Bull laughed, leaning back, and slapping his thighs.

“Well, shit… You got me there! Yeah, Boss.”

She flushed and smiled a little.

“I don’t know how I feel about horns in the bedroom.” She said with a sort of teenage nervousness creeping into her voice.

How would that even work?

“One word. Handlebars.”

She had to cover her mouth to hide the loud “Oh!” escaping.

Bull seemed to revel in her flushed discomfort.

The tavern door slammed shut and a cold gust of wind made Lavellan shiver. She drew her jacket up against her neck to keep the air off her skin.

“I could keep you warm if you don’t mind mixing business and pleasure”, Bull teased.

Lavellan smiled and tucked hair behind her ear, “Thanks for the offer Bull, but I think I’m just going to enjoy my drink and good company before I call it a night.”

“Ah, striking out twice in one night. Brutal, boss.” Bull said, feigning heartbreak.

“I’m sure you’ll recover. The night is young. There’s plenty of beds.” Lavellan said with a grin as she went back to her drink.

After some very raunchy stories and an empty mug or two of ale, Lavellan pushed herself back from the table and stood. “Well, it’s been a pleasure. I’ll see you tomorrow, Bull.”, she said before nodding to Krem and the others.

“See ya Boss.”

Lavellan dropped a few coins on the bar top before heading out into the cold. When the door closed behind her, the noise cut out and Haven was wonderfully quiet. Sometimes, Lavellan just wanted to listen to nothing but the wind. It probably had to do with growing up surrounded by a clan of people, rarely having time to herself. She smiled at the silence. A gust of freezing winds ruffled her hair and left a few snowflakes in its wake. Lavellan shivered a little and tucked her hands under her arms to warm them. She saw a familiar bald elf sitting on a nearby wall, legs dangling over the edge. His eyes were shut, but he didn’t look relaxed. She smiled a little at the sight of him. He really was a handsome man, very statuesque. She could imagine the great elvhen of the past might have looked like him, as if chiseled out of stone. He seemed so cold though.

“Lovely, isn’t it?”, she asked him.

Solas looked up, his expression cold. “Did you not have enough fun tonight, Herald?” He snapped with a bitterness that was unexpected.

Lavellan was taken aback. She furrowed her brow, confusion crossing her features.

“What?”

He shook his head and pushed himself off the wall to stand on a higher ledge, looking down at her. His eyes seemed to blaze a bright blue, but perhaps it was just the full moon reflecting in them. She looked up at him, feeling suddenly very small. It was like she was looking up at someone who was larger than life. She searched his face for answers, for explanations.

Is he angry with me? What did I do now?

“I am sorry to put a damper on your spirits. You are so very, very… friendly. I am not used to it.”

He stood stiffly and put his hands behind his back.

Wait. He hasn’t been- Is he jealous?

Lavellan felt like the words had been stolen from her mouth.

“I – I thought you didn’t like me.” She admitted.

At this, his eyebrows to knit together, then one arched as if he would ask a question. He seemed to search for words before he pursed his lips together.

“I will admit that… I am fond of you.”

His confession was like he’d admitted to something taboo, as if she were something dirty. He said it quietly enough, as if he expected some rebuke or immediate rejection.

Her eyebrows shot up and she stood more alert.

Wait, what? Bullshit! Either he’s the world’s greatest liar or-

“Are you?”, squeaked out of her mouth. He seemed unreal. Sure, she felt for him quite strongly, but she didn’t think he had the slightest interest in her. This felt like it was completely out of character for him. Didn’t he think she was an idiot? Didn’t he scold and admonish her for the stupid risks she took? He looked at her with so much emotion in his eyes, and yet his expressions were always unreadable.

He nodded once, but his eyes still looked harsh. She felt like she was staring down a giant beast made of ice. It felt like he liked her, but he didn’t want to like her. She wondered if he disliked feeling something for her because she was Dalish. It made her mind spin.

You’re so confusing! Do you like me or not?

She looked at him and took a moment to find the right words. She decided.

Fuck it. If he thinks I’m an idiot, so be it.

She tossed her head back and shoved her hands onto her hips and looked up at him with confidence she pretended to have. She could lie, she could pretend. She did it everyday, pretending she knew what the fuck she was doing, how to save the world, how to be a good friend, a good leader. She wouldn’t mind adding ‘lover’ to the list.

“So, would you prefer I not flirt with them? Perhaps just with one elf I know?”, she asked with some sass in her attitude. Let him clarify so she wouldn’t assume to understand his intentions, or his interests, or whatever this was. She figured he couldn’t mistake her now. This had to be mutual, right?

His eyes shut and he looked pained for a hairsbreadth; Solas sighed,“Please not Sera.”

She laughed suddenly, loud enough his head jolted up and he stared at her with half a scowl already pulling at his features. She could barely control her laughter, her breathing hitching in her throat and she gasped in breaths, trying to stop herself.

His miserable puppy dog expression and the alcohol in her system made her laughter bubble back up again. He started to glower and she could feel his anger starting to simmer. She choked back a laugh and wiped the tears in her eyes.

“I meant one with less hair”, she said to him matter-of-factly. Her eyes stared at his.

“Oh.”

Solas froze then, standing still enough that he really was a statue made of stone. She looked at him expectantly. He seemed to warm from that ice cold body language and soften. She witnessed a transformation. Hid cheeks turned a slight pink. The smile that settled on his lips was soft, warm… kind.

It was the kind of smile that made her feel something deep down, pulling at her and drawing her closer.

The liquor emboldened her, “I think you’re brilliant” she said quickly.

His demeanor seemed to change quickly, from pleasant surprise to confident swagger, a tiny smirk pulling at his lips.

Oh, is that what you need?

She could have laughed again. It seemed so obvious now. He needed her to stroke his ego. Fine. She would do just that. Let him be a proud bastard. If he wanted her to beg, maybe she’d be willing to do that too, if the mood hit her.

Lavellan smiled at him. “You could talk to me all night and day about the Fade and I would never tire of it”, she said with a passion.

His honeyed voice was sweet, just not usually for her. He was so standoffish that he set her on edge. Alarms practically rang in her mind when he was near. Maybe they hadn’t been alarms of danger, but alarms to the heat, to the possibility that they could be something more than…

She grinned at him. He smiled back at her and it was radiant. The cold evening didn’t feel quite so cold anymore.

“I think you’ve had too much to drink”, Solas said with a smirk.  

“I think you haven’t had enough”, she said playfully.

She climbed up the wall and stood on her tip toes so she could be eye to eye with him. She stood close enough she could feel his breath on her skin.

Solas’s whole demeanor shifted dramatically from what it had been just moments earlier. He had been cold and dismissive and bitter. Now he was smiling, his shoulders dropped, his stance shifted, and he looked welcoming and warm. He looked like he could be home, he could be something so dear to her. She was afraid to imagine something between them, but she wanted to.

Lavellan stared up into his eyes. They looked smokey now, no longer like staring into ice water. Her eyes darted to his lips and his looked to hers. They were so close.

She waited expectantly. The last thing she wanted to do was to scare him away. His eyelashes were captivating her, his eyes, his proximity. He smelled like evergreens and mint.

Kiss me you idiot.

Solas turned away from her, leading to the little house he roomed at. He moved with a confidence and comfort she wouldn’t have attributed to him, “Come. Let me tell you some stories.”

It was a start.

Chapter Text

In the very beginning, before Purpose, before Wisdom, before everyone and everything else, Solas was not alone.

He came from a little village to the North. He’d told the Inquisitor that much of his past. It wasn’t quite the truth. He was born in the North, specifically in what would eventually become Tevinter, but it was no village. It was ruins now, overgrown and desolate. No people would call the land home now. It smelled of decay. He came from a single property that spanned the size of a small village, like the rich manors in Orlais covering the countryside. It sprawled across the landscape with towering spires and massive walls, to keep the slaves in. Despite its opulence, the area the slaves lived in was little more than rowhomes with thatched roofs lining the area closest to the stables. In the winters it was cold and in the summers, it was oppressively hot. In those cramped confines lived over a hundred elves; Everything was owned by one man. Everyone on his land was a slave. There were only adults on the property, except for one child.

Solas was that child. He was born to one of the slaves that worked the fields. He couldn’t remember his mother’s face or her name. He couldn’t remember her voice. He remembered she was kind.

He remembered her hands.

She had worn callused hands and yet, a gentle touch. He was too young to understand why she kept him swaddled well past infancy, tucked against her even in his toddling age, hid him in cupboards and under stairs, and made him learn to be silent as a mouse. She had smiled at him and told him it was a game. He had believed her, for his innocence was unmarred.

“You are a special gift”, she had whispered to him “You must never be seen by the master”.

He was a secret.

The other slaves knew he existed as they had also known her for their entire lives. Slaves had to band together for their own safety. They were a family, though they could not show it through actions. They were unified by their hearts. Regardless, if the master was around then they treated Solas like he was a ghost. No one would look at him, no one would interact with him. He thought the game was fun, though sometimes he wished to be held to spoken to. His mother would comfort him in her arms and whisper her love before he slept each night.

He never knew why she named him Pride. Someday he would find it to be a fitting name.

Solas knew that the garden was usually off-limits, but that day their master was showing the manor to his guests, so his mother shooed him outside. As a change of scenery, Solas joined his mother and the other slaves under the bright sky. The gardens were more like fields, massive tracts of land that the slaves had to till and weed and process daily. He did not squeal as little ones did when they felt delight, instead he dove under the plants and climbed between thick stalks and quickly covered himself in dirt. Solas was quite little and was easily swallowed up by the greenery in the gardens. Even standing, he only came up to his mother’s thighs if he stood on his tip toes. His mother moved beside him and smiled. He always felt her presence close by. The magic in the air made things grow large and quickly. It also could make food spoil quickly if unattended. Hands were always grabbing at the earth. Solas felt like an adventurer as he navigated past the arms and hands that pulled the vegetables and fruits from the earth. Finding a comfortable spot not far from his mother’s legs, he sat under leafy plants that grew up to the waist of the adults and smelled faintly of tea.

His little fingers found a twig and stone, perfect toys for a little boy who would never know a possession to his name. His small hands grasped the makeshift toys and mashed them together while he smiled, his bright eyes alight with joy. His hair had the fine qualities of early childhood, when it at times resembled the downy fluff of a new chick and the color of it would seemingly change with the seasons. He currently had hair that curled and coiled. It was bright red in most spots, though blonde in others, and wild, untamable despite his mother’s best efforts. Freckles scattered across his face and arms, bright beacons against the pale white of his skin. He so rarely spent time outside that he was as pale as alabaster. A loose tooth wiggled as he breathed out of his mouth. His mother pulled weeds from the ground. She was always close, always watching him. She was always careful.

He remembered the smell of her skin, like earth and rain. He had been delighted to spend the day out in the fields. He smashed his toys together, a little harder than he should. A little louder than he should. His mother hissed at him through the greens, “Shush!”. He pouted at her and tried to be quieter, still hitting stick to stone.

The master led his guest outside, smiling. He seemed to ooze with a sense of pride at all he commanded, all he owned. The master was tall, Solas remembered that much, with cruel looking eyes. He walked like he might swoop down and grab at someone or something, like a predator, and he liked to wear shiny armors with a flair for elegance. His armor was highly polished and inlaid with small gems which glistened in the sun. He was a blinding brightness as he spoke to his guest, who was an even taller man with skin that was taut over muscle. He was picturesque with a physique that must have been the pinnacle of performance, powerful and broad but also lithe and agile. He was suited in an armor that was far from decorative with a massive sword at his side that had to be the length of an entire person.

The slaves worked with a stiffness in their movement that belayed their fears. They dressed plainly and were relatively clean looking. They were sunken and hungry looking, but because they didn’t resemble skeletons, they could be considered well fed. Their heads were shaved and their faces branded with the vallaslin of the patron god of their master.

“They are quite loyal. You should consider getting more of them”, said the master with a nod of his head toward his slaves. They didn’t dare look up at him, to meet his eyes.

The guest cast his gaze over them briefly. His bushy eyebrows knit together as he paused and looked thoughtful before he looked back to the master.

“The demand has over paced the supply. You know that”, the guest said with a growl in his tone, as if the master was an idiot for even suggesting such a thing.

Slaves were another commodity to be bought, sold, and traded. His mother hovered nearby, keeping her eyes on her master and her work, never her boy. She could not dare to look in his direction. She would not give away his location. Solas mashed his toys together again, quietly enough that the sound was lost to the sound of slaves working the fields.

“Yes well-“

The stone flew across the garden and hit the masonry on the walkway. It made a faint click-clatter. The guest cocked his head, arching a brow. The master looked to the sound, the stone, and then looked up at the slaves. His eyes were cold, and every slave froze, a telling sign. Solas heard the sudden lack of movement and his head spun around to look to his mother.

The master forced a smile at his guest, “They are overzealous in their work”, he said with a simpering warble in his voice.

“Is that so?” The guest’s voice was an irritated growl.

The master glared at the slaves for embarrassing him. There would be punishment for that alone.

The guest then strode forward off the paving stones, armored greaves crashing through the leafy growth.

Solas felt a presence, a looming shape over the tiny canopy that shielded him from eyes. He shrank in upon himself, drawing his knees to his chest. He held his stick with a white knuckled grip, staring up at the shadow that seemed to be everywhere above him.

Suddenly, a hand came down among the plants. It was well manicured but also worn in places from repetitive use. He didn’t move, not until the hand came down and swiped close enough that he felt the air move past his nose. Solas scrambled onto his hands and knees and crawled as quickly and as quietly as he could toward his mother. The garden betrayed his efforts. The greens shuddered as he brushed past them leaving a trail.

The guest smirked at the rustling movement of leaves.  

Suddenly, he unsheathed his sword. The master opened his mouth as his eyes widened, but no sound came out. The guest was his better. He needed to watch his tongue.

Solas’ mother called out, “It was nothing! I- I kept a pet…!”, she said as sweat slid down her skin. She looked terrified. The man hesitated at the look of terror in her widening eyes, looking from her to her master before he moved like lightning.

“No!”, she screamed.

The sword came crashing down. Solas was like game flushed from a field. The blade slammed into the dirt only scant inches in front of his face. He cried in alarm and there was a flurry of movement. The sword was torn out of the ground, spraying him with soil. Solas flinched.

His mother ran toward him.

Solas turned his head toward her.

She reached out for him.

He heard her voice yell something.

Another swing of the blade.

His eyes widened.

A thump followed, then a heavy thud that crushed the greenery nearby.

Solas held his breath. He stared at the stems jutting out of the dirt as it became a thickening mud, dark crimson poured around the crushed tea leaves. The coppery scent filled his nostrils alongside the earthy undertones. He didn’t understand.

Solas’s heart raced like a rabbit’s, pounding so loudly that the world was shut out except for the sound and her - She was close. He just needed to grab onto her and he would be safe. She always kept him safe. She was his world.

“How dare you!”, the master yelled with a hitch of fear making his voice squeak. The slaves shrank away, terrified and shocked and stunned.

“Shut your mouth”, growled the guest as his hand snatched Solas from his mother’s side.

He saw her hands in the dirt close enough to touch. He grabbed at them in terror, but they did not grab him back. They did not comfort him. He didn’t understand.

He remembered her hands.

As he was torn from the protection of the leaves, he saw her there. His mother was prone and unmoving. She was a body without a head. It had rolled away somewhere in the dirt, leaving an arterial splatter on the greens around her. His eyes saw but his mind didn’t comprehend it, didn’t understand it. Not yet. He didn’t want to remember this. He never wanted to remember this.

He screamed and tried to hold onto her. Five fingers reached down like talons of a monster, grabbed him, and crushed him against plated armor. The metal bit into his back as he thrashed and kicked but his grip on her hands intensified. He held on to her with all of the might he could muster, lungs screaming louder with his terror.

He remembered her hands.

Solas wouldn’t let go of her, his fingernails cutting into her flesh as he tried to hold on. His fingers clawed with desperation. His grip tightened despite the slick of sweat between his small fingers and palms. The man snarled and stuck his blade in the earth with one hand as he jostled and throttled the boy with the other. Now with two hands, the man started to pry the screaming child off the corpse.

Solas was torn from his mother with a terrible scream, his fingers grasping at air and his limbs flailing.

The master stepped forward to interject, looking jerky in his movements. He hesitated, he feared.

“If I had known-“, he whined and hoped to placate the man, his head bobbed like a chicken as he proffered his excuses.

The guest spun toward him with the boy in his arms, bucking, kicking, and screaming. Tears gushed and the boy’s face was a bright red from his exertions against a foe so much bigger and stronger than himself. The man’s eyes glowed a brilliant red in his fury. Magic flickered around the man, a mighty flame of yellow radiating from his person, his aura rippling ominously.

“If you had known?!”

The master gasped and stepped back, eyes widening in recoil. There were strict laws on slave ownership. A master needed permission to breed the slaves, and even so the process could take many years before it might offer any success. Immortality could have flooded their lands with mouths to feed, but the low fertility rates made it difficult to build numbers quickly. Solas was no blessing, he was property.

The man held Solas aloft by his arm, glaring at him. The boy screamed and cried, his voice hoarse and his face covered in tears, snot, and spittle. The volume was nearly deafening. The man glared back at the master before he shook the boy hard, his little body bending to and fro and his head whipping back and forth. If he had only been a bit younger, that act of violence would have been strong enough to kill him. Instead, it jostled him enough that his vision spun and his body hurt. A moment later and magic enveloped the child in a sudden flash of light. His little head sank to his chest as unconsciousness washed over him in an instant. Solas slept despite the horrors, the terror.

He never got to say goodbye to her, he never got to put her to rest.

“I will take him”, snapped the guest as he repositioned the boy under his arm like a sack of grain.

“But you-“, the master said with a cowed whimper as he gestured to the dead woman in his field. The master expected that he’d be recompensated for the loss of the woman. He was mistaken.

“I will take him!” He said with eyes that glowed that horrible red hue.

The master stepped back as if he’d been bit by a viper.

“Yes, yes – as is your right!”, he said as he scuttled for a tone that was apologetic and not terrified.

Solas was bundled up in a satchel. The guest took his sword back with more care than he handled the child.  The sword was a tool and had more value than the boy did. The child was a burden with potential.

Solas was taken immediately from the property. He left the village in the North.

The man who took him would become his master and he was not kind to Solas for the decades he kept him. He made him into a soldier, he made him into a killer. He would regret that.

Solas didn’t remember much from the place of his birth. He remembered the pain of her loss. He remembered the scent of the tea leaves in the bloody dirt.

He remembered her hands.

Chapter Text

Skyhold, two and a half months after the defeat of Corypheus.

Varric had left a week earlier for Kirkwall talking about repairs and ‘hiring miners for the damn harbor’. Dorian returned to Tevinter a few days after him. He told her he’d ‘pop back’ shortly. Cassandra left to find the new commander of the Seekers with all the hope in the world written on her face. Blackwall joined the Grey Wardens and left for parts unknown and promised he’d write her. Cole sort of drifted in and out, helping people in his own way. Vivienne was off cavorting with the mages and circles. Very official business. Her luggage had a longer farewell than she did.

Good riddance.

Iron Bull stopped by with the Chargers in between missions, but they were very active in the Inquisition, so they spent more time away than at Skyhold than time there.

Killing is busy work.

Leliana was being fit into Chanty robes and a giant headdress. She was Divine Victoria, after all. Lavellan would not admit the outfit looked utterly ridiculous. It was a terrible loss when the Inquisition said goodbye to it's spymaster. Leliana had left her it good hands and she was still helping from the shadows, luckily.

Sera was still around, but always busy with her friends of Red Jenny.

Lavellan found that she had more time than after liked lately. She paced, feeling like an animal stuck in a gilded cage. There weren't many missions she could accomplish alone, if Cullen or Josephine would even let her. She didn't feel like arguing with them, her nerves were frayed enough as is.

She stayed put. She was aching all the time and didn’t feel the demand to act without a target, without a mission, and without her friends. She’d be distraught and broken if not for Josephine. The woman was her lifeline to sanity and relative comfort. If she felt hurt, Josephine would try to distract her. If she were hungry, she’d try to feed her. She was like a doting parent at times, but she admitted that she was too helpful to avoid. She had issues and Josephine would do her best to solve them. She couldn’t solve heartbreak.

The heartburn started shortly before they fought Corypheus. Lavellan had no idea how she did it, but when she requested halla milk for her heartburn, Josephine got it. It was fresh from a Dalish clan she'd helped in the past. Inquisition business of course. Lavellan sat down in the tavern with a jug of it and poured herself a cup. It was still warm. Sera popped her head into her periphery. “Oi, what’s that?”, she’d asked.

“Halla milk”, Lavellan said with a smile. Her eyes looked distant, as if she were in another place – back in the Freemarches with her clan. She sighed softly and took a sip of the milk. It was frothy and a light beige color. There was nothing else like it in all of Thedas. It sort of tasted like almonds, if somehow they could be ground up and turned into a milk of sorts. She snorted at the idea of a milk made from nuts. It was absolutely absurd.

“Uh, what’s it taste like?”, Sera leaned in closer.

Lavellan held her cup out, “Why don’t you try it? I can’t really explain…”

The blonde elf sniffed the cup of it before gagging and waving her off.

Lavellan shrugged and took a sip.

Sera made a disgusted face. “I don’t want any of that shite! Smells like a right dirty twat!”

The Inquisitor spit it out with a bark of a laugh, spraying it like a fountain onto Sera’s shirt.

Sera wore an incredulous look on her face and halla milk on her clothes. Her cheeks and ears burned bright red. “AUGH!!! Fuckin’ gross!”

The Inquisitor coughed and laughed, wiping at her mouth.

Oh Sera…

Sera gagged and grabbed a nearby cloth napkin and tried to wipe the milk off, muttering loudly and making retching noises as she tried to hold her breath.

“Disgusting nasty fuckin’ deer jizz!”

Lavellan laughed and tried to help, grabbing a bar rag to help soak up the mess. She didn’t mean to keep laughing, but it was the first time in a while that she’d felt happiness – though it was joy at her friend’s expense.

Sera was moody for a few days afterwards, wary of the Inquisitor and her ‘disgusting’ beverage. Lavellan made herself scarce and mostly stayed in her room, grumbling from aches and pains that seemed to get worse each day.

Nothing helped her back pain other than heat. She laid on a waterskin filled with hot water; It was the only way she could fall asleep anymore. When Skyhold slept, Lavellan was lie awake in her bed and stare at her mantle. Her most recent prized possession, the little halla figurine, sat there looking pristine. She stared at it, wondering about its history and about what her people had lost.

The people needed something more… There had been so much fighting in recent years. Before she was the Inquisitor, she’d watched city elves spit when she’d walked past them. They’d swear at her, call her a flat ear, a traitor, a fake elf. When she was younger, it confused her. Why were they so angry? The Dalish didn’t have much respect or love for the city brethren either.

Lavellan was eager to learn more about her people, so she was happy to talk with Solas about the Dalish and city elves, for as long and as much as he’d tolerate.

“You are Dalish, yet clearly away from the rest of your clan. Did they send you here?” Solas had asked her one afternoon in Haven. She was still terrified of the glowing magical scar across her left hand, but put on a brave face. Despite knowing he was an apostate, an elven hedge mage, she went to him looking for help, for sympathy, for kinship. She was disappointed. He was bitter. He snapped at her, visibly agitated. She felt like she was a hunter and he was an angry wolf that she stumbled upon, with him gnawing at the bones of his kill and snarling a warning.

“What do you know of the Dalish?”, she asked, answering his question with a question. She felt uncomfortable sharing that she’d been a spy and a cast-off. Her clan wanted news, and less of her at home. She had spent the last five years mostly on the road herself, journeying to towns and cities from Kirkwall to Ferelden and back. She did not mention his tone was concerning, that the look in his eyes made him look suspicious of her. She kept herself closed off and tried not to express her fears, but at least she wanted to be friendly with him.

“I have wandered many roads in my time, and crossed paths with your people on more than one occasion.”

Solas put his hands behind his back, his shoulders raising. His posture was stiff; It reminded her of a soldier rather than a mage, but she shook it off.

Strange.

“What do you mean by ‘crossed paths’?”, she asked him. He had a severe look in his eyes and his voice spoke with a barely suffused anger.

“I mean that I offered to share knowledge, only to be attacked for no greater reason than their superstition.”

She wondered what he’d offered, how he’d offered it. Then she realized that a strange bare-faced elven mage approaching most Dalish clans would be ridiculed at best, and at worst killed. It was likely he was chased off with weapons. City elves sometimes ran to the Dalish for help, to join and learn of their ways, but not every city elf survived the encounter. Her eyebrows dipped and she frowned, her eyes darting down as she felt ashamed of how her people had acted.

“Would your clan listen to what I had learned in my studies, my travels? Or would they mock the flat-ear and his stories, and go back to their ruins?”

She wouldn’t have turned him away. She wouldn’t have attacked him. She was always willing to listen. She wished her people were more like her or accepting of her beliefs.

Lavellan wondered if she was the strange one – her clan had always treated her as weird, outrageous, and whispered about her. She was dangerous. She grew up in a clan questioning things that shouldn’t be questioned.

Solas’s anger was not likely misplaced, so she tried to be a bit more accepting of his scathing tongue and biting comments on the Dalish. He wasn’t necessarily wrong.

During her time with the Inquisition she examined the customs and lives of city elves and found that they had their own traditions. The city elves thought they were best modeling what elves should be. The Dalish and the City elves both thought they were right, that they were genuine, that they and they alone upheld their traditions, history, culture, and language. She knew they were both wrong and both right. It bothered her to no end that her people were tearing themselves apart in some pissing contest over who was ‘more elfy’, as Sera would say. She could guess that both sides of her people would reject her. She was too Dalish for the city elves who would say she played in the woods and pretended to be an elf, and now she was bare-faced and too much of a ‘shem lover’ to ever be considered Dalish again.

She would sleep each night, thankful at least she had found that figurine. It was comforting in a sad and miserable way that with it she had a little bit of home by her side. She wouldn’t be alone.

Lavellen stopped wearing her boots in Skyhold. She liked to pretend it was because she was tired of playing the role of the Inquisitor, that respectable people wore footwear, but really it was because her ankles hurt. They were swollen and it was becoming a challenge to take her boots off. The feeling of cold stones on her sore feet felt almost divine. She sighed heavily and her whole body sagged as she slid down against a wall in the courtyard. She found new aches and pains daily. She couldn't even take a potion or elixir because the scents would trigger her gag reflex immediately. Anything medicinal made her nausea flare up.

And tea. Oh, tea made her gag. She had a whole drawer of teas, even fancy ones from Orlais and Nevarra. Josephine had spared no expense to get her a variety of worldly teas with hints of this and that. What once tasted of orange blossoms and rosehips now tasted like spoiled apricots and wet mulch. She couldn’t get past the flavors that hit her. She gathered up all the teas and stuffed them into a sack destined for the trash. She was heartbroken that she had to throw them all away.

Ugh. What a waste!

Lavellan didn’t tell Josephine, despite her want for tea, because she had a feeling it would hurt her friend; Josephine would consider spoiled teas her fault as if it were her responsibility to choose fresh teas and make sound purchases. Josephine had enough on her shoulders, she didn’t need to fret about tea.

Skyhold was almost quiet some days, and at night there were few voices save for those who drank at the tavern.

The days dragged on without the usual chatter and camaraderie. It was afternoon and relatively quiet. There were no missions that were outstanding, nothing dire in need of being addressed.

Even though Lavellan had always dreamt of privacy, especially living in a Dalish clan and growing up utterly surrounded by people at all times, she was truly uncomfortable with the feeling of being alone.

Lavellan felt abandoned.

Lavellan was finding herself with more free time than she liked. It let her think. It let her feel.

The Inquisitor puttered about, feeling listless and miserable. She knew her stress levels were sky high, despite the world being saved already.

She hadn’t been sleeping well. She had barely been able to keep food down. She was plagued with heartburn and heartache. Solas left her.

Fuck him.

She shook her head, angry and blinking back more tears.

Emithal Ma Bbnafelasem vhe’nan! (Behold my withering broken heart)

Fenedhis! (Fuck / Wolf dick/!)

Enan druem, Solas! (I sacrificed, Solas!)

Are you fucking happy now? How are you feeling?

Ena'sal'inast? (Victorious?)

That didn’t help. Her cheeks grew damp and she blinked, rubbing at the tears that had surprised her as they ran down her face.

Felasil! (Idiot!)

Nae eolasem… (If I’d only known / I didn’t know…)

There weren’t enough swears to express her anger, her hurt, her pain, her misery. She felt like she was run down by a druffalo, trampled, and left for dead. How could he just leave? She sniffled and wiped her face more, her nose and eyes turning red and her lips looking just a little puffy. It would be hard to hide that she’d been crying, but she ducked her head against her knees and hid herself in the shadows. She was a rogue, if she didn’t want to be seen by most people, she wouldn’t be seen.

It was comfortable out and the sun was shining. There wasn’t much foot traffic and she had found a quiet corner of courtyard to relax in. Lavellan wiggled her toes in the grass and slid down to sit against a stone wall with a tired yawn. She tugged her hood over her head and closed her eyes for a mid-day nap, seeing as she had nothing to do for the time being. Sleep kept evading her as of late and she felt dead on her feet.

Sera strolled past the Inquisitor, then dramatically did a double-take and spun around with a big frown that was practically comical.

“Jeez, you look like shite.” Sera remarked loudly as she looked her up and down. The Inquisitor huffed and opened her eyes, looking at her friend with a scowl. She knew Sera was just trying to help, but sometimes it felt just mean.

“Wow, thanks”, Lavellan said with a frown. “No wonder everyone left…”, she responded with a voice that sounded only barely above a whisper, some of her heartache leaking through. She looked miserable. She was miserable.

Sera stared at her for a moment before grabbing her arms and pulling her off the ground onto her feet.

“Enough moping! You're overdue for some fun! Come on!” Sera dragged her a foot before she marched toward the tavern. This was clearly not optional.

“Fine…fine!”, Lavellan said as she followed begrudingly.

The Inquisitor trailed the blonde elf through the tavern and up flights of stairs. Up, up, and up to Sera’s room. Her window was wide open with the roof looming ahead. Sera grinned and grabbed a plate of cookies that sat on the bench, before she motioned to the window and the roof.

“Available for your fine dining experience, messere”, Sera said with her best snooty Orlesian accent. It was so bad that she couldn’t be sure if it was supposed to be Orlesian or Ferelden. Lavellan did let out a little chuckle, then stepped up onto the bench and ducked under the window frame. She didn’t make it to the roof. The world spun and Lavellen clutched to the windowsill. It was too much at once, too much movement, too much up, too high.

Oh fuck!

“I can't do this right now…!” She yelped, grasping at the window frame. She squeezed her eyes shut when Sera put the plate down and grabbed her hips, pulling her back into the room. The Inquisitor felt a rush of vertigo.

Sera pulled away immediately with a worried look on her face. “Wut? You’re gonna hurl?”

Lavellan looked green, or greenish. It was not from the anchor.

“No, I’m fine.”

“Nugshite!” Sera hopped back a foot or two toward the door and crossed her arms. The younger elf looked her up and down, narrowing her eyes and then swallowing before speaking, a little warble in her voice that gave away her concern.

“Don't tell me you're dying! You’d better not be! If it’s poison-”

Lavellan huffed and cut her off.

“It's just stress Sera! Not dying. No poisons. Just feeling… like shit, like you said.”

Lavellen felt everything wobble back into its place. She carefully lowered herself onto the window bench. Sera stood there awkwardly, avoiding looking her in the eyes. Lavellan grabbed a pillow and stuffed it behind her lower back with a grimace.

Sera looked at her and narrowed her eyes with suspicion. “Uh huh.” The blonde elf looked around, frowning deeply until dimples showed. She snatched the plate of cookies and thrust it in Lavellan’s face. “Eat.”

Lavellan opened her mouth to argue that this wasn’t necessary, but Sera gave her a very stern look that made Lavellan flinch. It reminded her of Solas, with his disapproving scowl at some injustice. That stupid fucking handsome bastard. Lavellan grumbled. The last thing she needed was Sera to get all serious and moody and broody on her.

I’ve turned her into a monster.

Lavellan gave her a not-so-reassuring smile that faltered as she inspected another cookie. She wasn’t poisoned yet. Sera’s baking skills could be dubious at times. She baked with a lot of enthusiasm though.

Sera forced a cookie into Lavellan’s hand. The Inquisitor tried to hide her look of trepidation and stared at the cookie. It was golden brown, baked nicely without any of Sera’s usually scorch marks or burnt edges. She sniffed the it. It smelled of molasses, cinnamon, brown sugar, butter… her mouth watered. She only hesitated a moment longer before she took a single bite. It smelled good, but it tasted better.

It was bliss.

She followed up with eager greedy bites.

Wow, what did she do? Did the cooks make these? There’s no way Sera made them…

Sera was looking at her with a strange expression. She looked like she was inspecting her. Lavellan tried to ignore it and focus on the delicious crumbles of chewy crunchy sweet cookie.

Sera moved a bit and looked at her as if she was a bug on display, or the way Dagna looked at schematics. Sera leaned over her briefly. Lavellan was pretty sure Sera had sniffed her. She thought of smacking her away for a split second, but the cookies demanded her attention.

Did you seriously sniff me? What do you think, you’ll smell poison on my breath?

She eyed the plate and reached for another cookie.

“You’re acting weird”, she said to Sera with a grumble, trying not to let cookie bits rain out of her open mouth as she chewed.

“You’re acting weird!” Sera snapped back with accusation in her voice.

Lavellan glared at her friend as she stuffed another cookie into her mouth whole. She chewed with a very overly dramatic scowl, not terribly serious. In fact, she resembled a caricature. Sera had commented in the past that she had “caterpillar eyebrows”. Lavellan grinned on her mouthful of cookie. Sera hated caterpillars, especially the cute fuzzy ones. She wiggled her eyebrows until Sera snorted in reaction.

Sera screwed up her face, trying to look serious and angry. She couldn’t quite manage it. Lavellan looked ridiculous with her cheeks full of cookie; she resembled a nug that suffered from bee stings to the face. Sera inhaled deeply, puffed out her cheeks, and stuck her tongue out.

“Phbttt!”

Then she looked away and screwed up her face into an expression that mimicked anger and outrage. It was childish. Sometimes, Sera really showed off their age difference, her age, her youth, by acting so utterly childish.

“Uh-huh, right back at you, brat.” Lavellan teased as she pointed at her, as if she were a naughty child.

“Up yours!” Sera said with a grin twisting at her lips.

The Inquisitor, being the older elf, felt like an adoptive older sister to a wayward and wild younger sister. They already got into tons of trouble together. Those lizards in Solas’s bedroll? They didn’t get there with just Sera’s efforts. It was a family effort. Sisters at heart. Partners in crime. Lavellan smirked a little at the memory of him having a few red welts where the little monsters had bitten him. Solas had been outraged and for a single heartbeat she had felt a strange trickle of fear. She expected him to explode. For a heartbeat, she froze in place, thinking that he might just lose control and blast everything with his magic. Instead, he had stomped out of the camp swearing up a storm. The swears must have been quite colorful, because even she didn’t know the elven he snarled under his breath. Sera and Lavellan tried their damnedest to stifle their laughter into their fists and bedrolls. It was not mentioned the next day, but Solas was much more careful getting prepared for sleep from that day forward. She knew he checked his bedrolls for lizards, snakes, spiders, and the like. Every time he checked she had to hide a smile.  

If they’d grown up together, she could image she would have terrorized a little Sera with ghost stories and monsters in the dark. Lavellan was very good at scaring children, but not much else. She was fond of making scary noises in the woods at night or sneaking up on the little ones when they were up to no good. She thought maybe Sera was overdue for a prank… The last they’d had a war of pranks, Lavellan woke up with a bucket of cold water crashing onto her head. In response, not exactly clear headed, she’d nearly throttled her and thrown her out of the tavern window.

Sera was staring at her again.

“Stop looking at me like you’re going to dissect me or something…” Lavellan said calmly as she took a bite of the cookie. They were lovely. Her stomach seemed to agree. She sighed as she sank back into the pillows on the bench.

“Just make sure you take care of yourself, stupid!”, Sera said with her cheeks burning.

Did she just call me stupid? Oh that’s it.

Lavellan almost spit her food out and coughed on a mouthful of cookie. She stood up and put her hands on her friend’s shoulders, shaking her dramatically.

“Wait, wait… Are you sick?” She asked in a voice that dripped with sarcasm and fake concern.

Her right hand, the one without the anchor, flew to Sera’s forehead as if feeling for a fever. “Hmm, it must be serious. Probably Fade sickness. The Veil feels… wobbly here.” Lavellan said with a wicked grin.

Sera swatted her hands away gently and grunted in reply.

“Shut up! It does not! I’m fine! You’re the one that’s-” Sera said before she bit her tongue.

“I’m the one that’s a genius. You’re the crazy one. But in my infinite wisdom I keep you around because you’d be hopeless without me!”

Lavellan grinned and sat back down. A quiet settled over them and they ate. The only noise permeating the room was the chewing of cookies.

The quiet was out of character for both of them. Sera had only had a few cookies, but the Inquisitor was making quick work of the plate of snacks. Lavellan finished another cookie and went to speak, but Sera thrust another into her face. She rolled her eyes and took it from her friend and ate without complaint.

Sera’s scowl deepened and she took a cookie for herself before biting half of it off and talking while she chewed.

“I like you, right? So don’t be stupid.” Sera spoke as if her confession were something secret and was only being admitted due to being interrogated and tortured. Crumbs fell out of her open mouth.

“Uh, okay. Thanks? You’re a good friend, even if you are a bit weird.”

Lavellan smiled warmly.

“Says the lady with the glowy magic crack in her hand.”

“You’re just jealous”, the Inquisitor said with a grin as she waved her anchor around in the air. Sera rolled her eyes and let out a laugh.

After a time, Sera filled her in with stories of her latest adventures. Something about ‘pantsing’ a ‘bloody knob’. Laughter peeled from Sera’s room. The tavern grew quiet and the tables and chairs were stacked as the night drew to a close. It was time to call it a night. The plate of cookies laid empty on the bench beside them. The Inquisitor licked her fingers and stuck them to the remaining crumbs before popping them into her mouth.

Sera raised an eyebrow at her again, but she ignored it.

“Did you change the recipe? They’re really good… I could eat them all night.”, she said contentedly.

“You did eat them all night.”

“You know what I mean. So did you?”

“Nope!”

Sera looked at her, the empty plate, and then laughed with a hint of nervousness. It was the same way she laughed when pranking people and trying to get away with it; that mad cackle.

Anyone with half a brain should be suspicious. Lavellan narrowed her eyes at her friend.

“Uh-huh…”

So, either she had help or they were poisoned. Great. I knew it was too good to be true.

Sera just looked nervous and smiled trying to put her friend at ease, unconvincingly. Lavellan looked at her with a side eyed glance and licked the last crumbs off her fingertips.

Suspicious.

Lavellan woke up in the middle of the night to a burning sensation in her chest, her throat. She sat up and gagged. The burning sensation was overpowering her senses as acid bubbled up and roiled inside her. She felt like she could spew fire, but knew it was definitely not going to be flames that came out of her mouth. The window was open and the cold night air made her breaths puff out like smoke. Lavellan stood up on shaky knees. Cold floors felt soothing. She shivered and walked. Slow breaths. Her heart was racing, but she swallowed and felt the wave of nausea subside for a moment. Her feet carried her to the balcony. Immediately, she felt her body reject her evening meal, right over the banister.

Goodbye cookies. Roof cookies could have a double meaning now.

Ugh!

She grimaced.

Coughing, she retched until she could only spit out horrid bile flavored saliva. She prayed she didn’t get sick on anyone below. It was late enough that the walkways would be empty, right? The Inquisitor didn’t look very imposing, clutching her banister and shuddering like a leaf in autumn about to fall. She spit a few more times before wiping her lips with her hand. They were dry and rough against the skin of her hand. Unfortunately, her the skin of her hand was also dry and raw.

She took deep gulps of air. When her knees stopped shaking and her hands weren’t so jittery, she walked to her table. There was a pitcher of water, shaped to resemble a griffon. An empty cup sat nearby. Hands that didn’t shake too much picked up the pitcher with concerted efforts on her part. She tipped the pitcher, watching water pour from the griffon’s beak into the cup. She filled it and took the cup with her to the balcony. She took slow sips, swishing the water in her mouth.

Shit.

She gargled and then spit repeatedly over the balcony, something to join her previous evening’s meal. It took considerable effort to swallow a few mouthfuls, replace the cup on the table, and make her way back towards her bed. Her heart still raced.

The anchor flickered but the pain wasn’t too bad that night. Just a dull throb. She sucked in cold air and felt her lungs expand. Her back ached, as it had now for a few months.

She walked past her mirror and caught sight of herself. She was a little shocked at how she looked. Why had no one told her?

She had lost some weight and looked truly awful, with dark circles under her eyes from sleep deprivation and a sunken look to her face. She felt bloated, her skin was splotchy and red in places as if she’d rolled around in a briar patch or danced naked through some Spindleweed. Her nightclothes didn’t fit right, hugging her chest and hips a bit snugly despite her weight loss. She turned in place and peered at herself. Front, side, three quarters. Her breasts looked swollen and ached terribly.

Her eyes roamed her body and then some part of her brain sent a signal of alarm through her like being struck by lightning.

No.

Her breathing started to get faster and faster. Lavellan swallowed hard, trying to be calm. She just needed to breathe. She just needed to take care of herself more. She had to be as objective as possible. There was no way-

No.

It had to be the anchor. Solas had told her it was killing her. She thought that maybe after Corypheus’s defeat she’d be safe. She’d wanted to be healed. She wanted the mark gone. These new symptoms were worrisome. But it couldn’t be –

No.

She felt a gnawing terror eating her up.

What if the extra pain, the mark flaring more often, was not the anchor but –

No.

A sense of dread crept into her mind, but she tried to shake it off.

No, her fears were just fears. It wasn’t unusual that she hadn’t bled that month; She hadn’t since the anchor took root in her hand. The anchor did strange things to her body. It had been almost two years, it wasn’t abnormal. It was the new norm. Couldn’t this be from the anchor? It couldn’t be-

No.

It was the anchor. Surely, all of it. All of it had to be from the anchor. Panic bubbled up and she felt frantic, gasping like she couldn’t breathe.

She didn’t know how magic worked. Magic was just that, magical. There was no sense to it. No reason. The Fade was utter madness when she’d fallen there and smacked her face on damned Fade rocks, Fade ground, and then scrambled onto her very real, non-Fade, legs. There were Fade spiders, Fade demons, Fade everything seemed to want her dead.

Solas loved the Fade. She didn’t. She loved him. She loved the idea of it. The reality was it was terrifying.

This was terrifying.

No.

She had drank her tea religiously when they were together. She made it a point to never miss it, even if they hadn’t been intimate. The herbs in it were potent enough to prevent any blessings. She was smart, she was safe, there was no way she was going to have any surprises when saving the world.

She wasn’t saving the world anymore though. Could she have missed a dose?

No.

Surely, she’d know. She’d feel something. It had to be her imagination running away with her, but what if-

No.

Her hairs rose on her skin. She stared at herself. Her hands splayed against her abdomen. She swallowed hard and listened to the steady thrum of her own heartbeat in her ears. It was just one heartbeat, right? Her rising panic started to overtake her and she tried to shove it deep down. She ran to her drawer and tore it open. The wooden drawer clattered to the floor, scattering contents everywhere. She dug desperately through them until she found the pouch of her nightly tea – the tea that she knew she had, she knew it worked, she knew if she took an extra strong dose, it would be enough to –

No.

She let out a little hiccup of delirious laughter. Lavellan felt like she could just be torn to pieces and it would feel better than she did at this very moment.

This was torture. This was cruel. This couldn’t be happening. Not now. Not to her. Not this way.

Fate? Fate was a bitch.

Why would it curse her like this, when she’d sacrificed so much and still fought tooth and nail to save every person and spirit she could?

She was cursed. What elven god did she gain the eye of? Was it the Dread Wolf? Did he think this was funny, making her suffer with such impossible choices? Did she even really have a choice?

The Inquisitor sobbed and shook. Tears spilled down her cheeks, her vision watery.

What would Solas say? What would he think of her? Would he hate her forever? Would he scream or cry? No, it would be worse. He would just stare at her with those eyes that seemed full of bottomless depths of melancholy. She wanted to hate him. She wanted to wring his neck. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted him to hold her and whisper ‘Vhenan’ in her ear. She wanted to feel his skin on hers.

Oh fuck. No, please, no.

He would hate her. He loved the people, he would die for them – she had no doubt. He would despise her with all of his being. She couldn’t have him look at her like that, hate her, loathe her. She couldn’t destroy his faith in her, destroy his very world and his view of her. He thought she was good, and she wasn’t. She didn’t deserve him. She didn’t deserve any of them. She couldn’t take another thing away from him. He hurt so much, grieved for the people and their losses so much, how could she possibly make him grieve for one more life?

She nearly dropped to the floor but stumbled instead, gasping. It was too hard to breathe. Too hard to think. She grasped the pouch of herbs in her hands with a death grip.

What the fuck was she supposed to do? She could save the world but this? This was beyond her. This was not something she wanted, not now, maybe not ever. She couldn’t do it. She couldn’t be a-

No. No…No! NO! NO!!!

She whirled toward the bed and dove onto it blindly. Her body crumpled up into a ball. The Inquisitor was just a mortal woman faced with a dilemma that had been faced by countless others since the beginning of time. She didn’t know what to do. She didn’t know what she would do. She didn’t know what was right. What was right for her? She didn’t know if she would tell anyone, if she would do anything, if the herbs in her hands should be thrown out the window or swallowed in bulk.

Sobs wracked her body as she pawed at the tears that cascaded rather suddenly down her face. The covers scratched at her wet cheeks. She wanted to scream but her throat was raw. Her heart was crushed in her chest. It was so hard to breathe. There was no easy answer. She couldn’t decide. She wanted someone to tell her what to do.

Distraught, she buried her face into the covers. She shook and howled with despair. The bag of herbs barely resembled fabric as she mangled it in her grasp.

Lavellan shook and gasped into the blankets, her movements a staccato rhythm of sobs and gasps for breath. Her limbs trembled; It wasn’t from the cold.

No, please, no. Please!!! I can’t!

The Inquisitor had saved the world. She’d defeated a would-be god from ancient Tevinter. She’d defeated a titan. She’d fought giants and dragons. She’d freed Ameridan and stopped another would-be god from being revived. She had done so much. She was possibly the most powerful woman in Thedas and controlled an army that could overtake nations.

Lavellan could do it all. She liked to pretend she wasn’t afraid of anything, save for Fade spiders and their non-Fade counterparts.

The Inquisitor didn’t feel fear. She was fearless. She couldn’t be afraid. But Lavellan wasn’t the Inquisitor. She played her as her role, but that wasn’t who she was on the inside. Lavellan wasn’t that person, that figurehead, that Herald of Andraste, that powerhouse. She was just a woman. Just a mortal. Just an elf with freckles, scars, caterpillar eyebrows, wild hair, and blasphemous thoughts. An elf that had given away her people’s legacy to a human witch. An elf that was alone, clanless, bare-faced, and lost. The Inquisitor had saved the world from its doom. Lavellan had only confessed her fears, unmasking herself to Solas. Only he had seen who she truly was. He had said he loved her. She could barely handle him being gone, her friends being gone, her skin being bare, her rise to fame and infamy. Fighting a demi-god seemed easy compared to what she was dealing with already.

And now…

This was bigger than anything she had ever faced.

This was her afraid.

This was her terrified.

This was dread.

This, she couldn’t do.

Not now. Not without him. Not alone.

She shivered into the fine goose down, sinking deep into her bed. Her sobs died with time.

Eventually she succumbed to sleep.

Chapter Text

People whispered of strange elves that had been sighted across Thedas. They were described as tall otherworldly looking elves with scarlet tattoos on their faces. They were associated with bloodied corpses, worship of ancient beings, and ritual sacrifice. They were monsters. They were demons. They were vicious and left no survivors. Some was truth, some just fears and fiction.

The strange elves were strangers to the Dragon Age, leftovers from an age without name. They were taller than modern elves by far. They spoke quietly, their voices a throaty whisper carried on the breeze. They were covert and stealthy, moving in and out of shadows as if they were incorporeal. They seemed able to communicate in complete silence, using the movement of their eyes and hands without needing to speak. Their words were fluid gestures that seemed full of emotion, with body language that spoke depths.

These were the elves of The Tirashan, the forested lands west of Orlais that were walled off by the Hunterhorn Mountains. In these lands, there were no survivors besides the elves that called the forest home. Anyone that strayed into their lands died without question. They kept watch over Thedas, patrolling for signs of the Evanuris’s return. They were considered dangerous and bloodthirsty savages by all who encountered them over the thousands of years they’d inhabited these lands. Most of these strange elves proudly wore their blood vallaslin as a testament to their faith, but some did not. Many wanted to be freed of their tattoos, their slave brands.

These strange elves were not a singular people; They had been survivors of the fall of the veil, the lucky and unlucky few who survived and banded together. They shunned the Dalish and the city elves alike. They remembered their history, they remembered their gods. They held the anger of their people, the fury of the elvhen slaves, and the horrors they survived.

Solas pulled his cloak tightly against himself and leaned against his staff with an exhaustion that was more of spirit than body. The journey to the forest was tiresome, more so because of his heavy heart and the plague of doubts that infiltrated his mind. He feared that he was making a terrible mistake, but kept moving forward. He had to rectify his past sins, he had to save his people. It was at the sacrifice of others, and he had grown fond of some of them. He would make the best of their sacrifice, he would remember them. It was the best he could do. There was no other way.

Solas lifted his head to gaze upon the expanse of trees before him. He had arrived at The Tirashan. The forest was mighty and dark and exactly what they wanted the world to image it was, terrifying. Branches hung like outstretched arms with wicked clawed hands, grasping out for anyone that dared enter. The grass looked desolate, the air itself felt wicked and was thin as if he were already standing in the mountains. It was hard to breathe. Solas let out a breath he didn’t realize he’d been holding and looked to the trees closest to the edge of the treeline. His eyes flashed a bright blue, illuminating the runes adorning the trunks of the trees. The forest was heavily warded. With a wave of his hand the wards were dispelled and a golden light shined through. The illusion warbled as if it were an image conjured by heat in a desert and a warmth illuminated his form, making his skin feel a tingle of magic.

Solas stepped forward with his hood hiding much of his face. The air flowed around him with a rich scent of flowers and tree pollen. It made his nose tickle a bit. He passed the magical boundary of the Tirashan Forest. The runes glowed briefly before they sputtered and vanished. He felt a suction draw at the fabric of his clothes and heard a quiet pop as the wards flared back to life behind him. The illusion, outside of this protected bubble, would look ominous and dark. He faced the reality of the forest, a safe haven for the surviving Elvhen people.

The Tirashan Forest was glorious.

Golden trees with white bark stood tall and proud. The grasses were hues of reds, oranges, yellows, and patches of green with blossoming flowers. Most species of plant and tree here were unique to their time, and extinct elsewhere in Thedas. The life in this forest would be seen as fantasy, but they were simply left over relics from their age, their time, their world. White halla mulled about in forest, elegantly stepping through flowering brush to find their next meal. Fruit trees grew in abundance, heavy with their ripening produce. They cultivated no orchards, but grafted branches from desired trees to others. With the aid of their efforts and magic, life here prospered.

Solas watched the halla briefly, letting a calmness sink into his very bones. This was the last place he could feel a taste of home, feel like all of the past danger and present pain was just a nightmare and nothing more. The hooved creatures moved with grace and their white pelts seemed to sparkle like coated in crushed diamonds. He smiled despite himself.

One mighty halla towered over the rest, its rack of antlers more impressive than the other males. Its ears flicked and its head turned, its eyes focusing on something unseen.

Solas felt it too. He was not alone.

A dozen figures moved through the forest and thick undergrowth. They moved silently and were nearly impossible for him to see amongst the shadows, blending in effortlessly. He could feel their auras, sense their mana. He looked like a weary traveler, a harmless wanderer, except for the staff that was no walking stick. Weapons were trained on him; He knew they were to shoot first and ask questions second.

Solas stood still and waited, watching the shadows. They would make the first move.

An arrow was loosed at least 50 yards away and flew for his head. He was surprised at the speed of it, the accuracy – based on the distance of the archer, was impressive indeed. His eyes glowed and the arrow froze in the air before him. He drew his eyes away from the shadows to the arrow itself. The fletching was made by hand and expertly crafted, the arrowhead itself poisoned and sharp as could be. He plucked the arrow from the air and noticed movement ahead. Out of the shadows stepped a cloaked figure with crimson vallaslin on their copper skin. The tattoos swirled, moving as if alive.

“Greetings”, Solas said with a slight nod as he drew his hood down. The other elf smiled and blinked their eyes with a cat like stare.

“Welcome back, Fen’Harel”, said the elf. Their voice was soft spoken, but so smooth and silky it would put most at ease. It was the sort of liquid-like silken voice that would help someone drift off to sleep. Solas knew better, they’d be more likely to slit someone’s throat than read them a bed time story.

The elf stood quite tall, taller than he did in his current form, with a graceful and thin athletic build. Solas did not smirk, though he thought it amusing that he had to look up to his subordinate. They removed their own hood and gave a slight bow. The elf was covered with faint crisscrossing scars. Their scalp was shaved on the sides with long hair draped over the side of their face like an inky black waterfall.

Solas nodded and approached them, aware that the eyes of the hidden elves were still trained on him.

“Quite the welcome, Sylvae”, he said with a slight smirk on the edge of his lips. He expected no less security from them. Nothing could stand in their way, his way.

The other elf smirked, lips pulling upwards on their beautiful face. Their vallaslin were not normal. They swirled on their skin, a ripple of scarlet, looking like three pairs of stylized eyes one moment and then claws the next. It was off-putting and hypnotic to watch. He drew his attention back to their eyes, trying to ignore the tattoos that seemed to thrum with blood magic.

“Would you have it any other way? We have kept watch and prepared for your return.” They said with orange-hued eyes that sparkled with secrets.

Solas tilted his head and gave them a questioning look, enough that it spurred them to continue speaking. Sylvae turned to walk into the forest, pausing briefly. Solas strolled forward and joined them at their side.

“I have placed agents within the Inquisition, as you requested.” They had a cheshire like grin that revealed their canines, which were a little too long for comfort. “Even you did not notice them.”

He quirked a brow and looked to Sylvae at his side, not at all surprised by their attitude. He was reproachful when he spoke, “So you think. You need to focus on slipping past the notice of their spymaster, not myself.”

They seemed to take his comments in stride as they chuckled before turning to walk beside him, leading him through the forest. The other elves seemed to melt away, though Solas was sure they still watched from afar.

“Ah, yes. The heroic bard of the Fifth Blight turned spymaster for the Chantry’s Divine Justinia, before taking up the mantle for the Inquisition. The one called Leliana. She has a fondness for nugs…” They said as if they’d studied her for years. It was possible they had done just that.

“Do not discount her skills, which are considerable.” Solas said with a serious expression as he looked at them, disapproval flitting across his face. Sylvae simply smiled placidly and continued to walk in step with him.

“One must give her credit for helping the Inquisitor…”, They said as their eyes met his. Their orange eyes narrowed ever so slightly at his. Solas said nothing, but he immediately knew they were revealing that they kept more secrets than they would share, even with him.

Solas felt the hairs on his neck stand as a fear trickled down his spine. Did they know of their relationship? Of him and the Inquisitor? He had been careful, but had he not been careful enough? Hopefully, his spymaster would only imagine it to be a casual dalliance. He did not need Sylvae to reveal his doubts to their cause, his weakness for the woman who had just saved the world. Lavellan needed to live out the remainder of her life without his agents hunting her, killing her. It pained him to think of harm coming to her, of them facing one another as enemies.

Sylvae was immensely dangerous, incredibly skilled, and an excellent spymaster, his spymaster. That did not mean that he trusted them implicitly, he refused to trust anyone anymore.

And yet I gave her my heart on a platter.

Solas kept his eyes trained on Sylvae, showing nothing in his body language to give away his doubts, his fears, his love.

Sylvae smiled at his nonplussed response.

They walked in silence for ten minutes before the trees broke for a clearing and a small outpost. Elves worked at fletching arrows, sharpening blades, and preparing for war. Solas hoped it would be unnecessary preparations, but he was cautious and careful with his plans. The area was mostly barren dirt, disturbed by many feet and hooves. There were structures that resembled small cabins and a stable, crafted using wood that was notched together without the need for nails or metal of any kind. A group of harts were tethered to the stables, huffing and puffing with nerves.

These strange elves, they were the agents of Fen’Harel.

Some had been following him for lifetimes. Some had newly joined, but many had known of him for millennia. There were a few Dalish and city elves mixed in with his agents, but they stood out as tiny contributors to their cause in comparison to the true elvhen.

Of those who lived and worked in the Tirashan, those that were immortal elvhen were enemies of the Evanuris, made up of former slaves and the servants of the Forgotten Ones. They had been from different walks of life, but all of them had joined his efforts in the end of their age and served as a dangerous militia, giving him the chance to seal the Evanuris away for good.

They had provided the support he needed so he could cast his spell. They had protected his temple while he slept. One would suppose they would move on in the thousands of years since the fall of the Elvhen empire, but they did not. The elves of The Tirashan were angry and practically devout in patrolling what was left of Thedas, preventing the possibility of the Evanuris returning. They considered themselves the last defense against the angry gods. They were immortal and ever vigilant.

They were also dedicated.

Now, they froze in place as if bespelled. The elves had been working, but when they saw Sylvae and more importantly the Dread Wolf, they stopped. A single small elf ducked into one of the buildings as quick as a rabbit.

“You didn’t tell them?”, Solas asked as he took in the spectacle of dozens of elves staring at him with fear, wonder, excitement, joy, and pride on their faces.

Sylvae smiled as a show to the other elves, but it was a mask as their words were a whispered growl in response.

“No. You know how Ivun gets…”

As if summoned, a heavy door slammed open and a giant man ducked out from under the doorframe. He stormed towards them – toward him.

“Fen’Harel, my friend!”, a familiar voice boomed.

Solas grimaced internally, his shoulders immediately rising.

No, please no.

Who does a god pray to when in need? The elf had to be one of the largest to ever grace the world, a massive man with short blonde cropped hair and vibrant blue eyes. His skin was so pale that he looked like a sculpture carved out of marble.

He charged forward and scooped up Solas in a mighty bear hug.

Solas felt the air knocked from his lungs.

Fenhedis.

Mouths dropped aghast, gasps and whispers permeating the air.

The strength of the large elf’s grasp was like being carried off by a stampede of druffalo. Ivun had been young at the fall of Arlathan but he was strong, dependable, and loyal. He was tasked with protecting Solas while he slept for millennia. Ivun had made sure that Solas survived the ages while he slept, undisturbed. He was dedicated and practically embodied faith. He was also overly affectionate and passionate. That could be a good thing except-

Solas was squished against far too much armor and it stabbed him in too many places. He let his body go slack while he was squeezed by arms the size of tree limbs. His lungs screamed for air, and he flinched visibly.

Sylvae rubbed the bridge of their nose sigh an exasperated sigh, “As I was saying…”, they said before putting their hands on their hips. They shook their head.

“Hello, Ivun” Solas said with difficulty, his voice barely a croak. He felt like he was being crushed by collapsing boulders in a cave in down in the deep roads.

Another elf, a shorter stocky well-built woman in bright silver armor, growled audibly and approached like an incoming storm.

Her voice was loud and firm; It made the elves nearly jump out of their skin. “There’s nothing to see here! You have jobs to do!”, she barked and they averted their eyes quickly, resuming their tasks.

“Ivun!” Scolded the commanding woman. She glared at the massive elf and by the look in her eyes, she wanted to smack him upside the head. It was likely that she would do just that behind closed doors. Solas appreciated her aid immensely because Ivun’s grip immediately loosened enough to allow him to fill his lungs with precious air. He put Solas down carefully and withdrew his embrace

“Thank you, Haleira”, Solas said with a breathy whisper. She gave him a curt nod before she crossed her arms. Haleira narrowed her eyes at Ivun, who towered over her but shrank under her stony gaze. 

Ivun looked more and more regretful, his eyes darting down to the ground. “I’m sorry. I just-“

Ivun flushed, his face filling with shame. The man realized his faux-pas and looked truly apologetic. Ivun rubbed the back of his neck nervously, but a small grin still graced his rugged features.

The commander was unmoved and stepped closer to the loveable giant. “One does not just hug the Dread Wolf!”, Haleira hissed. The two soldiers were close and acted more like siblings than anything else.

Solas took a moment to regain his composure. These elves were his subjects, and yet they were so much more. They could have been family, if he would allow himself to feel such closeness to others again. Not since Mythal’s fall had he dared trust someone so implicitly. He swallowed at the memories that dared to make his eyes moist and cleared his mind.

“Forgive him, my lord.” Haleira spoke with irritation in her tone, but she stayed calm. She was broad shouldered, and her body was a well-honed tool for warfare. She had long blue-black hair braided atop her head and wrapped tightly into a bun. Her face was bare of vallaslin with skin that was a deep brown with flecks of dark freckles. She was the same height as Solas stood now, so still fairly tall. She wore silverite armor similar to those who had protected the Vir Abelasan. Solas remembered that he needed to know if Sylvae had found them, the guardians of Mythal’s temple. Perhaps they could be swayed to join their cause, as it was a just one.

Solas respected Haleira immensely, but they had not always seen eye to eye. They had been enemies once. Now they were allies and she served him with all the dedication one would wish for in someone trying to keep the world safe from harm. The woman was a commander, a tactician, and not one for pleasantries or small talk. He appreciated her blunt honesty and her thoughtful opinions. She was strong, powerful, and armed with a sharp intellect behind her keen brown eyes.

She bowed to Solas, before shooting Ivun a glare to do the same. The man coughed and bowed as well. The elves in the outpost were eyeing them and it was important for decorum to be respected.

“Well, that went splendidly.” Sylvae breathed out with dripping sarcasm, yet amusement shimmered in their eyes.

“I need updates”, Solas said as he drew to his full height. The three met his eyes and turned as one to lead him toward a building on the edge of the outpost. He followed and his eyes were drawn to the beauty of the mountain range lining the horizon. The Hunterhorn mountains stood in the distance, icy peaks reaching high into the sky. The view reminded him of Skyhold, of her.

He furrowed his brows as his eyes became distant, his heart aching. It would be easy to get lost in memories, and that could drive a man insane.

Enough, it’s over. It was a mistake, and it’s done with. Get your head on straight and focus. The world cares not for such weakness.

The inside of the building was simply made and decorated, with a map pinned onto the large table that sat in the center of the largest room. Solas noted that the table had five seats, one for each of them.  There were only four of them now.

Solas swallowed at the loss gnawing on his heart. The youngest of their group, the friendly and outgoing Felassan was his organization’s face to the outside world. He was a charming diplomat and valuable asset, his ambassador to the Dalish and city elves. Felassan had been an integral part of their plans, and a passionate and loyal follower. He had been his friend.

Felassan was dead.

Fen’Harel had killed him with little hesitation. Solas grieved.

Was he heartless? Could he have not heard out the young man’s concerns?

He had killed him because he couldn’t allow another person close to him to betray him, and he was doubting their purpose. They were here to save the world. The elves that Felassan met seemed to impart the idea of personhood, that they were more than their miniscule and dim auras showed them to be. Felassan thought they were people.

As Fen’Harel, he was furious at Felassan. The elf had betrayed their mission, his mission, to save the people and the world.

Felassan had become too comfortable in this world of monsters and cruel jokes. He’d spent too much time with these toys that paraded around and called themselves elves. It was dangerous to think of them as people. The youth had let some half-spirited thing, an elf named Briala, possess the pass key to the eluvians. It had appeared evident at the time that the boy was losing his drive; His spirit was corrupted by these things. These mortals.

The young elf had closed his eyes and met him in the Fade. Fen’Harel had towered over him, dark wisps of spirit with too many eyes. Felassan spoke of his failure and dared to compare this Briala to him. Fen’Harel had killed him.

After he killed his friend, he was cold and unmoved, unphased. It was as if someone else had done the deed. Fen’Harel thought that it was a pity, that it was humane to end him before this way of thinking spread as an unchecked corruption. He was a protector of his people and their legacy. This corruption, this way of thinking, ended then and there.

Solas’s eyes darkened as if storm clouds roiled within. He stared at the map and took a slow breath.

Solas remembered Cole’s words with sharpened clarity.

“His friend had to die. Because he thought they were people. A slow arrow breaks in the sad wolf's jaws”

The spirit of compassion had been right, but that didn’t make it hurt less.

Cole had tried to help him with his pain but could never do anything more than skim the surface of his hurt.

Solas would miss the spirit greatly and had to swallow his pain, his grief, and hide it all away until it was nearly silent. It would help no one for him to succumb to his past pains, his memories, his heart.

Cole spoke plainly, “You are quiet, Solas.”

“Unless I have something to say, yes.”

“No, inside. I don't hear your hurt as much. Your song is softer, subtler, not silent but still.”

Solas had smiled with a sadness in the depths of his spirit, speaking in earnest, “How small the pain of one man seems when weighed against the endless depths of memory, of feeling, of existence. That ocean carries everyone. And those of us who learn to see its currents move through life with their fewer ripples.”

Cole knew who he was but never told the Inquisitor. He never betrayed his trust. He only wanted to help.

Could I have done something differently?

It seemed like a lifetime ago that Cole spoke besides him, besides her.

"He hurts, an old pain from before, when everything sang the same. You're real, and it means everyone could be real. It changes everything, but it can't.”

His words had made Solas’s heart race. A part of him thought that he would be found out and felt relieved that the charade would end, and he could just be.

He intended to tell her everything.

She was real.

It took him weeks to build up the courage. Him - a god, former general, leader of a rebellion that freed the world from the rule of gods and monsters, afraid of a small mortal woman who held his heart in the palm of her hands.

He had taken her hands, worn and callused with her efforts. He had swallowed and when his confession had almost left his lips he froze. His heart ached painfully with foolish thoughts.

Would his mother have liked her?

Was she proud of him, with the blood on his hands?

It was then that he lost his courage. He could not be that false man, could not be Solas. He had to be Fen’Harel. Instead of confessing to the truth, he took away her vallaslin and ended it. It nearly broke him.

She was real.

…and I killed him for nothing.

They were people. Solas even saw it now because he loved her – and he shouldn’t, didn’t deserve to feel it. He was a hypocrite.

If he could do it all again, he’d make different choices. He would tell her who he was. He would stay. He would spare the violet-eyed youth of Arlathan. He would not hurt his friend. He would not kill him. He would find another way to right his wrongs.

Ir abelas, lethallin. (I’m sorry, friend.)

They took their seats and he leaned over the table, his hands crossing in front of his face. To them, he looked stoic and calm. He knew better. He felt like crying, like confessing to his brave allies to the reality of it, the truth of it all.

They didn’t know how Felassan had died. They didn’t know who killed him. He had lied to them, telling them that the last he had spoken with Felassan, he was still on his mission to get the pass phrase to the eluvians.

Ivun’s chair creaked as he sat on it, his leg bouncing on the floor with his anxious energy. The man struggled to sit still when he was excited. Perhaps it was a good sign.

Haleira kept her eyes busy with the map of Thedas and the pieces on the table indicating the movement of their forces. They had sizeable groups headed east to Ferelden and north to Tevinter. Markers indicated they had built up a force in Halamshiral, and there were agents in Skyhold, Redcliffe, and other less important but still strategic locations.

They thought Felassan’s killer was still at large. To his allies, his friends, it was a mystery. He would not admit to his cowardice or confess, even if at the time he was well within his right. He could not stomach the looks in their eyes when they found his body. He could only imagine their fury and grief to find that he, the one they served and trusted most, had killed the violet-eyed youth. Even their calm and cold spymaster had shed tears at the news of his death. They had searched in vain for answers and were still bitter at the idea of an unseen enemy having killed one of them without leaving a trace.

They could not afford to be divided, to doubt. Solas had to die so that the people could live.

Fen’Harel was who he had to be from now on, and Solas was who he could never be again.

He needed to remember that.

His people couldn’t afford for him to keep living a lie. Solas was not needed; Solas was soft and weak. Solas was a spirit in crisis, wracked with turmoil and grief, desperate to cling to hope. Solas was a fool. He loved. He knew the mortals were people and he wanted to turn back. He wanted to run.

He would not damn them all for the sake of these mortals, would he? Solas was a vulnerability they could not afford.

“Our agents successfully recovered the artifact”, Sylvae said, interrupting his dark reverie.

Solas sat back and looked to them, his pupils focusing on theirs.

“And?”, he asked – afraid to have hope.

“We were able to unlock it”, they said with a small smile.

It was the first good news he’d heard in a while. Solas let his shoulders drop a little and blinked slowly.

“Good. The others are still necessary, but this will make everything possible.”

There was hope again. He didn’t have enough power, but soon he would.

He would take down the veil and restore their world.

Chapter Text

Ch 15 – The Advisors

Waking up the next day, Lavellan found her bed a mess of covers. Her hand still gripped the pouch of herbs. Her drawer and its contents still laid on the floor, scattered about. She felt as if she had never slept at all. As a stark reminder of her condition her lower back twinged with a jolt. She hissed in pain, sitting upright with her bare legs dangling off the edge of the bed. The floor was cold, scuffing the bottoms of her feet. The duvet hung off the edge of the bed, but there was more of the fabric piled on the floor in a heap than on the bed itself. Lavellan sat there for what seemed to be hours, but was really only minutes. Her breathing was steady and slow; Her eyes were bleary, blinking at the harsh sunlight that filled her room and seemed to beam directly onto her face.

She chose not to think. She chose not to accept or deny what her body was undergoing, what her body seemed to want to remind her every single moment. It was a metamorphosis, and she was in denial. She could not let the reality sink in without her breath hitching in her throat and her chest feeling tight with panic. She was pregnant.

Lavellan was the Inquisitor. She was a leader, running a huge organization for the betterment of all. She toppled the wicked and saved the good. She resolved conflicts. She prevented chaos and stopped a civil war. She found herself in a position in which she steered the flow of history itself. She killed enemies, people and demons and darkspawn, with a frightening speed and wicked blades. This woman, stabbed people in the back, literally. Lavellan was a rogue, she was a fighter, she was a leader – where did it leave time or prepare her for motherhood? She could not fathom adding to her massive responsibilities.

She couldn’t imagine being a parent, a mother. What did she have to fall back on to prepare her? She hadn’t so much as held an infant or young child. The idea of keeping it that kept nagging at her? It was laughable. Her father had bumbled along as best he could, but she didn’t remember her mother much at all. The woman had been cold to her, bitter for some reason and seemed to think her own child responsible for all of the difficulties she experienced. Remembering the woman put a bad taste in her mouth, she had been all scowls and pursed lips and angry, hateful words.

Lavellan did not know what a mother’s love was like, how to love like that, and she sure as hell didn’t think she was capable of raising a child. What hope could she have? She’d likely raise a child to grow up into some sort of demon, the likes of the Elder Gods, twisted by blight, twisted by a mother who could not give it love, who was a broken and incomplete woman, who was alone. She let a pained sigh escape her lips as she stood finally. She couldn’t do it alone. She didn’t run the Inquisition alone. She didn’t defeat Corypheus alone.

Even the Dalish, despite her mother’s lack of interest in her, helped raise her into a functional adult. Now, with her bare face damning her, she would not have that benefit. It was more than just her skin, it was who she was. She was a target now, too important to live her life as a simple Dalish elf anymore.  No clan would want a target living amongst them.

She walked to her wardrobe and pulled clothes out, barely focused on her actions. All she could do was be wrapped up in the inner workings of her mind, her crisis.

Solas would know what to do, wouldn’t he?

She snorted and pulled on her clothes, being gentle with her chest wrap on her sore breasts.

He seemed the type to know it all, to have experienced it all. Her heart hurt at the idea that whoever he’d lost had been precious. Perhaps he had a family once. Her eyes watered despite herself, and she rubbed away the tears irritably. She was supposed to be angry at him, with him. He was gone still and here she was wishing he would just tell her what to do.

What was she supposed to do?

She shoved her wardrobe shut, stuffed dirty clothes in a bag on the floor, and glared daggers at her boots. Her ankles protested putting them on, but she couldn’t walk around barefoot every day in Skyhold. She was well aware people were starting to worry, suspect something, and question her health. She grabbed her boots and sat on the bed, shoving her feet inside with a huff of anger. She wanted to be furious with him.

Solas, where the fuck are you?

What would she do if he walked right back into Skyhold? The first thing she wanted to do? Lavellan wanted to slap him in his fucking face. Then she’d recoil at the redness on his cheek and apologize profusely, she’d break at the pitiable look in his eyes. She’d try to soothe him, kiss him, make it all better – as if it were her fault that he’d left!

Except it was her fault, wasn’t it? She’d made so many mistakes, so many poor choices. She’d possibly destroyed their people’s entire culture and heritage in a single swift blow. What was she now? To the Dalish, the city elves, all of them?

They’d see me as the greatest traitor that ever lived.

The Dread Wolf? Fen’Harel? He was a fucking myth, a fairy tale of history and a boogieman of Dalish stories. She was the dangerous one, a real monster. Was it not enough that their gods had left them, their culture lost to thousands of years of human’s murdering and enslaving them, but for her to betray her own people as she did?

Her people’s greatest curse was ‘May you learn’, Dirthara-ma. She felt like she had learned a lesson that no one should ever have to, that she singlehandedly destroyed her people’s legacy because she hadn’t found alternatives, better choices to defeat a god.

Ir abelas. (I’m sorry.)

Ar harellen, Fen'Harel ma ghilana. (I’m a traitor, Fen’Harel guides me/lead me astray.)

She stared at the floor, her eyes blinking back tears. She would never expect their understanding, their forgiveness for her deeds.

She sucked in a breath as she rose onto her feet. Lavellan wiggled her toes in her boots. They were too tight. The leather bit into her arches and her toes were cramped. Her vision was damp, wobbling as if she were submerged. She glared at the boots as droplets hit them and rolled off the worn leather, onto the floor. “It was a mistake”, he’d said. A mistake. Whatever they had. It was a mistake. Them. Their everything… this? A mistake of the greatest consequence.

She wanted to be angry but all she felt was a terrible sadness, a horrible longing. Solas was a good man, and if a good man could walk away from her, then maybe she just wasn’t a good woman.

Would he have stayed if I’d done something differently?

Lavellan had not made a decision. She fumbled about each day, feeling like a shell of the person she had been. She was anxious, nervous, and terrified. She rose each morning with a sliver of hope that Solas would return, that somehow this whole situation could be resolved. Was it possible it could be a good thing? Would it be so bad if the world gave her something for the change, instead of taking from her? She was desperate to confide in her friends, but she felt she wasn’t strong enough to face them.

What would they think of her?

And of Solas? What would they think of him?

She feared they’d paint him as a monster, that he betrayed her trust and locked himself away in the Fade, with all likeliness. Varric and Dorian were both irritated that the man had just left her without so much as a goodbye. Maybe they were a little more than irritated. She sometimes felt like Varric might actually punch Solas if he saw him, but he’d have to see him to do that. The man seemed to be a ghost now or like a magic trick, vanished into smoke and mirrors.

She couldn’t face the looks on their faces – and they weren’t here in Skyhold anyway, so it was a moot point. Most of her friends roamed Thedas and she was here, alone. Under no circumstances would she send a raven with news of her pregnancy to any of them. She loved them, truly, but she could not let anyone intercept such a message. The less people that knew, the better. Leliana screened all of her letters anyway, so it’s not like she’d sneak something past her. She just wanted to be held, to be comforted.

Would everything be okay? Could she do this?

Lavellan did try to take better care of herself. As the weeks rolled on, the heartburn was still a problem but she found she could eat again, as long as it was small quantities. Sleep eluded her and when she did sleep she was plagued with nightmares.

Feeling alone in the world, it took everything she had to just get up each day, eat and drink and go through the motions. Josephine looked downright scared for her. She and Cullen had whispered anxiously as Lavellan sank into a chair in the war table room, staring with tired eyes at the pieces on the map. Her clothes swallowed her up, as she wore a cloak that was a few sizes too large to hide herself in. Her face was gaunt, and all of the life seemed drained from her. To them, she seemed frail, as if she were wasting away. She was lost in thought, fighting an internal battle of wants and needs. Did she want a child? Did she really need one? It seemed laughable to her that she saved the entire country of Orlais, yet she couldn’t make one choice for or against something that would majorly affect her way of life.

The two advisors whispered as they kept their eyes on the Inquisitor.

“She doesn’t look right. I can barely get her to focus…”, Cullen said as his eyes darted from Lavellen to Josephine. He worried for his friend, and he hoped that if something was wrong, that she trusted them enough to tell them. He feared it might be something worse, something so horrible that she thought it safer to tell no one. Cullen was not the touchy-feely type; He was not the type to hug someone and make things better. He was used to dealing with issues head on, with steel. Right now though, he wished he was a different man – a softer one. His eyes shone with worry and his pulse beat with nervous energy. Cullen stood stiffly, looming behind the Inquisitor’s chair. What could it be that troubled her so? He pursed his lips as he rolled some disastrous scenarios around in his mind.

Cullen furrowed his brow and glared at the map with a look that could have turned the parchment to ash in a blaze of fire.

If someone has hurt her…

Josephine put a hand on his arm, worry flitting across her face. He took a few steadying breaths and looked back to Josephine. The Antivan woman’s hair was not quite perfectly coifed, and her eyes looked a bit more tired than usual. Josephine was as worried as he was. Her hands grasped her writing tablet with white knuckles. Their eyes met, their glances spoke volumes to their concerns for Lavellan.

The Inquisitor was listless with her brows drawn and her body hunched over in her chair. Her friends, specifically those who saw her each day, were worried; It appeared to them that she had fallen into a deep dark pit of despair. She didn’t share. She didn’t open up. Everything she felt, she internalized, and it was eating her alive.

Cullen spoke with a throaty rasp, anxiety in his expressions as he spoke in Josephine’s ear, “She needs a doctor, I’ve seen wasting disease… I fear she might-“

Lavellan stirred and her fingers dug into the arm of the chair. Josephine noticed immediately how much more tense the woman appeared to be; The word ‘doctor’ could scare many. Doctors often brought leeches and bloodletting was their specialty, among other things. The Dalish likely had healers of a different kind, but it was clear that Lavellan was especially anxious at the idea of being seen.

Josephine paused with a frown, then shook her head and looked thoughtful, “No, she doesn’t display any of the signs.”

Leliana had told her nothing, so perhaps there was nothing to worry about. If it was not physical, then it was mental – a broken heart perhaps. Melancholy. Maybe she and Solas had been closer than anyone realized.

She drew closer to Cullen and whispered, keeping her voice low. She knew Lavellan, despite seeming to be in her own world, was listening.

“Perhaps she is suffering from heartache?”

Cullen looked dumbfounded. “What?”

 “I can only imagine after he left, and then the others…”, she whispered in a low voice.

He looked at a loss, then it seemed to hit him.

“Wait, he – Solas?”

Lavellan flinched at the name and Josephine glared at Cullen for not being more discreet.

Cullen had been aware something was going on, but then again there were so many rumors about Lavellan and Dorian. He hadn’t given it much thought, or the rumors much credence. Sometimes it was difficult to remember that Lavellan wasn’t just a leader or an ideal, a Herald, an Inquisitor, she was a person and felt just as everyone else did. She was mortal.

Josephine glared at him.

Maker’s breath, I’m making a mess of this.

He swallowed hard and offered an apologetic grimace and shrug of his shoulders. He felt like an ass.

He glanced at Lavellan, who looked like she was on the verge of tears, battling some sort of demons in her mind. He was tense, corded muscle and armor and hard edges. Cullen felt a deep respect for Lavellan, but it was more than that. She was his friend, but he also felt an affection for her that was a bit more than their friendship would allow. For her, he would do anything.

Point me at an enemy and I’ll be your sword. Give me men, and I’ll build an army. But this? I’m useless…

Delicate circumstances were not his forte. That was Josephine’s territory. He surely wasn’t one to share feelings on heartbreak either. His nose wrinkled in irritation; He looked positively disgruntled.

If it was Solas that did this… I should kick him off the side of the damned mountain. If I find him, well I’ll-

“I will clear her schedule”, Josephine stated plainly, scribbling with quill to parchment. It was not something to be argued, it was what was decided on.

Another moment passed and Cullen’s expression softened. Lavellan was his friend. She was sick or upset or both. It didn’t help matters if he was wishing for blood or giving a certain bald elf a proper beating. Or perhaps, that he would enjoy it. It was unbearable to see Lavellan like this, looking like she might just fall to pieces. They would have to handle her with care, as if she were fragile porcelain. Cullen smoothed his hair back and looked at Josephine again, sighing deeply.

Cullen didn’t argue though, he just sighed and stated the obvious, with displeasure.

“We need her on her feet…”

Josephine frowned.

“She isn’t just a recruit you can throw back into the deep end. She needs time to process things”, the woman said with a bit of insistence. Lavellan was a woman who had faced down the biggest threats in the world, but now she needed rest.

Cullen was about to speak up, but Josephine cut him off. “The world will not end just because the Inquisitor is indisposed of at this very moment. She has earned some time to recover from her ordeals.”

Despite her words, Cullen frowned more deeply. She will need more than just rest.

They both looked at their leader, their friend, and hoped for the best. She was capable of light duty, but nothing more. Neither would feel comfortable sending her out into the field until she could function again.

Noting her lack of appetite and growing gaunt appearance, Josephine arranged for a healer to visit Skyhold, just in case. They couldn’t let Lavellan waste away.

The following days and weeks were a blur for her, tiredness seeping into her bones, hunger gnawing at her, new and old pains popping up at inconvenient times.

She needed to speak to Leliana. Luckily, despite her new status as Divine Victoria, Leliana had yet to take her vows and move to her place at the head of the Chantry. She was still in Skyhold, wrapping up issues and making sure their spy network would be running smoothly in her absence. Lavellan grimaced. The stairs were truly awful, sparks of pain jolting up her spine as she rose further up the rotunda to the top floor, the rookery. She forced her face to be as calm and collected as possible. The scent of the birds and their waste was enough to make her gag slightly, but she swallowed it down and walked to where her spymaster stood.

“Who’s a good boy?” The woman cooed to one of her ravens, stroking it fondly.

“Leliana, a word?”

“Inquisitor.” The red-haired woman nodded as the softness and warmth in her face was replaced with calculated severity – as if she had suddenly swapped her skin with someone else. It was extremely off-putting.

Lavellan tried not to let hope bloom in her heart; She did not want to be crushed if the news wasn’t good.

“Any news on Solas?”, she asked, appearing as disinterested as she could manage.

The spymaster softened her expression ever so slightly, “I am sorry, there is no sign of him…. “

How could he just vanish?

The Inquisitor’s brows furrowed and knit, her eyes closing to hide the fear and grief that crept into her. Creators forbid that something happened to him, he was an apostate after all, and an elf in a human’s world. Lavellan’s eyes threatened tears again and she bit down on the inside of her cheek. The pain helped recenter her and reclaim her eyes from her foolish emotions. She opened them and took a breath, her dark purple irises shimmering with wetness.

Leliana watched the Inquisitor with a slow lingering gaze that could read her like a book.

She is distraught. Her performance will suffer, as well as our morale.

Lavellan was not well.

The strangeness flightiness in the woman, the lack of appetite, the sickness, the blotchy redness of her skin, the dark circles under her eyes, the way her clothes hugged her, the way the elf squirmed and favored a posture that took pressure off her back and feet, and how her boots looked too tight – denoting swollen ankles, it all pieced together like a puzzle in the spymaster’s mind. She did not blame the woman for how she acted. The Inquisitor was clever with how she managed to navigate around her advisors often enough to seem busy, hiding under bulkier clothes from anyone that might notice the changes, avoiding missions that would be problematic. Regardless of her efforts, it was for naught.

Leliana knew, and if she knew – others would know soon enough.

I can understand why she did not come to me.

Leliana was still disappointed that the Inquisitor did not confide in her, did not ask for her help. It was likely that the elf was overwhelmed; It wasn’t a trust issue, but it still ate at her ever so slightly, like a rat gnawing on a chair leg. It was bothersome, annoying because it hurt ever so slightly. She was hurt, though she masked it perfectly.

She will need help. There are many herbs used as abortifacients…

She did not fret, she would plan and plot and scheme – fretting was useless. She would simply make adjustments. If plan A did not work, then plan B might suffice. If not that, then another.

The look of grief and fear that shone in Lavellan’s eyes was concerning. So was this situation. The Inquisitor was a target of so many; A child would just complicate things. Skyhold and the Inquisition were not playgrounds or nurseries. Leliana stepped closer to the elf, who again had her expression under control. It was admirable that the woman had not fallen to pieces during their quest to stop Corypheus, but now it seemed that the Inquisitor was at her breaking point.

“If you should need my help…”, the spymaster said as she leaned forward, speaking quietly into her ear, “I can provide any aid you might seek”.

Lavellan found herself holding her breath, her eyes dashing to look into Leliana’s. She looked surprised to see sympathy. Leliana met her eyes with a focused expression that meant she would very much do anything that she required. Anything.

The spymaster could help end this. She could provide any poisons the Inquisitor might need. She could also place the child with another, though it might only be a few steps up from being raised in an alienage. The Dalish would not want a burden of an infant without its mother, let alone one associated with her and the human Inquisition.

Leliana saw the tremble of the woman’s lips, the guarded expression on her face. Lavellan said nothing to the offer, in fact she seemed to recoil at the suggestion.

Hmmm… perhaps she has made a different choice?

Leliana nodded and turned back to her birds, sprinkling birdseed onto the floor. They pecked at the seeds, and she smiled ever so slightly.

The Inquisitor, she is a strong woman, stronger than I have ever given her credit for. She may not think herself the Herald of Andraste, but she was Make-sent. There is no other explanation. He blessed her and we were lucky enough to have her in our time of need. When gods walk on Thedas, it seems Andraste chose a mortal woman to save us all.

Lavellan chewed her lip before stepping back, her eyes darting to the cages, the birds, anywhere but the spymaster’s gaze.

Leliana pondered the possibilities.

But, motherhood?

It would be a challenge, yes… but perhaps it is the will of the Maker.

She was chosen, and I have faith that she can handle it.

“I also know agents who have experience with young children”, The spymaster said as a hint of a smile crossed her features, lighting up her eyes.

Lavellan’s eyes darted back to Leliana, widening.

What if she kept it?

The elf swallowed and tried to reason with herself. It would be so much smarter to just be done with it. She was smart, wasn’t she? Her heart ached and her thoughts wavered. Some part of herself thought, feared, and wished for the option that was probably the worst decision she could make.

It was ridiculous of course. She had an organization to run, she was the Herald of Andraste, the Inquisitor, a rogue that hunted down her enemies. She was also the target of many. She furrowed her brow and finally exhaled, nodding once.

Maybe.

The Inquisitor looked to her spymaster, her weariness showing with her sinking shoulders.

“Make sure that no one knows”, Lavellan said quietly, her eyes flicking to the floor.

“Of course”, Leliana said with a gentle nod of her head.

She felt ashamed, ashamed she was in such a position. How could she have let it happen? How was she so careless?

She rubbed the back of her neck and tried to focus on breathing. Air went in, air went out. She wanted to be angry, not scared. She didn’t want to feel shame. It took two people to happen. It’s not like he had done anything on his end to prevent this situation.

At least, she didn’t think so. The corners of her mouth turned down. Maybe he did do something.

How could she judge him when he wasn’t here to defend himself?

Solas was a good man.

He had faults, but being careless was not one of them. Still, a flicker of hope survived in her heart that he would return. He wouldn’t hold a grudge, would he? She had been upset about the orb too, their people’s legacy, the temple of Mythal, the sentinels, everything. Couldn’t their love survive this bump in the road?

“Of course”, Leliana said, tearing Lavellan from her thoughts. Her cheeks flushed and she chewed her lip before looking back to Leliana. The woman was like steel, strong and full of resolve. Lavellan wished she could be like her. She felt like she was an imposter, just pretending to be this powerful and confident figurehead.

“And find him, please”, Lavellan said with her voice cracking with emotions that threatened to overtake her.  She could not let the dam burst. She could not let her emotions get the best of her, make her do something foolish, something she couldn’t take back. She did not want to look back at her past and regret her actions, wish she’d made better choices.

I would not want to be reckless if there are better options.

“I will send more agents. Every lead will be followed. Try not to worry.” Leliana said with a calm confidence in her voice, empathy shining in her eyes.

Lavellan turned to walk away but Leliana spoke softly. The Inquisitor paused.

“And Inquisitor? Take care of yourself, please… We could not have done this without you.”

Lavellan nodded. It was all she could do to respond without breaking down, her emotions trying to spill out like an overturned bucket, one filled with tears.

She would do that. She would try, anyway.

Chapter Text

The Fade was not a reprieve from his thoughts. Solas sighed as he found himself reliving an old memory. He hated these, but sometimes it was easier to let them play out in the Fade so he’d stop thinking about them. He was haunted by his own past, his own personal demons.

Solas wore armor from ages long since passed. He was young, barely even 40, a true child in an immortal’s lifetime. His eyes still were bright with youth, not yet tempered or dulled from long life and loss. The other slaves had teased him and called him baby-faced. He was eager to grow up, eager to be stronger, faster, bigger, and more powerful. Power was rewarded.

His face looked somewhat boyish, looking to be no older than his early 20s. Smooth skin gave way to puckering red flesh. It was raw and red on one side of his face, his cheek and jaw. The skin marred by burns that healed slowly without the aid of magic.

The burns were punishment for his foolishness, his audacity.

Only a few weeks earlier, the master had been outside enjoying his finest liquors while he waited for his dinner. The night was not out of the ordinary. Vines twisted around pillars and ivy flourished on the ornate architecture. Solas stood nearby in glistening armor, guarding the man he hated with a passion. The air was dry and cool, with a slight breeze catching the ivy leaves and making them stir. One of the newer slaves, a young girl no older than her teens, carried a platter of crystalline glassware with the evening’s meal across the veranda. It sparkled with a prismatic hue, beautiful as a rainbow, as it seemed to glide along with each step she stook. Solas noticed that it was overladen with food and drink.

Naturally suspicious, Solas had a nagging fear that someone had overloaded it on purpose. New slaves for their master often meant old ones would be disposed of. The girl likely had enemies simply from the poor chance that she was one of his newest acquisitions. She would go down in flames so that someone else could continue living. He hurt for her.

Go slowly… steady.

The girl struggled enough to carry it. Suddenly, the weight shifted to one side and everything slid toward the platter’s dipping edge. She gasped and tried to catch it as it tipped, but was too late. The entire platter covered in beautiful shimmering dinnerware crashed to the floor. Glass exploded and food and drink splattered the master and his fine clothing. Solas’s jaw tensed.

The girl will pay with blood for this mistake.

The poor girl hadn’t had even a moment to beg for mercy before the master was upon her, grabbing her by her hair and smashing her face into the floor. Her nose was shattered in a spray of blood. The glass shards stabbed into her flesh, cutting her cheeks into raw ribbons of flesh. The girl let out a scream of abject terror.

“You little cunt!” The master spat venomously. His eyes were wild and full of fury. His face was distorted into a grotesque snarl.

Blood poured down the young girl’s face. It spilled out of her mouth, covering her remaining teeth, down her neck, and spattered onto the floor. Young slaves were valuable. Children were rare, but the master had thrived in the recent decades and could afford to break a few eggs.

Solas felt his fingers twitch as his instincts fought to the surface, his very nature tested against the strength of his master’s hold on him. It was one thing to know she would die, but another to witness it happen before him. He could not stomach it. His vallaslin made his skin itch and held him still, but his anger bubbled up with a righteous fury. With this anger came strength.

The girl sobbed and tried to beg for mercy, but her words were lost when the master smashed her face into the floor again. Teeth were knocked from her jaw and scattered like pearls in the sea of pooling blood.

The vallaslin burned Solas with an intense pain. The tattoos were supposed to keep a slave from striking back; Their magic forced slaves to obey their master’s words and whims, and never raise a hand to them. It’s song that pulsed in his blood and made his limbs feel heavy. He resisted.

Magic surged in the air. The master raised up his other fist and fire engulfed it. It was white hot heat, burning and licking the air around it, making it warp and tremble.

The girl’s screams could not be drowned out, even by the sound of his pulse racing, pounding in his ears.

Solas’s eyes started to glow.

His body shuddered as the vallaslin’s magic desperately sank claws into his very being; It was a pulsing pain rising in his flesh and muscles that was so intense it felt like it marred his very spirit.

The master’s flaming hand came down for the girl’s face.

Something inside Solas snapped. His glowing eyes blazed bright blue. He did not even know what he did, until it was too late. He would have told himself he was a fool, but he knew that all too well.

Solas moved against his master with a terrifying speed. He caught the man’s flaming arm with a snarl and held it away from her face. His grasp was not gentle, his fingers were like blunted claws as they wrapped tightly around the master’s wrist. The heat of the flames on his gauntlet covered hand felt like he held his hand against a pan in a cooking fire.

It was a mistake.

The master threw the girl into the floor, staring wild-eyed at Solas’s hand on his wrist.

It was a mistake.

Solas felt pain, a crushing pain that made his spine tremble. It felt like his bones would be torn from his body.

The master looked absolutely insane. Spittle covered his lips and his hair was wild. His eyes widened, his pupils growing, looking as dark and ominous as the Void itself. Solas grit his teeth and fell to his knees when his vallaslin’s magic doubled the pain.

“If you were not so valuable, you would be dead boy!”, The master spat with a crazed look on his face, his lips splitting into a maddened smile.

Solas was smart, but he was not wise. He was a fool.  

He met his master’s gaze with his own.

“Good thing I’m valuable then”, he said with a sneer.

Fuck you.

He was supposed to have learned a lesson that day, but instead it cemented a primal hatred within him.

He did not learn the lesson his master intended for him, that he could never step up and be something more than what he was deemed to be.

The master punched him in the face once, hard enough to nearly break his nose. Blood shot from his nostrils. He wavered on his feet.

The vallaslin’s magic surged through him with wave after wave of agony. He groaned and stumbled, his knees quaking. He released his hold on the man’s wrist.

The master laughed. It was a horrible cackle. Solas looked up at him, glaring with an intense hatred shining in his bright blue eyes.

Is that the best you can do?

Solas had spirit. He had fight. He had pride.

The master smirked. His aura flickered like fire and coiled around him like a snake.

The man’s smile broke, showing a horrible ferocity that rivaled any demon. He cursed Solas with the worst insult of their people, damming words that were fitting for the situation.

“Dirthara-ma!” (May you learn!)

He grabbed Solas’s face with his fiery hand, burning through flesh. His fingers sank into skin, which melted and popped and sizzled like meat tossed into a scalding hot pain.

Solas screamed. The master held him still, burning him. His eyes rolled back into his head and he collapsed, twitching. It was so hot that eventually his pain was burned away with the nerves of his face. At some point he blacked out. He kept at it, laughing as he burned him until half of Solas’s face was nearly nothing but a scorched skull.

The master kicked him in the chest and stomach until he woke to the feeling of magic washing over him. He healed him enough, enough that he would live, but not enough that he would be unscathed. He was wounded and the flesh was burned to the point that it bubbled.

“Foolish boy”, the master said with his voice dripping with malice.

The scent of his flesh and hair still seared the memory into his mind.

His efforts were for nothing. The girl was never seen again.

Solas shivered.

Tonight, he marched with the master’s soldiers. Tonight, they razed a city that belonged to one of his enemies. He scowled, wishing he knew healing magics. The tightness of the skin was itchy and uncomfortable at the very best.

The weeping of the wound has passed at least.

The skin on his face, despite the burns, was covered in the vallaslin of his master’s patron god. He had never set eyes on any of the Evanuris, yet he was forced to pay fealty to one. He hated the idea of them. Only selfish gods would let their subjects live in this nightmare that was their lives.

How can the power of the few be so much that they can rule over the many?

It enraged him.

If he even had half the power they did, he’d do something better with the world. They were content to let the world burn, and he would not be like them – he would raise it up and be a hero. Perhaps someday he would have enough magical skill that he could change things. Too many slaves were abused – what would life be like if they were free? His heart blazed with the dreams of a child, the hope of a life worth living. Freedom was laughable; This world did not allow for such flights of fancy.

His life was war. He lived and breathed death and violence and bloodshed. Each day he rose, trained his body, and worked to better himself. Solas was tall and broad, all corded muscle wrapped around a hard body. Despite this, he moved with remarkable flexibility, like liquid metal.

Even though he was so young that he was practically a child, he had earned the right to grow his hair out. He was no longer a simple slave. He was a soldier that played a part in his master’s war games. His hair had been a thing of pride and beauty. He wore it in long auburn braids, tied up in a knotted ponytail with the sides of his head shaved to little more than a thin layer of fuzz.

He wore no helmet.

Lesser soldiers and those not well skilled in magic wore helmets. He didn’t need one, and they would cover his hair. It was a status symbol and he intended to revel in his newly achieved rank. He was not nothing anymore.

He wasn’t elite, not yet. He had aspirations to be a force of nature. He saw how the better fighters, how the best slaves were kept as trophies. He could wish for no better.

Also, he had no alternatives. His master had made it quite clear that failure meant a slow and torturous death.

You don’t even see us as people, we’re just things to you…

The man had insisted that Solas was meant for greater things. He was meant for glory. For gold. For being showcased as a mighty weapon, the highlight of his collection that glittered and gleamed.  

My only value is in being a tool, a weapon.

Solas sneered at the thought of being paraded around for his master’s sake, for his glory instead of his own. He would earn his way to the top and he would enjoy the looks, the adoration. His master deserved nothing. No, he deserved death. He was cruel; he was a monster.

Solas narrowed his eyes.

If ever I have the opportunity to end you, I will not hesitate. I would see you die at my hands, gladly.

A gilded city burned. The residents of the poorest districts fell to the ground en masse, spears and arrows skewering them. They died; Horrible effigies, standing as a testament to the wrath brought down upon them. They lived and died as nothing more than fodder under the boots of greater elves, of mages, and those even greater still.

Everything is about power and the powerless.

His eyes narrowed. He was just as guilty.

He had been so young then, and yet war had aged his spirit greatly.

Solas had experienced much in his short life had clawed his way from up the lowest parts of slave society to a decorated soldier. Unfortunately, that still meant he was a slave, just one with some status and marginally better living conditions. He spent the past decades living in cramped barracks, which housed too many elves. They packed in tightly, practically living on top of one another. He didn’t sleep much because the press of bodies in those tight spaces made him feel like he could suffocate.

With every battle he fought he saw that there was potential that he could live a better life in a few centuries, at the soonest. He just needed to prove his worth. He just needed to be the best. He needed to claw his way to relevance. He heard of tournaments, he heard of chance of glory. He heard of a thing called the game, and that one must play it to get ahead.

I need to be something more than this.

The horns sounded. Archers stood on the high walls of the city and fired again. Glistening arrows poured down like a summer rain. They were tipped with poisons, potent ones. Anyone who was wounded would die without a mage’s healing. These people did not have the skill. Magic was as natural as breathing, but that didn’t mean that the everyone knew how to wield it.

They’re more likely to burn themselves alive than heal a wound.

He had needed training to do anything with his own magic. He learned basic offensive spells like fireballs, frost, and lightning, as well how to cast barriers. Still, most magic was beyond his reach. As much as he wanted to learn more and was eager, he had no opportunities to study magic other than his master. The man was smart enough to not enable him to acquire skills that could be wielded against him. His master saw the resentment that shown in his eyes and the youth’s furious rage, so he had been careful not to teach him too much. Solas was a spitfire, an angry young man that would likely strike out given the chance.

Soldiers stormed through the city like a flood, overturning carts and smashing windows, liquid gold that tore up everything in its path. They left destruction and death in their wake. Beautiful elves rode down survivors on their mounts, wearing supple leather cloaks, ornate masks, headdresses, feathers, and armors made of precious metals and rare ores. Blood and gore sprayed the pelts and fineries of the elite soldier’s harts. Their massive antlers put trees to shame, charging through fleeing survivors and skewering them on ten or more sharpened points. Hooves crashed into stonework, streets, and skulls.

It was chaos and madness and looked like the end of the world – and Solas simply watched, desensitized to a near daily occurrence in his young life.

He saw the bloodshed as needless violence, but also as potential – potential for him to earn favor and prove himself.

Solas had hope, despite the suffering he’d lived through, that he would rise in ranks and become an elite soldier. They were rewarded with some liberties. He wanted to come and go as he pleased, be special enough that he could eat anytime he wanted, that he could sleep alone in a bed of his very own; He dreamt of being as close to free as he would allow himself to dream.

The sounds of war were deafening, loud enough to cover up the sobbing of children and screams of mothers as their infants were torn from their arms. Magic whipped around freely from the hands of the elite soldiers, severing limbs and heads alike in a shower of blood. The shanty towns that lined the borders of the city fell into fiery infernos, embers catching in the wind and mixing with the scent of burning flesh and hair.

The sights and scents and sounds were familiar to him and would coat his skin and hair when he returned to his master after ever battle. Solas tried to distance himself from those he killed. He had nothing against them, he had no hatred of them – in fact, he had only pity for those in his path.

They’re just obstacles in my way.

They did not deserve to be slaughtered like cattle, butchered like raw meat. Some soldiers took joy in their wanton violence, practically ecstatic at the visceral deaths at their own hands.

Not him. He tolerated and participated in wholesale murder because he had no other choice. Given the opportunity, he would free them all. He would set the slaves upon their masters and let the whole world burn.

Even as a young man, barely having lived, Solas wondered what the world would be like if he and the other slaves could rise up, walk free from the ashes of their masters’ kingdoms, throw off their shackles, and make their own way.

Surely, anything is better than this.

The smoke began to bother him. Not the bodies. Not the death. Not the screams for mercy. Just the smoke. It was burning hair and putrifying flesh that was so hot it was liquified. He cleared his throat but his eyes still watered. It was acrid and made his throat burn and feel dry.

Suddenly something moved rapidly that he spied just out of the corner of his eye. He reached to draw his weapon, a massive glaive hooked over his back. A little elven boy, no taller than his thighs, ran out from cover wielding a rock in his hand.

The boy glared at him, his eyes awash with tears, his vallaslin still raised and welting on his skin. His skin was mottled with bruises and burns and his scalp was shorn and raw looking. His clothes were stained with bloody handprints and soiled, just a smock and torn pants.

Solas focused and let his senses unfurl around him. His aura crackled dangerously, like electricity, but wavered like the flames around them.

The boy could be a trap, could be bait. Solas was unsure if he was alone or not. Adults were a threat, sometimes. They could be raving, they could be feral, they could be surprisingly strong when they thought they could save their offspring.

It was probably an instinct. He would never feel the same. A child was a liability, not something to be die for. They were weaknesses, weaknesses that could be and often were exploited. How many parents died needlessly because the soldiers had grabbed their children, instead of running?

He felt such pity for them.

Solas kept his senses sharp. He stared at the boy and the boy stared back at him.

The idea of children horrified him – he would never want to make another person, especially one cursed into this life. To be a slave, and then to be a parent? Slavery was terrible, but it was much, much worse for children. How could one live knowing their child would be a plaything for a powerful mage? They were rare and many were kept as little dolls by their masters. They were prey, they were used and abused and touched in ways that made his skin crawl.

Solas looked cold and uncaring, impassive, like an immovable object. The boy trembled with fear but wore a brave face full of fury. He did not draw his weapon, despite the threat of pain from the magical tattoos on his flesh.

This child? He was nothing.

The boy shook and kept his eyes on Solas, the enemy. The boy was property; Property that was now forfeit.

Foolish boy.

There had been countless dead children. Solas tried to believe none of them were dead because of him. He desperately wanted to believe that he would never hurt a child, an innocent caught up in the wars of the important people, the powerful. Solas tilted his head down, making no sudden movements. If the boy ran, he would let him go. If he didn’t? Solas didn’t want to think of what he would be forced to do. His vallaslin burned, making his fingers twitch. The magic in the blood tattoos bound him to his master’s will, his demands, his wants, his desires. Solas swallowed and his scowl became pronounced. 

He could give the child no warnings or face death himself, but his eyes tried to convey his command to the boy.

Run!

The boy did not run. He drew his little arm back and threw the rock with as much force as a young child could muster.

His aim was true.

Solas flinched at the impact. The sharp edge cut into his forehead before it clattered into the pavement.

It was almost funny. It stung. He turned his eyes from the boy to the rock on the ground. He pressed his gauntlet covered fingers to his forehead and then drew them away.

Blood. The corners of his mouth turned up slightly. It was almost laughable, but commendable.

Impressive.

In another world, Solas would have been proud of him. The boy fought against a greater force with such courage, despite there being no hope of his success, no chance for him to take down the great beast before him. It was admirable.

In this world?

The child was a walking corpse; He just didn’t know it yet.

Felt his fingers twitch as his arm rose, his body demanding he take his weapon and end the boy. He grimaced at the song in his blood, the vallaslin’s hold coursing through his veins. He closed his eyes for a moment. The cut stung, enough to be bothersome.

It would leave a scar.

Solas would live with the scar for the rest of his days. It was one he would grow to feel strongly about. It filled him with much regret and anger. That scar was the evidence, the proof that even someone small and supposedly weak could do damage. It was proof that someone insignificant could fight back despite impossible odds. That the proud could fall. It was proof that one could fight their destiny, their fate, and stand up against the shackles that bound them. He would need to remember that.

The boy stared at him, trembling like a leaf. If he were any other soldier in his battalion, the child would have met a horrible death. He would have been flayed alive or skewered on a pike like so many of the other slaves. Solas did not want to tear a child limb from limb, behead him, or burn him until he was nothing was a smoldering pile of remains. He had seen enough death. He didn’t need to add to it.

He snarled at the boy, hoping fear would prompt him to run.

Go! Now!

The boy was frozen in place, his eyes wide with fear.

Solas supposed he was a bad soldier, a rule breaker, a rebel. It was hilarious – he was hardly a rebel when he marched and murdered in the name of his master, yet he fought against the vallaslin’s power that he obey. Every part of his being, his spirit, wanted to crush the masters and raze their kingdoms, wanted to let them taste the agony they inflicted on the people.

He wanted to be an ideal. He didn’t choose this name, Pride. He didn’t feel that he could live up to such a name. His master mocked him for it, so many did the same. What could he be proud of?

Would his mother be proud of what he was? Of what he had become?

Solas’s hands shook. The magic in his veins prompted him anew to slaughter the child. Pain pulsated, boring through limbs like a worm through dirt.

He grit his teeth together in a pained grimace.

He remembered her...

She would have tried to save him, despite the vallaslin, despite the pain.

She would have leapt in front of the boy and-

The horns sounded.

Solas flinched. Not everyone had time on their side.

Another volley of arrows.

Bolts pinged off his armor and his magic barrier, falling harmlessly to the ground. Arrows killed those unskilled in magic.

Solas was untouched.

He turned his blue-grey eyes back toward the boy.

An arrow shaft stuck out of the boy’s chest. Red bloomed across his dirty smock like a deadly rose, petals falling to the ground. The arrow itself looked massive because he was so small. He was just a little child, a little boy. Solas had been a little younger when-

Oh.

Tiny hands grasped at the arrow shaft, pulling uselessly at the protrusion. They were slick with blood that spilled out of his body like a fountain. He watched the blood drip down the boy’s arms and his tiny hands. Solas felt like the world around him grew quiet and the only thing he heard was his own breathing and his heart pounding.

The boy let out a wet gasp and stumbled forward.

Solas could reach out for him. He wanted to. He wanted to grab him and save him.

His magic flickered, his pulse raced. It wouldn’t take much magic to save him, but he hadn’t the skill. Maybe he could just-

He could not.

Helping him would be throwing his own life away for a temporary moral triumph.

He wanted to grab him, cradle him and feel, truly feel for this boy.

Could he not mourn another life lost in all this senseless violence?

He wanted to. But wanting was pointless. Compassion had no place in his life.

He knew his life, he knew the hurt that could be waiting at the hands of his master and his peers. Solas knew is fellow soldiers could be crueler and more brutal than their masters.

His fingers twitched and his arms moved just slightly, but he stopped himself and put his arms back by his side.

His very spirit felt the boy’s judgmental eyes staring through him. They looked distant and glassy, unseeing and yet they saw through his charade. His mouth went dry. He trembled as the boy fell into the street.

Unable to act, he stood there and did nothing, absolutely nothing.

His face was almost perfectly placid, except for his eyebrows that dipped ever so slightly and his eyes, which might have been wetter than usual, but only from the change in winds sending the smoldering clouds of smoke to settle overhead.

Unfortunately, his station in life didn’t leave him options. Compassion was nothing but a weakness in war. He could show no weaknesses.

The boy breathed in a wet sloppy lungful of air, with each weaker and less successful than the last. His chest rose less with each sickening gasp.

Solas was a soldier. He was there to kill. He was a tool, a weapon of war used by powerful mages against other powerful mages and their doomed slaves.

His instincts screamed at him to save the boy. He was no healer. He doubted he would ever have a healer’s touch. He doubted he would ever save a life.

He had been trained to end them, to take advantage of weaknesses. He learned to fight for those who commanded legions, who owned him and all those like him.

He was sent to destroy these people, this city, this populace. A single master, a mage of skill, was only so powerful alone; Their kingdoms were carried on the backs of slaves, like him; Like the boy.

Solas was sure that one person couldn’t make a difference.

One person can’t change the world.

Except, one person controlled all of the slaves that were soldiers here, and so they were responsible for this war, these deaths.

The boy was weak, so he would die. Solas had power, but he was weak compared to the masters of this world. He obeyed. He served those who were more powerful and tried to keep his head down. He was one of the many sheep among wolves. It wasn’t fair. Some day he wanted to be a wolf; A wolf that hunted other wolves.

Solas felt trapped as he watched the boy’s chest still. It would be suicide, he couldn’t even risk embracing the boy as he took his last dying breath. Light from the fires reflected off the golden stonework.

He blinked and swallowed, the smoke and ash making his eyes swim with tears. They burned.

The boy’s dead eyes glittered like brilliant gemstones.

You were brave.

He looked around with a nervousness of a lawbreaker, a criminal. Then with as much bravery as he could master, he bent and picked up the rock. It was rough, with a smear of his blood on a sharp edge. It was a testament to the boy’s efforts.

Blood rushed in his ears; His heart raced. His magic flickered just below the surface of his armor. It churned and swelled within him as his emotions ran high. Solas paused before him, his eyebrows drawing down and his lips pursed as he struggled with the burgeoning fury boiling within him.

He was not as brave as the boy had been. He did not have the bravery to throw a stone at a monster. He could not stand against the powers of this world as he was. The first stone had been cast, literally and metaphorically. This small act of rebellion was enough. He would change.

Under the boy’s body, the blood spread like tiny rivers running through the crevices between gilded cobblestones. As it reached Solas’ feet, he wanted to take a step back. His body stepped forward instead.

I’m sorry.

Solas gnashed his teeth together as he quickly crouched down and took the boy’s hand in his own. He opened the little hand, his own hands trembling. They were such tiny fingers but already calloused from the labors the boy suffered daily. He pressed the rock into the boy’s palm and blinked back the tears that threatened to escape.

He was powerless and it made his fury burn bright. He wanted to kill his master, kill the master that owned the boy. Kill all of the masters for their hand in this horrible existence. He would make them pay. Someday, somehow.

I’m sorry.

Flames roared behind him, casting a shadow that whipped around like manic dancers. Blood coated the street like a fine red mirror. He could see his own reflection so well and the look on his face…

Solas struggled to stand as his breaths came out ragged, thick with emotion. He had to control his façade, mask his true feelings. He rose with an eerie calm, an unbothered expression sliding back over his features.

The city burned. Even the spirits had fled out of fear, no one was safe. Everything was coated in a blood. Bodies were strewn about, in the streets, under carts, in doorways, in homes. Corpses burned. No one was spared. Nothing lived here. The air was acrid, filled with the choking stench of death and burning corpses that lined the city streets coated in the blood of slaves.

Solas walked through the city and felt something deep inside himself stir.

A single spirit was attracted to a heart that was burning with purpose, that was fueled with such powerful emotions that it was like a single lure in an ocean of fish. The spirit appeared and began to drift toward him. It was large, bright, and purple. He had never seen one like it. It was soft and had no particular shape, but as he gazed at it, its form sharpened and changed into that of a soldier by his side. It looked like an elf, if one were transparent and made of purple fireflies.

This was Purpose, forged in the fires of war, in the death of slaves, in the smallest act of rebellion.

“I will help you”, the spirit said with a voice that seemed fueled by passion, by fury, by justice, by rage, by desire.

The spirit wrapped itself around him, filling him, embracing him. After only a moment, it was beside him again. Solas looked back at it, feeling a strange sense of comfort with it by his side.

He was Pride. 

This was Purpose.

He had a reason for living, a reason that his life would matter and would continue to matter. He could breathe again, he could live, and he could bring about change.

Solas had to save the people from their masters.

If I have to go to war and pave the world with blood to save them, so be it.

No more children needed to die so their masters could enjoy their game.

Solas suppressed a sneer as he made a fateful decision.

He’d play their game and he’d win.

Solas laughed bitterly at his youth, his naivety. When he was a child he had hopes. When he was a young man he had aspirations. When he had lived he learned hard lessons. Still, he never let go of his purpose.

Still, he never let go of his purpose.

And now what?

Was this what I dreamt of?

He was still following his glorious purpose, but at what cost?

Were the mortals not deemed innocent enough to be worthy of life itself? They were not enslaving his people; They were not keeping them in chains.

Did he really need to kill all of the mortals to restore his people? Could he not make a concerted effort to find a different path? Was slaughter necessary to save his people?

He furrowed his brow and ran his hands over his face, grieved. Such choices were tortuous. The fate of the world was in his hands, and he wavered.

Wisdom would have helped me find a way…

While they were not the oppressors of his people, he knew ultimately that they would attack his people should he restore them any other way. There were likely so few elvhen even still alive that any loss of life would be catastrophic. He could not stomach the idea of being the last of his kind. He could not live knowing he had caused the extinction of his own.

The Dalish and city elves, they were not elves at all. They were remnants of what was…They were ghosts of the past.

He couldn’t live like that.

Solas couldn’t live with himself if he were forced to walk among ghosts for the remainder of his immortal life.

He growled, his eyes glowing slightly.

He could not let his people be wiped out because of his foolish heart. It was better to strike first.

No matter what he wanted, no matter how much it hurt…

Compassion had no place in war.

Chapter Text

Every night Lavellan looked at the sky and the stars and was comforted. They both lived under the same sky, the same shimmer of stars. He was not unreachable. She would find him. She had to. He had to know…

The Inquisitor saved the world with a family made of new friends, but she would not raise a family without the same. He was hers, part of what she needed to feel whole. She knew if he didn’t come back, she had to find him herself. She would leave no stone unturned.

There were good times, moments of calm amidst the chaos. Lavellan clung to the memories like they were a raft in the ocean keeping her afloat. She couldn’t let go of the past and hoped he would feel the same. Did he miss her? Did he think of her?

Every night Solas looked at the sky and the stars and was tortured. They both lived under the same sky, the same shimmer of stars, yet she was unreachable. He could not see her. He never wanted her to know…

As Fen’Harel, he would destroy the world despite the friends he had made, despite the love he missed like a peice of himself. She was his, part of what he needed to feel whole. He knew if she found him, he might never complete his task, save his people. Solas would hide and turn his heart to stone.

There were bittersweet moments of chaos amidst the calm. Solas tried to ignore the memories like they were a tidal wave trying to sink him into the deepest darkest depths. He couldn’t let go of the past. He hoped she would move on and enjoy a few years of well-earned peace. He was gifting them all mercy. He thought of her constantly. She plagued him. He suffered such guilt, such regret. She was too good for him, for this entire world. Did she miss him? Did she think of him? She shouldn’t.

They arrived in Val Royeaux to buy supplies and stock up in preparation for the expected invite to the Winter Palace. Orlais was more welcoming this time around, with this visit Lavellan was well known as the Inquisitor. Her power and influence was relatively far reaching, thanks to efforts of her advisors primarily. She could only take credit for closing rifts and helping people the best she could. Josephine had been talking with both Empress Celene’s ladies in waiting and representatives of Gaspard de Chalons, the two cousins still warring over the throne of Orlais. She needed an escape from the constant praise, the constant watchful eyes of agents and enemies alike.

I can ’t take this anymore.

Josephine had sent attendants out to find most of their shopping list, and Lavellan felt like she was being paraded around like a prized halla, but not actually accomplishing anything. When the Antivan advisor turned to speak with someone, Lavellan saw her chance and decided to take it.

“Come with me”, Lavellan said in a hushed whisper. Solas only had a moment to turn his head as she grabbed his arm and pulled him into an alleyway near the shopping district.

With a sudden intake of air, he looked at her with a surprised expression. She held up a finger to indicate he should stay silent. His lips twitched as he held back a smile and his eyes searched for what they might be hiding from. Lavellan grinned a little and shook her head.

Not what … who .

A moment passed in silence. Josephine furrowed her brow as she looked up from her clipboard, finding the Inquisitor and her ‘elven servant’ missing.

Solas stayed quiet and quirked a brow as he motioned to their potential escape route. He couldn’t hide his smile and his face looked expectantly at hers. She managed not to blush. He was so cute sometimes, when he wasn’t scowling or being sassy. He was cute then too, but this was different.

Josephine frowned and scribbled on her clipboard with her pen, looking a little flustered. “Fine. I see that this was much too taxing for you… well do not stay out too late!”, she spoke aloud, wheeling around to stare at any shadow or movement that caught her eye.

Solas almost chuckled. Lavellan was quick and wrapped her fingers around his mouth. He jolted slightly under her hands, but she pulled him further away from Josephine and deeper into the shadows.

I ’m a bad influence.

At least, Solas didn’t resist as she led him down the alleys and between buildings with tiny passageways. She held his hand then, until she realized she was holding his hand and released it with reddened cheeks. He followed her without question. It made her heart feel light and her smile matched it, lighting up her face.

They slipped through parts of the city with the careful obscurity of rogues.

This was easy. He is skillful … If I didn’t know he was a mage…

Lavellan was impressed.

Someday, she would feel like a fool when she looked back at all the warning signs that he was not what he appeared to be.

After they had managed to make it across a good section of the city, Solas took hold of her wrist. She stopped in her tracks and looked to him.

He said nothing and she chuckled finally, “Yes, it’s safe to talk.”

“Good. I was wondering when you would let up. We are quite a distance from where we escaped…”, Solas said as his thumb brushed the skin of her wrist.

It sent goosebumps up her arms and his touch made a sudden fire flare inside her. In the shadows her pupils enlarged. She could see every detail on his face, the freckles, the scars, the sculpted features that looked like they could belong to a god. She flushed. He gazed at her and her heart pounded. She pursed her lips and took a breath.

“There’s somewhere I wanted to go”, Lavellan admitted.

“Oh?”, he perked up.

“You probably won’t like it”, she said with a little frown.

“Let me be the judge of that, hm?”

They smiled at one another. She was utterly lovestruck and wished she could figure out how to prod him into action.

He wanted time, she gave him time… but she felt like she was burning up without him.

They meandered through the streets, him keeping close enough she could practically feel the warmth that he gave off. He had told her once that everyone had auras and the strength of it depended on their connection with the Fade. She hadn’t quite believed it until she’d felt his on her skin. It was distracting, like a warm breeze pulling at her clothes. Her heart raced when it brushed against her. The pair turned onto another side street, his eyes cautiously watching the shadows.

She stopped suddenly. There it stood, a quaint blue and white building on the adjacent street corner. Over the doorway hung a lovely wooden sign painted in white and blue with expertly carved fleur-de-lis and fancy gold lettering that read,“Thé de Royeaux”.

"Tea of the Royals” Solas translated for her. She brightened at his words, cheeks burning brightly. He was so interesting, so enchanting.

I didn ’t know he knew Orlesian.

 It was another little tidbit of information she would file away in her memory for later.

“Royal-tea?”

Lavellan grinned at the pun and wiggled her eyebrows.

Solas snorted with suppressed laughter.

“So this is where you wanted to go?”

She nodded.

The shop windows were full of expensive looking silk sachets tied with ribbons. Small wooden signs stood on metal stanchions, delicate Orlesian script described the contents in an iridescent ink. There were also spices and dried herbs, flowers, and fruits that made the window look like a rainbow of specialty goods. She looked transfixed, her eyes dazzling at the selection. Solas’s brows drew downward. He stepped in front of her, pulling her attention from the windows and back to him.

“I can't imagine we will be welcome here...", he said to her quietly, hating to damper her bright spirit, her smile, her excitement. It would be terrible for her to be disappointed, he found. His heart ached.

I should keep my distance. I know what I said, but I should not get any closer to her … She’s just a distraction.

Lavellan smirked a little, "You forget that I'm the Inquisitor. My ears don't define me... at least right now." She spoke boldly and confidently.

He wanted to feel good for her, to believe in her optimism… but he knew better. All things came to an end. Someday soon, she would be just another Dalish elf and people would probably spit at her. He wanted to protect her from harm, to her person, her heart, her mind, and her spirit.

Solas furrowed his brow at her words, but she wasn't wrong. She had changed a little since the beginning of the Inquisition. Now she was more forceful. The Inquisitor commanded a presence that she did not months earlier.

What else will she use her title for?

Power corrupted, absolutely. He was pained with the thoughts she might become something twisted, corrupted by the lure of her title and the forces at her disposal. She was wonderful and good and the idea that she would change struck at him like an arrow to his heart.

He knew her organization would fall eventually, her spirit would be corrupted…

It is inevitable...

A quickened creature such as her would not have the strength of character or will to resist taking power so easily given. He had seen it since time immemorial, people who took power and became monsters. She was the Inquisitor, she would do the same. He couldn’t let her distract him from his task.

"Let's go and see what happens" Lavellan said with a smile. She turned and reached for the door.

Solas's face darkened and he simply nodded. As if his manners commanded him, he took one long step and pulled open the door before she could reach for the handle. She smiled and he enjoyed the redness on her cheeks, the twitch of her lips.

He wondered if her lips were as soft in the Waking world as they were in the Dreaming. She had captured him in the Fade like a hunter might capture prey, and it had taken him by surprise. He should have done something different. He should have pushed her away. It had been a long time since he had felt for someone else. He was afraid to feel for her - it would mean she was more than he gave her credit.

It would change everything.

Solas motioned for her to go ahead of him. Golden bells jingled overhead to alert the shop keep that someone had entered.

He scolded himself. She was not enchanting. She was not wriggling her way into his heart like a beetle boring through wood. He needed to keep her at a distance.

She is not special. She is just like all the rest of them. Curiosity does not make her worthy of such... interest.

The Inquisitor smiled, her teeth flashing with delight, as she slid past him and nearly skipped into the store.

Solas held his breath as he felt the ripple of her aura brush his, a caress really. It was orange and fiery, much she was. The color transported him back to ancient times, it made him feel a pain for another who had taken up residence in his life, his bed. He found himself transfixed on her.

No. Just no.

His heart thudded in his chest. He tried to keep his thoughts focused on how much he should not be interested in her.

The shop keep was a thin older Orlesian man with a moustache that curled too many times. He wore a velvet doublet and crisp pants. His shop was empty of other customers, but the prices listed meant his products were considered fine goods. The man looked at them both with a strange expression, as if he could not quite place who they were. Then he must have had finally recognized her as he nearly jumped to the counter.

“Ah! How may I help you today, Inquisitor?” He asked in a voice that was much too excited, too ready to strike a bargain and make a deal. The man saw the Inquisitor as a walking bank of golden sovereigns. Lavellan smiled impishly and tucked a hair behind her ear.

“We’re just browsing”, Lavellan said to the shopkeep with a polite smile. The man bobbed his head like a chicken and made small talk. She smiled at the man and he left her to shop his wares.

She was a trained killer.

She was a dangerous spy.

She was a leader of thousands.

She was a savior of mages and a nightmare to templars.

She stood up to a would-be god, a blighted mistake of man’s folly.

She faced down dragons.

She outwit her opponents.

She was wild.

She was free.

She too wore masks; She could play an innocent or walk out of a keep covered in the blood of her enemies.

She was wonderful and terrible.

She was a beautiful combination of darkness and light.

She was grey, so very grey. Grey was quickly becoming his favorite color.

He could not argue that he knew what he wanted; He wanted her.

Solas stared at her, breathing slowly. His eyes watched her, the eyes of a predator. Her wrists were delicate. Her fingers were skillful in any task she put them to. Her neck was likely sensitive and he yearned to stroke it. Solas ached to kiss her just behind her ear and breath on the wetness just to see her shiver. 

His eyes roamed to her backside. Her trousers were cut in such a way that they perfectly defined her shapely derrière. He groaned inwardly. The tailor who made her nearly skintight trousers was doing a god's work.

The temptation to touch was real. He very much wanted to touch, to grab and squeeze, and so much more. He felt his throat constrict and he stepped inside after her. He closed the door behind him with much too vigorous a tug. She frustrated him to no end.

Fuck.

He huffed and tried to calm himself. There was no reason to stare. Fantasizing was going to just make him more frustrated. There was never going to be anything between them. He had slept for thousands of years; Then this one woman crossed his path and suddenly he’s like an uncontrollable youth, completely smitten with her and eager to get any affection he might be afforded. He felt touch-starved. It wasn’t inaccurate, but he had prided himself on his control and around her, it frayed badly.

Yes, this was going to be hard - the shopping trip.

Solas watched her move and tried to be subtle. Staring at her ass was not becoming, especially in public. His jealous heart stirred and his thoughts drifted to how many others might desire her. He knew that the Iron Bull didn't hide his interest, propositioning her often enough with his crude attempts at flirting. The thought of her with that disgusting beast sobered him greatly. He’d sooner see the qunari’s head mounted on a wall than let him touch her.

Blackwall seemed the quiet and unassuming type that would secret her away behind his back. Solas was quite aware the man has a darker past than he let on; Something familiar made Solas wary of him. In some capacity, he knew the man was a liar...

The image of the two together? Impossible. He would burn every hair off Blackwall’s body and leave him looking like a nug if he even attempted to put his lips on-

"Solas?", Lavellan turned and looked at him questioningly. He snapped his head up from his thoughts and his singular view of her bottom. He realized he was still standing in the doorway and his cheeks reddened slightly.

Had she caught him staring?

"Are you alright?” She stepped toward him and looked concerned, “I know you don't like tea. If you'd like, you can wait outside… I won’t be long."

She spoke softly, concern in her voice and her softening expression. His heart ached to whisper sweet nothings in her ears, to kiss her worries away. A loving word bubbled up in his core and he felt like it would escape his lips, whether he wanted to feel for her or not.

No. Get your head on right.

"I am fine, Inquisitor”, Solas said as he moved lithely among the tables stacked with gifts and trinkets, delicate porcelain tea sets, and luxury goods. He wanted to scream at himself, to berate himself, to whip himself raw to keep her visage from his mind and thoughts.

He let a reluctant smile grace his lips, “Thank you for the kind offer, but I will manage."

Her gaze still tore through him, and he felt like she saw the truth of who he was, and what he was here to do. He shifted in place under her speculative examination.

Finally, Lavellan relented and nodded. When she turned away, he frowned deeply.

Solas felt like a naughty child making a scene in public. His ears burned red.

He wondered what she thought of him. Did she think of him as often as he thought of her? He was supposed to be planning the revival of his people, of tearing down the veil and what came afterwards. There would be so much to do – and yet she invaded his mind relentlessly. She showed interest in him, an eagerness to do more than share a few kisses. He was beginning to doubt his convictions. She made him feel awkward too, in a way he hadn’t in thousands of years. He had grown to be confident in his ways of seduction, but never had he felt so much for someone.

Solas found himself fairly nervous around her. He cared what she thought of him, how she saw him.

What does she think of me?

Did she believe her friends and their jibes?

Solas felt a bitterness and within him an ember of jealousy sparked.

Dorian called him a hobo apostate. The two, Master Pavus and the Inquisitor, had laughed. He had pretended not to care, but he was furious.

He dressed practically!

Solas could not reveal who and what he truly was. He was a proud and noble elvhen. He was practically a fucking god. He had been worshipped. He walked among his people out of a show of respect, as a show of solidarity. He was one of the people, and yet he was so much more.

And yet the words of this pitiful little man had made his blood boil. Dorian mocked his disguise, mocked him?

Fuck him.

But it was that she had laughed that hurt more. It hurt that she had laughed along with the mustachioed man. The two were close. They always whispered words he was not privy to, smiled to some joke he did not know, and sniggered at inside jokes. He felt slighted. His temper flared. He was unsure of the man’s intentions and feared the worst.

What does she see in that ignorant fool?

The Tevinter mage was almost always dining with her, flirting with her, and he spoke with an air of superiority that made Solas bristle.

Does she really think Dorian is sophisticated and that I ’m a savage ?

She seemed so taken with the man that he sometimes fantasized about sending him back to Tevinter in the chains his people seemed to like so much. Let him feel the bonds of slavery. Maybe that would sober his disposition, the pompous ass.

Lavellan browsed the copiously stacked shelves and tables, sniffing tins and little boxes brimming with dried tea leaves and other ingredients. Solas kept his distance and his back to the walls, in case of trouble. He walked slowly, pacing the store like a caged animal. His thoughts kept him busy.

Solas feared that Lavellan would look at him like everyone else did. His heart pained him with the thought that she would not see him for who he was. Would she judge him based on what others imagined him to be? He knew better than to have any expectations, of being respected or listened to, but he had grown so fond of her… She had shown poise and wisdom when he had not expected it. She was different…

He also feared she would do just what he hoped, that she might see him for who he really was.

 Around her he felt like he could truly be Solas, when for so long he had been living in the role of Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, the God of Rebellion. He was so very tired. He could not remember a time he had lived authentically as the man he wanted to be. He always had to hold up the world on his shoulders in some way.

He felt such a kinship with the Inquisitor because she was taking on much of the same role as he had taken so long ago. She was trying to save the world, one person at a time. He sympathized.

She was incredible.

Solas pondered how she went about her days. Did she struggle with the same choices he had to make so long ago? Did she innately know what the best options were, or did she have to find out the hard way?

Did Lavellan choose to sacrifice the few to save the many, or the many to save a select few? And of her companions, did she care about them, or more importantly him?

Did she know how much he valued her? How much he craved her attention, her words, her interest? He wanted all of her, but would have to settle for the sliver he received. Even then, he shouldn’t want more and yet he did.

It pained him.

How is she so easy to be drawn to?

It must have been the anchor. It was the only reason he was absolutely smitten with her, watching her with a growing desire, hungry to sate it. It was his own magic that called to him, the anchor bound them together and he was eager to retrieve his magic back from her. He was not so desperate for a lover that he would just fall apart at the slightest smile. Somehow, Lavellan unraveled a part of him that was so deeply tied into knots.

She was beautiful in an unconventional way. She was no graceful and elegant elvhen woman, but neither was she plain. She was just - her, breathtaking with scars and freckles and imperfections that made her utterly perfect.

Sometimes, her hair hung in her eyes, and she'd blow it away. More often, she simply blew air that fluttered her bangs without success. It would leave him breathless and feeling utterly lost. How badly he wanted to grab and kiss her was a testament to his control, as he had kept his hands off her for months. In fact, he hadn’t ever touched her except for their kisses in the Fade. So his hands practically itched to touch her flesh, to tear off clothes. He needed to focus, to keep his eyes on the future and not on her.

She was stunning and beautiful and strange and alluring and exotic and yet so comforting and he wanted nothing more than to wrap himself around her and swallow her up for eternity.

A nervous energy took hold of him.

Solas shook his head, his brows furrowing at the thoughts that plagued him. He was becoming obsessive and that was not good. He had a passion for learning, for spirits and the Fade – but a passion for her?

That was scary.

It was also stupid.

He shouldn’t want her.

She was mortal.

She had no magic to draw on, her aura was practically nonexistent, and her connection to the Fade was only a single delicate thread when it should have been a massive tether.

She should have been nothing more than a pretty face to him. and yet -

Why?

It is the anchor itself, not her that draws me.

He had to keep telling himself that. It was a good excuse, better than any else he could come up with.

With that explanation he could not take the blame, he could not fault himself. It was not his own failing that led to his desires.

Solas did not want her. Or really, he did not want to want her, but he did want her.

He could be intoxicated on her presence. She disarmed him, utterly. He tried his best to be stiff and unmoving, but she was like a inexorable force of nature. Lavellan was like water droplets steadily dripping for decades, able to wear away at the strongest stone. She could cut through him to his very core, but it took time.

Time she did not have.

His chest ached and his heart throbbed. Solas felt a hard knot in his throat and he swallowed, his eyes unseeing as he scanned the tables in a haze.

She was so cute, so charming. So humble and honest. Lavellan embraced his wisdom, his words had meaning, his time and company valued.

Yes, she was ignorant like the rest of the Dalish, but she did not treat him as if he were a blight on the world. She did not act like she was a true elf, and he an imposter.

Her aura, a subdued flicker of orange, would have been glorious if she had been living in the age of elves. If only he had known her in ancient times, he would have been a very happy man. She dazzled him with her light and tamed him with her darkness. His very spirit seemed drawn to her.

It’s as if he felt love, actual passionate and romantic love, not a fictional lustful fantasy.

Once he thought he felt romantic love, but time and fate itself had proved otherwise.

He had closed off his heart after that, only risking as much as he was willing to lose, which wasn’t much. He had broken hearts, but hadn’t felt the raw heartbreak that was associated with the ending of a relationship. He feared that feeling, because he already was hurting and he hadn’t even stepped foot into a relationship with the Inquisitor.

It was scary and exciting and he hated that he loved it, that he wanted to follow her to the edge of the world and dive off with her.

It was terrifying.

He needed to keep his head clear and play the game. This was all just a temporary measure, none of these people mattered. They weren’t his people; They were barely alive.

He felt a burgeoning love for who she was, not what she was.

"Solas? Would you help me please?" Lavellan asked from across the store. His head rose and he hoped she didn’t notice where his eyes had been lingering.

She held two tins in her hands. She wore a small hopeful smile on her face. He swallowed and smiled back.

He could get lost in her eyes, dark seas of violet that churned and dragged him into the deep depths of her very being.

Solas nodded and approached her, his hands clasped behind his back. He was slow and confident, or that was what he portrayed. She made him feel out of place, out of time, and exposed. Around her, he both felt like a fraud and he felt like he could be who he truly was, a man he wasn’t sure he even knew.

Who was Solas, really?

He prided himself on his usefulness to her, being the first to offer up insight and wisdom and history and commentary in their journeys.

He wanted her attention.

He wanted her affection.

He wanted her admiration.

He wanted her.

Once by her side, he smiled slightly and arched a brow at the tins she was holding. There were no labels on them that he could see.

"How may I be of service, Inquisitor?", He asked with a playful tone in his voice.

Lavellan laughed softly. He felt his mouth smile wider despite himself. Her laughter lightened his spirit, drew something bright up out of him despite all the darkness that swirled within. Her laughter was like a beautiful symphony and he craved to hear more.

"Hm… You act like you're my man servant", she smirked, a bemused with a twinkle in her eyes.

"If only I had the honor" he said silkily, drawing a step closer. He felt her aura brush his and his skin felt electrified. He wondered if she could feel his caressing every inch of her. He wanted to do the same with his hands.

Why am I flirting with her?!

Worse yet, he delighted in her expression, the excitement and the flush that suddenly crept across her cheeks. Her eyes widened slightly and met his own. His stormy eyes disappeared into hers, swallowed up in the dark deep violet, the night sky before it turned to black. Her lips pursed before she smiled again. His own lips pursed, then parted enough for him to run his tongue over them.

Her gaze fled his, like prey. She should be desperate to escape the jaws of the wolf, and yet she dangled right before him, teasing him like a delicious feast.

She looked so innocent that it was even harder to resist temptation.

Stop.

Thank the creators that the shop keep was glaring daggers at him, because privacy at that very moment would likely snap his already weakened efforts of restraint.

And they weakened considerably at the look in her eyes, the tilt of her jaw, the delicate skin of her neck. This felt like a trap, but he didn’t care. He was hungry for her.

Don ’t.

How easily he could seduce her?

Would she even be a challenge?

Did she need to be?

He could conquer her, utterly ruin her for any other lover save himself. He could spend days, weeks, months, years worshiping every inch of her body. He wanted to show her how they did things in ancient times, how love was truly made. He wanted her screaming until her voice died in her throat, quivering until she fell to pieces.

All he needed was time.

They didn’t have time. She didn’t. He did.

She was so tempting. A temptress. A desire demon incarnate. A succubus luring him to his utter demise. His mouth watered at the prospect of giving in. He had never wanted something more than he wanted her.

Her aura stroked his body, trailing up his skin like a lover’s kiss. Solas balled his hands into fists, knuckles turning white. Her personal space was a dangerous place to linger and it felt wonderful, tantalizingly so.

If only he could rein himself in, his heart pounding and his thoughts getting carried away, fantasizing.

He wanted to capture her with his mouth then and there. Soft slips plied apart and then –

Lavellan cleared her throat.

"You need help making a decision?", He asked, snapped out of his fantasy by the reality of it all and their watching audience. Solas motioned toward her tins with a tilt of his head.

Usually so confident and able to withstand and return his teasing, his flirting, she seemed to have to search for words, "Which do you think smells better? I prefer herbal tea but..."

She held up one tin to his face. It was packed with tea leaves. Lavellan looked at him expectantly. The scent wasn’t unpleasant. He took a moment to breathe, to let the scent linger. It smelled of elderberries and a black tea that was very subtle. There was something else – something that gave him pause to linger just a bit longer. He shut his eyes.

Her aura rubbed against him, brushing his legs and thighs like a purring cat. He was distracted and it frayed at his control. He couldn’t focus even though he tried, he really did.

He preferred her scent; She smelled of spices and a faint hint of hibiscus. He wondered how she tasted, and his mouth watered. His mind’s eye envisioned her spread out before him, mewling and moaning, completely undone. His fingers twitched and his ears burned red again. How quickly he wanted to whisk her away to some darkened corner in the streets. He would pin her to a wall with his body and grasp her, his hands groping, his lips seeking. He would bite down on her ear and listen to her gasp, and it would make him want her even more.

Would she be able to resist him? He opened his eyes and he found himself staring at the hollow in her neck. He wanted to run his tongue across her right there.

If the shop keeper left them alone, how quickly could he bend her over a table and take her? How quickly could he make her his, make her beg for more, make her scream his name?

Didn’t she know what she did to him? How she made him confused and mindless, like a beast? Did she know he liked it?

Lavellan looked at him expectantly and he looked down at her, feeling his pulse race. He would have much to fantasize about later while he was alone in bed, wishing that he had her instead.

The shop keep grumbled something and moved some boxes rather loudly behind the counter. The noise made his ear twitch.

Solas took a calming breath and found himself again.

He tilted his head to motion for the next tea. Lavellan switched them, holding up the second tin.

This one was more floral. It was a green tea that was subtly scented with chamomile and some other flowers. It was also not unpleasant, but neither would tempt his lips. Not when he could imagine her -

"Suffering much?" She asked playfully.

You have no idea.

"I feel tortured, but coming here would be as such..." He drawled, looking at her with darkened eyes made of smoke. He wanted to grab her wrists, pin her to the shelves, and show her how blissful some torture could be.

"And yet you came anyway", she smiled warmly at him.

The shopkeep dropped something behind them and Solas took another steadying breath.

“Just as I would not let you walk through the city unaccompanied or suffer at the hands of your ambassador.”

He smiled as he straightened his back and drew himself away from the tins. Solas’s nose tickled enough that he rubbed it, hoping to dismiss the scents lingering there.

“Ah, ever the gentleman”, she remarked with a smirk and put the tins back on the shelf. It seemed she had lost interest them in.

He didn’t want to be a gentleman at the moment. He wanted to be a feral beast and pounce upon her.

Solas was unsure how much more his smalls and trousers would hide under his tunic, because he was slightly excited from the racing thoughts. They were getting uncomfortably tight.

Fenedhis! Fuck.. Fuck fuck fuck.

He swore inwardly at his weakness for her.

She could destroy all of his plans.

And I would welcome it …

Solas eyed her and wished things were different.

In a different world …

Lavellan smiled.

Solas was sweet and kind and gentle, but she saw a storm looming in his eyes.

Why did it seem like there was so much more to him that she didn’t get to see?

She felt as if something brushed against her skin, electrifying her very spirit. He took her breath away just standing in close proximity. He felt dangerous and it made a shiver run up her spine.

His eyes were a miasma of smoke, ash, a hurricane of blue grey that threatened to sweep her off her feet. A hint of danger, that was what she felt when she looked into his eyes.

There was a thrill of something dark there, something feral that she wanted to tame. She couldn’t stop her racing thoughts, her fantasies.

I ’d tie you up, wrap a collar around your neck. Leather cuffs… Make you beg. Make you scream.

Her libido had been a mess lately, or perhaps it was only since she’d met him. She’d been aching and wanting often enough that she thought she might very well go crazy.

She had always hated to know that female elves sometimes felt a strong pull, a desire for sex and children. Lavellan supposed it had to do with the fact they had so few children; Perhaps if not for that aching want and restlessness they might very well just die out.

The idea that she would have to live a good portion of her life aching like a breeding mare, just waiting for any stallion to appear? She hated it. She sure as hell wasn’t going to be bred, or lay with just anyone. The elves called it Avemah Avise (about to taste the flames), their words for the aching fever of wanting to make children. She wondered if the other races’ women felt something similar.

It felt like a curse, and wasn’t it hard enough being a woman? Did she really need this demon on her shoulder too? And she had to save the world?

Fuck.

She didn’t want a child, but the aching desire for making one and enjoying it? That didn’t lessen. Around him, it was like she was dangling over a fire pit, burning alive. The Avemah Avise had earned it’s name, because she felt the heat of it from head to toe.

Her body and these urges, they were hard to ignore.

And Solas being close to her made it so much worse. She took a breath, trying to keep her mind focused. Her mouth watered and she pursed her lips.

If only they were alone…

If the shopkeep just would fuck off …

But she knew Solas was ever the gentleman, and woe to her desires. He acted so prim and proper and sophisticated and noble. She wanted to feel him writhing under her, wanted to turn that clean man dirty. She wanted to show Solas the way the Dalish made love.

No, she’d show him how she fucked.

Lavellan would show him savagery.

She wanted to corrupt him. She wanted to push him to the floor and see if she could use him to fulfill her own primal needs.

Was there a fire of desire burning in him, as there was in her?

Even inside the highly scented tea shop, her sensitive nose could smell him. She always found him all too pleasant to be near, a delicious musky scent drawing her closer and a tingle on her skin.

When he had closed his eyes, Lavellan bit her lip as she took him in. She breathed in his scent deeply and let her eyes roam. He was a feast to behold, a glorious looking man that made her smalls damp and her pulse race. She wanted to grab him, maybe just a handful or two. She wanted to hear him groan and see pleasure washing over his handsome features. She wanted to put her lips on-

The shopkeep noisily unpacked something behind them and Lavellan took another steadying breath.

She sighed. They had kissed twice, only in the Fade, but it had been enough to fuel her wild imagination. She wanted to savor him, take her time, pretend she had the immortality of the elvhen to take all the time in the world to enjoy him.

To her, he seemed like a godsend, if she believed in gods - which she didn’t. He was beautiful, but not just on the outside. The compassion he showed, it made her insides do something funny and her heart flip flop around like a fish out of water. He was an enigma and she craved to know more about him, but also she wanted to feel like she could compare with him. She wished she could be smarter, more charming, more thoughtful, more interesting, more worldly, more knowledgeable. 

He was brilliant and charming, and she felt foolish around him even now. She was trying to be better. He was a wonderful example of how noble and proud an elf could be. She looked up to him, admired him more than she had anyone in her life.

How she’d managed to lure him to her to even get those kisses was beyond her.

Solas was considerate and tactful and gentle and an exemplar of a good man. When she had drank too much, he would not allow her to touch him; He would not take advantage of her. Solas seemed positively shy at times. But then sometimes he’d flirt and tease her so readily, bold and confident, that she thought he might just grab her and whisk her away to a darkened corner to ravage her.

Oh please, I would welcome it …

Solas was something else, something different. He wasn’t like her previous lovers, though sadly he was not her lover at all.

Solas was confusing and thrilling and she wanted more, so much more.

She didn’t just want to fuck him, she wanted all of him.

There was something more to him than he showed outwardly and she craved to see all of him. She wanted to know more. She felt confident that no matter his past, it wouldn’t be offputting or surprising. She wanted him to be comfortable around her, confide in her; Lavellan wanted Solas to be real.

She wanted every sliver of him; Let him be his true self, darkness and light.

When had simple attraction turned into something more?

She was unsure.

His bristly attitude remained with many of their companions, save Varric. Sometimes she thought he might just flay Dorian alive for hugging her or Bull for flirting shamelessly. Maybe she was imagining it, but it looked like jealousy.

I don ’t want Dorian, you idiot.

His eyes would bore into his target and he would plant himself in place, glowering. She saw flickers of something dark, dangerous.

Solas had always been the perfect gentleman but she saw signs of a possessive streak that should dissuade her, but instead it just got her excited. She had ceased flirting with her companions, save for Solas. That had helped with his ego, which she knew was quite large.

He was a curiosity and an anomaly. Solas stood out as an elven apostate without any roots or connections to speak of. She had not pried on his past, as he had avoided speaking about his home and people. She was curious, more than just a little bit, but she’d let his secrets be his own for now. With his noble air and education she felt like he was out of place among their party, among the world itself.

If I didn ’t know better, I’d say he was some sort of prince or something.

It was laughable.

He was so refined in his movements, careful with his meals, polite and practically at home around those of higher birth than well, most. It was curious, but he was quirky like that.

He probably learned it in the Fade.

There could be no other explanation.

Lavellan just wished that he didn’t have himself closed off to her. She wanted to explore whatever it was between them. Her body was eager, but so was her heart.

Had he suffered a heartbreak or loss that kept him at a distance?

What am I waiting for? He said he needed time, but how long can I wait?

She pursed her lips and wanted to act. She could not kiss him, she couldn't take his arm. They were in public.

“I appreciate your help”, she said as she looked past him to other tins, other teas, other products to keep her mind from going into dirty scandalous places.

Lavellan smiled and walked past him. She gently squeezed his arm in passing.

Solas smiled warmly at her touch. She wanted more than just fucking smiles.

His arm was solid, muscle like steel that made her body scream with excitement.

Fuck, what are you hiding under these clothes? Show me!

The Inquisitor went back to browsing wares, feeling his eyes upon her as she turned her back to him.

Solas watched her with a calm expression, hiding the turmoil he felt within. A small smile played across his noble features.

Her touch had nearly broken him.

He shouldn't be here; He shouldn't be doing anything with her...

He was compromising his entire efforts, all of his plans, by obsessing about her. He followed her around like a leashed dog.

The people deserved a better leader, a better savior. Too bad, this is what they’d get.

They had kissed twice and the impropriety, the possibilities, the lure of her, was eating at his resolve. She invaded his thoughts in the Waking world, and his dreams in the Dreaming. He had been in sordid and tawdry affairs with countless others, passionate and wild, but he'd seldom felt anything more than a flicker of affection for a rare few. The Inquisitor was something else entirely. For her, he felt like he might move mountains, he would worship her body until she was unable to speak, he would embrace her and shield her from any harm, lay down his life for her even.

When had his feelings for her changed?

They seemed so strong suddenly, as if he was bespelled by her. If not for her complete lack of magical ability, he would have thought it a possibility.

This fire burning in his heart for her was intense. It seemed ludicrous; They only had known each other for a few months...

This is nothing but curiosity. It ’s desire. It’s lust. It’s not -

Love took centuries, didn’t it?

She didn’t have centuries.

It was too fast, much too quick for his comfort.

It was not the way of things with the elvhenan. He feared that her quickened life was hooking talons into his heart. It scared him, truly.

He should not feel anything for her, with her short life and backwards Dalish customs. She was ignorant of the people's ways, even their language eluded her. She was everything he should pity, everything he should look down upon, everything wrong with the world and the remnants of their people.

He shouldn't feel absolutely nothing for her. Instead, he felt what seemed like everything.

What softened his views of her?

How was she any different than the other Dalish?

Oh, yes. It was her curiosity. Her spirit. Her everything.

She was wanting, readily eager and happy to listen to his stories, sometimes retellings from the Fade or his own immortal life. He had enjoyed her company and practically preened himself, swallowed up with his own damned pride, when she begged for more.

His imagination roamed once again and he walked carelessly through the store.

Oh, how he wanted her to beg for him...

Lost in thought, Solas walked into the pointed corner of a table. He grunted as it painfully jabbed him in his side.

That would leave a bruise, but he let a trickle of magic soothe his injured flesh.

He regained his composure and glared at the table, as if it had been placed before him like a booby-trap.

A rogue would do something like that.

This woman was a trap.

Lavellan was a problem, a puzzle, an enigma.

She was not a woman to be bedded.

She was not to be touched, tempting as she may be.

He had to resist her because the people depended on him and his efforts.

But she made it so hard.

Solas was relieved when Lavellan picked out her purchases and the shop keep tallied her bill of sale.

This beautiful nightmare was almost over. He could finally escape her dangerous clutches. He needed air. He needed to get away from her before he lost himself completely.

The Dread Wolf feared this little mortal woman and the power she held over him.

It was ridiculous.

Eventually she had chosen a box of fine teas and a fancy tea set. The shopkeep was thrilled to prattle on about the exquisite choices she’d made, wrapping the purchases in tissue paper and boxing them carefully. Lavellan was polite and smiled at the man, handing over the sizable cost in golden coins from her coin purse.

“I’ll use this with Josephine. I’m sure she’ll forgive my escape with some tea time”, Lavellan said brightly.

Her smile brought him joy.

He felt a pang of jealousy at the idea of her enjoying tea with Josephine in private. He might withstand tea for a chance of privacy with her. He swallowed and tried to chase away the thoughts making him feel like a rabid dog.

“One can hope”, he mused, taking her packages for her. Lavellan looked like she was going to argue about him carrying them.

He feared her touch, he feared touching her. He wanted nothing more than he wanted that.

He really needed his hands busy, occupied, or else he might not be so gentlemanly.

Her aura still rubbed him and it teased him so much so that he thought he might just throw her purchases and grab her.

Damn her!

Lavellan bowed out of the potential conflict on the box-carrying, and dashed to the door. He got another delicious view her backside and really just wanted to keel over.

The temptation was tortuous. He thanked the creators his hands were full but still-

No, no, no, no. Stop.

Solas’s nostrils flared as he soaked in her visage. She was like a ripened fruit and he was a starved man. He ached to take a bite. Maybe he could sample her, just a little bit. Succumbing to physical needs didn’t necessarily complicate his world-ending task.

If he simply told her it was casual, if there were no strings attached, he could manage couldn’t he?

He was just dizzy around her because of lust, his heart raced because of desire, his mind pictured their future together because he was a fucking idiot.

“After you”, she said with a dramatic sweep of her hand as she held the door open for him.

He chuckled.

Lavellan was a fun, beautiful, breathtaking distraction.

He loved that.

He loved her.

He just didn’t realize it yet.

Chapter Text

Another month passed.

She still had not made a decision, but knew time was running out to still have the opportunity to make one. How long did she have? She was unsure.

Lavellan sat on her bed. The white halla figurine poised on her mantle stared at her. She stared right back.

Is this fate?

She didn’t believe in such things. She didn’t even believe in the elven gods.

But still… She prayed she’d find Solas soon.

She was afraid.

She was scared she was making the biggest mistake of her life but still, she felt drawn to a conclusion that she dreaded.

How could she be a mother?

She barely remembered her own mother; How could she be one herself?

How could she possibly be any good at it?

Would she lose herself? Would she be nothing but a mother? Lavellan couldn’t stomach living like that. She couldn’t be some broodmare that was consumed by the identity of motherhood.

Surely, that meant she was a shitty choice for the role. She shouldn’t be one, not now, not ever.

She was a killer; She lead a giant organization. How would she have time for a child?

And how would it be fair for any child to grow up in such an environment? No other children, no friends, no playmates, no one…

And the dangers to her life, the threats, they’d just mark the child as a target too.

And now she was barefaced.

Her clan was angry with her, and she was already an outcast. A bare-faced outcast that was the Herald of Andraste? They would both be unwelcome among her people. Shunned.

Her child wouldn’t be welcomed to her clan or the Dalish. Lavellan couldn’t and wouldn’t raise it in an alienage. She feared being surrounded by angry and bigoted city elves who would sniff out her origins quickly enough. Did she want her child to know nothing but suffering? Poverty? Cruelty from humans and elves alike?

They would never know family…

Who would be their kin? Who could they call their clan?

Solas was already alone; Lavellan couldn’t bear to think of her child staring at her with the same sad eyes, knowing such loneliness and loss.

It would break her heart.

What sort of life could she give a child when all she lived now was war?

What about the anchor?

How healthy could her child possibly be, when she had this magic tearing through her hand? She had no idea what the anchor could do to her unborn child. What about all of the elixirs and potions she’d taken? The stress? She’d also been hurt countless times. The child might be deformed, or sickly, or maybe it wouldn’t even survive birth.

She felt a chill, a nervous sensation of doubt and fear that plagued her.

Why do I want to keep it?

She was angry with herself, all of her smarts seemed to be thrown out the window when it came to this… thing. She didn’t want it, but she did. She didn’t want to even think of a future with a child, but couldn’t get the thoughts out of her mind.

Would if have her hair? Surely it wouldn’t have his.

She let out a chuckle  at Solas’s expense. Then she choked back a sob at the pain of thinking of him.

Solas …

She had so many reasons to choose one decision over the other. It was logical to deal with this pregnancy as a problem, something to end and be done with. It was selfish to bring a child into the world when the world was so cruel.

She knew the decision she should make. She was supposed to be selfless. She was supposed to be above it all.

The Inquisitor was a shining beacon of hope, a person that made good choices. She saved the fucking world - and now she was paralyzed by indecision.

It was selfish to have a child without Solas knowing.

It was selfish to want to feel joy at having a little piece of him even if she couldn’t ever see him again.

If he were here…

He could teach their child about their people, tell them stories about the past, show them how to draw and paint…

Lavellan could practically see it. As if it were a mural in her mind’s eye, she envisioned her lover and her child, their child, utterly covered in a rainbow of paints. Together they were attempting to work on the rotunda walls. Solas had patience and delighted in trying to teach the little one how to mix paints. Their child though had other plans and splattered paint happily with their tiny hands. After dripping more paint onto the floor than was already on the walls, the child squealed as they toddled to the wall before slapping hand prints onto a freshly painted section. Solas chuckled. Lavellan’s heart swelled and soared.

Skyhold could be their home. This could be their family. This could be their future. She would spend the afternoon with them, chiding them both as paint stained their hands and clothes. They would be colorful for days. Her heart squeezed tightly in her chest. She wanted to dream, to imagine a world so at peace that she could have a family with him.

Wouldn’t he come home if he found out?

Solas would, yes. Of course he would come home.

He would love their child, he would love her again, they could all be together. It could be like a wonderful dream.

She worried it was just a fantasy.

It could be real.

She never imagined wanting a family, wanting a child, a spouse even… And yet, here she was, daydreaming of it.

She was selfish.

She was flawed.

She wanted to keep it.

Lavellan wanted to feel love, to hold someone in her arms, to help raise a small person into a wonderful adult. But how could she ever do that?

She wasn’t a wonderful adult.

She ran around stabbing people to death. Sure, she saved the world, but she had also sacrificed lives. She hated to think those who died were just like pawns in a game.

I ’m no good at this. I can’t do this!

This was a life and death decision too, and she felt she couldn’t pass judgement alone.

He said this was a mistake.

Her eyes watered and her throat felt constricted, her lungs tight in her chest. He had apologized for loving her, for being with her. He’d said it was wrong. He said it was a mistake. Was this just another? Was she just being naïve thinking she could have a child and have a future, one she wanted?

She needed a friend. She needed a companion. She needed a confidante. She would have none.

She felt like she needed someone to tell her what to do, what to choose. She didn’t want to make this decision alone, but Solas wasn’t there.

Leliana would tell her one thing, Cassandra would tell her another. Sera would probably have terrible advice.

Lavellan wanted Solas and him alone to help her choose.

What would she tell someone in her situation? If she were her own friend, then what?

If it were anyone else …

She realized that if this happened with someone else, another elf perhaps – well the choice would be easier. Not necessarily easy, but she’d feel comfortable with her decisions. Now? No, she had no idea what to do. Her heart wanted one thing, but her brain told her to be smart. If their relationship was a mistake, how much worse of a mistake was she going to make by keeping the child?

Lavellan knew that if she was a friend of someone in her position, she would tell her it made the most sense to terminate it and just move on. The man was never coming back. She had ruined what they had and clinging to their relationship with a child, in hopes he might feel guilty enough to return? It was terrible. Shameful.

But she also knew that she wasn’t trying to entrap him with parenthood.

She wasn’t trying to lure him back or force him to do something he didn’t want…

Lavellan stood up and walked, snatching up the halla figurine from the mantle. She moved to the balcony like a woman possessed. Her fingers gripped the figure with white knuckles. She stood over the edge, staring down at the majestic snow-capped Frostback mountains. The Inquisitor drew her hand back.

The halla stared at her.

She needed to let go of it.

Lavellan could not be reduced to a mother, to a title attached to offspring and not her worth.

She could not live her life for someone else.

Her face contorted into a grimace. Her eyes shut against the harsh realities of the day.

She needed to throw it away.

She needed to deal with this like the fucking Inquisitor would. Like she should.

Lavellan was selfless.

She needed to be that person that the world needed.

Except…

The world doesn ’t need me anymore.

Lavellan was selfish.

She just wanted what she wanted. She hoped for what she hoped for.

Her hand shook holding the toy so tightly that the face left an impression in her skin.

Fuck.

Skyhold became a prison. The Inquisitor paced her room, isolating herself from anyone who might notice her behavior and the softer roundness of her face, her body. She hid in bulky clothes and was sleeping very little, trying to wrap her mind around what to do.

The anchor was furious, crackling with power and sending sharp pains up and down her body. She grit her teeth as another flare tore through her, leaving her breathless.

Is it still killing me?

She feared it might very well be doing just that. Could she do that to her own child? Give it life just to go and die afterwards? Who would care for it?

Her heart ached and her body hurt. She was too terrified to do anything more than try to eat when hungry, try to sleep when tired. The day’s passed and there were few requirements of her anymore. The blight on the world, Corypheus, was gone. There was all the time in the world to relax.

Maybe her musings, her day dreams about her little family weren’t so far-fetched. The Inquisition wouldn’t last forever. Maybe she could retire. Maybe her dreams could be reality. She and her child and maybe even Solas could find a nice little cabin to call their home.

Would he tell them stories of the Fade at bedtime?

This, this was not like her at all. Lavellan smacked herself in the face lightly.

Stop it! This is stupid! Stop being stupid!

The Inquisitor huffed and puffed and growled out threats to herself under her breath. Finally, she decided it was time to put up or shut up. She needed to get out, clear her head, and do something.

She needed a distraction and staying in Skyhold was maddening.

She was the fucking Inquisitor!

Something needed to be stabbed.

Lavellan walked briskly to the war room. When she threw the door open, Cullen and Josephine were chatting and looked stunned at her sudden entrance.

“Inquisitor!”, Josephine exclaimed before grabbing her clipboard, as if having put it down were in breach of some decree or law, punishable by death.

Commander Cullen just looked at Lavellan with a gaze that was apprehensive and unsure.

“Missions. What do we have?”, Lavellan asked with a cursory glance at the map rolled out before her.

Cullen stared at her for a hard moment before he spoke, motioning to the pieces and pins on the map.

“Last year, you freed slaves from Venatori hands in the Hissing Wastes. We’ve sheltered them and while most plan to return to families… some have asked if we could provide them with work. If we choose to do so, we would only need to escort them to our closest keep, or to Skyhold itself.”

“And how can they help us? How can we help them? I do not want them walking around with buckets doing menial work, even if it’s paid. If we can’t use them, they should be employed elsewhere… Perhaps one of our allies could-”

Cullen coughed gently and a small smile graced his scarred lips. “Many of these people are skilled craftsmen. Our army could always use more engineers.”

“I see…”, Lavellan said before she looked at the note itself, scrawled in Charter’s familiar writing.

“They requested me! Charter wrote that they wanted to know ‘if the Inquisitor has a place for them as paid workers’. Seems I should make a visit in person”, the Inquisitor said with a cheeky smile.

“I don’t think it’s necessary”, Cullen said brusquely, but was surprised by her sudden enthusiasm.

“I’ll go.” She declared as she leaned down onto the table with her hands splayed.

It was a simple mission. She looked at is as if it were an escape.

Josephine wanted to say something but was biting her tongue, so her eyes darted to Cullen’s and she gave him a look.

The Commander shifted his weight and frowned, “Really. I think it’s unnecessary…”

Lavellan glanced at the two of them and got a feeling they were handling her with kid gloves. She was not a wayward child and they were not her parents.

“I don’t need permission. I’m going.”

They wanted to argue; The two advisors looked at each other and then looked at her with disapproval written all over their faces. Lavellan snorted and grabbed a piece from the table, wiggling it in her fingers.

“If anyone should welcome them to the Inquisition, it should be me.” She said it with a finality in her tone before placing the piece back on the map. That ended their objections. They knew when she put her mind to something, nothing would dissuade her.

The Frostback Mountains weren’t a friendly or hospitable environment, especially for starved and gaunt Tevinter slaves. Lavellan had suggested the slaves be posted elsewhere in their efforts to work for the Inquisition. “Don’t need them to freeze to death just to get a room here and then go into the field”, she’d explained.

There were no arguments about that.

“Find a camp for them on the way, somewhere warmer. What do we have in the Dales?”

Cullen pointed out their holdings, “There is a keep in Lydes just off the main roads. They’d be close enough to Halamshiral that they could resupply easily enough, but not so close that the dangers there would affect them”

“That will do.”

Josephine nodded and wrote on her parchment with her usual silver quill pen, “Very well.”

She’d prefer they have a layover before starting their new jobs.

Lavellan was anxious to go anywhere near Halamshiral. The stories the scouts told her made her feel sick. If she had known about the events that happened prior to her arrival at the Winter Palace, should would have likely hunted and killed plenty of people at the party. But her advisors had kept her in the dark about the deaths of thousands of city elves…

The elves of Halamshiral were slaughtered. It was only a few months before she feted at the Winter Palace with the dukes and duchesses and Empress of Orlais, Celene Valmont. She was expected to curtsy and dance and dine and laugh… with the very people responsible for her people dying in the streets, dying in their homes, dying with their children in their arms. The same people that didn’t give a shit that her people were trapped and barricaded in the alienage, and her people burned to death in a massive fire that Celene’s soldiers set as retribution and justice for the acts of a single youth.

Lavellan didn’t want to think about it. Celene had a lot of blood on her hands. Sometimes she wondered if keeping her on the throne was such a good idea. Her former elven lover and  serving girl Briala had made a lot of sense, but these humans would never serve under an elf as an empress or figurehead. The Inquisitor was only in her own position because of the assumption she was blessed by the Maker, Andraste, and sent by Divine Justinia herself from the Fade. The Empress’s cousin Duke Gaspard was a charming snake. He was also a warmonger and a brute.

All of the choices were bad. Behind the fancy masks, all of them were horrible. Lavellan thought all the choices were dangerous, but hoped no more lives would be lost because of her choices. She’d saved Celene’s life and Gaspard was exiled. Briala disappeared into the woodworks, to scheme and plot another day. Countless little people died so rich fucks could have a party dyed red with blood.

Sometimes terrible choices are all that remain …

It made her blood boil, knowing they would live their comfortable noble lifestyles at the expense of those below. She understood so well what Sera was doing with her Friends of Red Jenny. Their group of low caste people were seeking justice for those at the bottom, for those who were being shit on. She could get behind that, wholeheartedly.

The Inquisitor would welcome the newest additions to their organization. She wanted them to feel free and know peace. The Inquisition had need of them, had need of their skills, and would pay them.

“Get some scouts ready, we leave tomorrow. Josephine, please make sure they get my gear prepped with extra potions and the like. Cullen can you see to it that the stable gets my mount is ready for the trip?”

“Yes, Inquisitor” They both said with hurried nods.

It was time to get to work. Enough moping. Enough sad sack of shit daily life.

The Tevinter slaves were elves.

Surprise, surprise.

The Inquisitor ended the meeting and walked out of the room, letting the door swing shut behind her.

Getting onto the road, getting out of Skyhold, breathing warmer air, and feeling the sun beaming down on her skin? It felt like freedom. It felt like all she needed was to run in the forests, feel grass under her feet, and she could fly away. Lavellan daydreamed most of the trek west. The weather was good, surprisingly warm during the day but chilly at night, even away from the snowcapped mountains. Two days ride and they’d put considerable distance behind them.

Scout Harding kept her company with a few soldiers. Cullen wasn’t going to be sending her out alone. Going out alone was risky. They reached the camp closest to the keep just before nightfall. Her mount, her Red Hart, was still hardy and barely phased by the journey. The horses for the scouts though were tired and flagging. She patted her Hart and dismounted, handing the reigns to another scout.

“We’ve made good time, let’s rest until morning and set out then.” She said to her people. They nodded, some saluting and bowing and saying “Yes ser” and “Yes messere”.

Lavellan was happier than she’d been in, well a long time. She was missing banter, missing her friends, but she could imagine their comments. She could pretend everything was fine.

It was easy for her to imagine Sera commenting, “Oi, look who’s all fancy now! Hear that? Messere! Fancy shite, that! Wot’s my title going to be?” The blond would be bubbly and nearly hopping in place. Lavellan smiled just thinking of her and her ridiculous antics.

“Ha! That’s easy. Pain in the ass. Oh, I mean royal pain in the ass”, she would say with a wide grin and then bow dramatically with a sweep of her hand.

Sera would laugh that familiar giddy cackle; Lavellan would smile until her cheeks hurt.

She smiled a little bit and warmed herself by the fire.

The trek had exhausted her. She didn't have the stamina she had only a few short months earlier. Lavellan turned in for the night, disappearing into her tent and soon into her bedroll. She was so tired that she fell asleep immediately. Her hand clenched as her mark flickered, the bright green light obscured by layers of fabric in her bedroll. The Fade called to her and she drifted away.

Lavellan dreamt of Haven. The air was cold and crisp. The Inquisitor smiled as she poked at snow with her boot.

It was bright and chilly, but she felt comfortable in her coat, wrapped up in layers of leathers and a scarf. The air nipped at her, her ears and nose reddening at the temperature.

Haven, it would always be a part of her. Her heart ached and she thought of Solas. He had shown her a glimpse of what could be, what had been, and told her such fascinating stories. She missed him greatly. Through his stories she’d learned that her people had lost so much more than she’d ever known.

Solas was a wise man, a historian of sorts. She wondered what he was doing now. When he walked away from her and the Inquisition, what was next?

She imagined it was something important. Solas didn’t like to waste his efforts, his time. She had seen Solas frustrated at rare instances and saw a temper burning behind a mask of calm. 

I hope its worth it …

The edges of the buildings had icicles hanging, some dripping water onto frozen puddles. Lavellan’s eyes were drawn to the cabin where he-

Solas.

It was then she saw him, as if he'd been there just enjoying the view, standing beside the wall near his cabin.

Solas looked at her and smiled.

Solas!

She gasped and ran to him, throwing her arms around him like a person at sea reaching for a lifeline.

He had to feel real. He needed to be real. She needed him desperately.

She crushed her face into his chest. Her voice was but a whisper when she choked out, “By the Dread Wolf…”

Her fingers grasped the fabric of his tunic and she shook slightly, unable to stop the tears from falling down her face. They soaked into his clothes, leaving little darkened trails and small dots of moisture.

Solas held her and nuzzled his forehead to hers. She felt his nose brush against her own and her heart swelled. He was real. He was really here.

“Vhenan” he whispered with a voice as smooth as the finest chocolate, the softest Orlesian silk. It made her want to melt away. She cried in his arms and he held her, smiling.

It took her a good minute to breathe steadily enough she could speak. She swallowed and drew back slightly to look in his eyes. They were the stormy seas she knew and loved, with flecks of silver and blue. She could stare into them forever and get lost.

“My love, I have missed you truly. Vhenan…”, he spoke. She wanted to listen to his heart beat and let him speak with that melodious drawl that made her ache.

Instead, she needed to get to business.

I need to tell him.

She had to put on a brave face.

Lavellan needed courage to face her lover, or ex-lover. She feared he might run, disappear from her arms and she’d be left broken again, in pieces.

I can ’t let him walk away not knowing. I might never get a chance again…

She had a fountain of words ready to overflow from her, but instead she sputtered out “I'm pregnant.”

His response took her breath away.

His arms tightened around her and he embraced her firmly. Solas’s warm lips brushed her cheek.

He spoke with a breathy sigh, “That's wonderful.”

He was happy. Lavellan could have everything she dreamt of, everything she never knew she wanted and now it would all be hers.

What?

Her heart thudded so hard she thought it might just break free from her chest. Her mind felt fractured, her spirit conflicted.

“R-really?”

Solas’s arms were warm, comforting, but some little part of her brain started to shout at her and she wasn’t sure what it was saying, as if it was drowning in the deepest depths. She was a jumbled mess and a bubble of laughter escaped her. She trembled as her emotions roiled, waves of them hitting her. She was happy, thrilled, confused, surprised, shocked, angry, sad, scared, and then she felt dread.

The voice in her head was louder now, insistent. She felt a chill in her spine. She tried to quiet it.

Finally, something good happens!

She swallowed hard, and buried her face against his neck. She breathed him in.

There was no scent of mint. That perfectly normal scent of him, the scent of his magic, his very essence, it was missing.

The voice, it was like alarm bells ringing in her every nerve ending, in the fiber of her being. Her breath stuttered and she swallowed, her features seemingly frozen in place.

Her blood turned to ice and her heart froze as her fingers started to splay across his back, her mind working to reach that dreadful conclusion.

This time she heard it. Echoes filled her mind.

Run!

The voice was screaming louder and louder.

Run!

She sucked in a breath.

That ’s not him!

She let go of him, fingers trembling.

RUN!!!

Solas’s arms were strong and usually comforting but now they felt like she was an unfortunate mouse cornered by the kitchen tabby cat.

She looked up at him and he smiled down at her. Something in his face, in his smile, was just not quite right. She felt the voice trying to claw to the surface of her psyche, her urge to run growing with every beat of her heart.

“Vhenan? Is something wrong? I thought you would be pleased”, he looked at her with a flicker of concern. His expressions… they didn't look right. She stared and he smiled back at her but it felt off, felt wrong. His smile pulled at his lips in a way that made her feel like she was meat, but it was his eyes that were worse. They gazed at her with want, with an eagerness, and she swore she saw a flicker of something that really made her question her vision, as she glimpsed what looked like an animal’s third eye that slid over his pupil and retreated again.

“I- I just need a moment.”

Why are you still there!? GO! Run for fuck ’s sake!

She tried to draw herself away.

Hands and arms tightened around her like a great snake would capture it’s meal. Solas squeezed her enough to speak without words. She would not be leaving.

Solas held her against him, smiling that wicked smile. She searched his face as a primitive fear ran through her. She was prey trapped in the jaws of a predator.

“I need air, Solas…”, She said with dread overtaking her heart.

“This is where you belong”, Solas said with a voice that sounded like a deep rumbling purr.

“Please!”, She begged him. Her pulse was racing, her heart was pounding, her mind screaming and screaming.

Run!

That primitive fear, the fear for her very survival, skyrocketed.

Lavellan whimpered and squirmed in his arms before she tried to push him away. It was like pushing a brick wall.

He didn’t budge. She blinked back tears, trying to clear her head.

This was all just a game.

Solas loves games …

Lavellan took a shaky breath.

This was just a game of cat and mouse.

Solas grabbed her left hand and the mark flared to life. The anchor illuminated his face and the features that seemed to distort into something horrible. She saw the carefully constructed mask slide away for a moment in time. His eyes weren’t stormy blue-grey. They were otherworldly and violet with narrow slices for pupils.

“You're not Solas…” she said, feeling like she was about to be swallowed whole.

“I can be.” He said as his smile grew too wide for his face. He had fangs. She jerked away and he growled at her.

He was not what she thought he was. He was not the kind man she loved. He was not a good man. He was not even a man, he was-

He was a beast barely contained in flesh.

He looked at her with a hunger, with desire.

“I can be whatever or whoever you desire, Vhenan…”, he said as his smile curled into lips that weren't his. The color of them shifted to a dark purple, like a bad bruise.

Oh fuck.

Lavellan shivered at the voice. She let out a scream of horror as Solas’s body melted like candle wax into a woman’s form.

The beautiful monster purred, grasping Lavellan’s body to hers in a grip that was like a vice, “I’ve kept you safe…”

Lavellan knew this was not good. Not at all.

It was bad.

Real bad.

The woman had a smooth flawless purple skin that was truly stunning to behold. Lavellan stared, trapped by the woman that held her possessively. Naked breasts pressed against her. Sensual curving hips were distracting her. Her beauty seemed to be enhanced by some dark magic. Adorning her form was the most delicate of golden chains, alluring jewelry that made the woman look even more seductive and tempting. Horns spiraled from her head. On her scalp, where she should have had hair, there was nothing but a crackle of violet magical energy. A boney tail whipped around from the woman’s shapely backside, caressing Lavellan’s thigh.

Oh fuck! Desire demon!

Violet power crackled around the desire demon. The woman’s eyes had black sclera and violet pupils that blinked and stared at her like a cat’s eye. The aura around the woman glowed brightly, fanning out an overwhelming floral scent made her want to sneeze but also made her feel light headed and a little giddy.

Fuck!

The beautiful demon smiled a perfect smile. Her body pressed further against the Inquisitor with skin that was shiny and glorious, slick as if she’d rolled in oil. She gyrated her hips against her with an enticing purr. Then she brushed her lips against Lavellan’s throat, letting sharp canines slid across her skin.

Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck!

Lavellan didn’t move. She gaped at her, unsure of what to say or do.

It would figure I get fucking fucked to death!

Lavellan stared at the naked purple succubus, feeling disgusted at the sudden urges and aches that seemed to surface within her. The demon licked her cheek with a sandpaper tongue.

Lavellan flinched.

“Who are you and what do you want?” Lavellan asked as she tried to ignore her fear and excitement. Her skin shivered in her clothes and she felt hot suddenly. The demoness ran her fingertips over Lavellan’s breasts, licking her lips at her prey.

“You don't recognize me? I've kept you safe… I'm a good kitty.”, she purred.

“Kitty?”

Lavellan felt as if she’d been hit with an avalanche. Suddenly, she had understanding…

Dorian had told her it was a bad idea. Solas disliked the thing immensely. Even Cassandra seemed repelled by it.

The fucking collar.

The kitty’s collar.

What the fuck, it had a demon in it?! Is that why I kept not getting killed? This thing?! My guardian is a demon that wants to fuck me?

She couldn’t believe her horrible, rotten, no good luck.

Kitty wrapped her limbs around her like a snake. It was getting harder to breathe.

“We can be together forever! You and me, such a happy family. You need me. I'll keep you safe! Both of you.” The demon said with silky sweet words that felt disarmingly comforting, like that's all she'd ever wanted to hear.

She wanted to feel safe. She wanted to have that family, that picturesque dream of peace and prosperity, of living a simple life without fear or pain or suffering. The Fade could be whatever one wanted or imagined, if they could will it enough.

She wanted Solas, she wanted safety.

She'd settle for the next best thing.

Kitty captured her mouth in a kiss. It was sensual. It was passionate. It was hungry and sent a thrill through her that was inexplicable.

Lavellan’s mind spun and she saw her desires, her immediate wants and needs fulfilled. She wanted something in her hands, something hard and wicked and-

Lavellan shuddered, Kitty’s fingers stroked her skin, claws digging in and hurting in such a blissful way.

Oh …

Fingers slid over her thighs, parting them. The Inquisitor felt lulled into a stupor as she slid her hands over the woman’s backside.

The Fade would make anything for her, she just had to will it enough. Ragged breaths escaped her lips as her eyelids fluttered.

Just … just a little more.

Lavellan tried to imagine them in her hands. She needed them. She needed them more than anything.

Kitty crooned and Lavellan sucked in a breath.

The air warbled and shimmered. Her desires manifested into reality, tantalizingly close by.

Kitty plied at her lips and bit down on them, drawing blood.

Lavellan stifled a moan.

She saw them, a faint after image floating just behind the demoness.

They were barely visible but the more she focused, the more they looked real.

She just needed to grab hold of them.

She felt a spike of adrenaline. The Inquisitor’s heart pounded in her chest.

There they were… just waiting for her. Solid, hard and dangerous. Glistening, taunting her, teasing her.

So close …

Anticipation and excitement filled her.

Lavellan’s hands moved, grasping and squeezing before she smiled.

The hilts were warm in her grip, nearly throbbing in time with the beat of her heart. Lavellan felt the power that swelled within.

Kitty pulled away, panting. The demoness licked her swollen lips, “You like this, don’t you?”

Lavellan gave her reply wordlessly.

She stabbed two daggers into Kitty’s back.

The demon yowled like a furious feline, throwing Lavellan across the not-Haven. She flew like a cannonball.

Lavellan crashed into a cabin wall. The impact sent wood splintering, shattering, and exploding around her in a slowed ripple. The rogue flipped through the debris and landed on her feet, sliding to a halt. She sneered, daggers dripping violet blood.

Lavellan didn’t care for games, but she sure as fuck wasn’t going to die in her sleep with some demon fucking her to death.

White knuckles held daggers that were wickedly sharp and dangerously powerful, willed to be with demon slaying runes.

Lavellan stalked forward, her eyes focused and furious.

“You bitch!”, the elf spat as she started to charge forward. Her body moved like it was always meant to be here, in the Fade. She shimmered and shined with her strength of character, with her spirit burning.

Kitty backed away, hissing and looking shocked.

“We were so good together!”, the succubus cried out as her fear got the better of her. Lavellan was uninhibited speed. Kitty mewled as she turned away.

Desire stank of desperation.

Lavellan leapt for her. The violet magic shuddered as she passed through it. The bubble of sexual energy burst into a stifling heat that felt like flames singing her skin.

No one would threaten her, not even with safety, not even with her deepest desires.

Lavellan rallied her courage to defeat her greatest desires, to face this monster that wore Solas’s face.

She moved faster than the eye could see. Her body seemed to be everywhere at once, like a staggered hallucination in the heat of summer.

Her blades danced.

A slice here.

A slash there.

The demon didn't have a chance.

“No, wait!” Kitty screamed.

Down came the blades in a flash.

The runes flared bright red.

Fuck you!

The demon’s scream jolted Lavellan from her bedroll.

Shaking hands grasped at her throat. They were her own, but trembling so much that they felt like someone else’s or as if her hands had been replaced with prosthetics.

The Inquisitor tore the collar off her neck. It was warm. It pulsed in her hands.

It was disgusting. She wanted to vomit.

Lavellan leapt out of her tent. She ran in the dead of night in her underclothes to the center of camp.

She was terrified, but nothing would stop her.

She was furious, but she would best her enemies.

The fire was roaring, fanning her skin with its basking glow, it’s welcoming kiss of warmth.

Her heart was pounding, her mind was reeling.

There, she pitched that demon infested collar into the campfire.

It burst into purple flames and she felt as if something let go of her, claws releasing her very being. Lavellan dropped to her knees. She felt like she was so much lighter, a burden thrown from her, disappearing in a shriek in the wind.

The rogue trembled, her adrenaline racing, and knelt there watching the collar burn.

It crackled and popped. It sizzled and stank of something more than leather.

The Inquisitor drew her knees to her chest, trying to calm herself. Her breaths were becoming slower, almost normal.

She would never trust what she saw in the Fade; Never again.

The Fade was a place of lies… of make believe.

Lavellan hated lies.

Lavellan rubbed her calves with her hands. A shiver passed through her.

This was it.

She was truly alone now.

There was no Solas.

No more Kitty.

No more lucky breaks.

No more guardian keeping her from dying like a fool.

No more second chances.

She had but one life to live; She needed to live it.

She needed to live in the present, not the past.

Lavellan made a decision.

Chapter Text

No matter what choices she made for the betterment of people and their people, it seemed she was just a fuck up. She thought her decisions were sound, and ultimately, she saved the world by defeating and banishing a god to the Fade.

If she had done something differently, would they have won?

 She was glad that she’d managed somehow to trap that magister bastard into the Fade. He was immortal, but he couldn’t do shit there. He was locked away forever. He would never hurt anyone again.

She had relied on her courage to see her through the final battle. It pulsed in her veins, pushing her on when she should have fallen.

She relied on him, on all of them.

Together, they were unstoppable.

The ground shook under their feet and they found themselves on floating islands, rising into the sky.

The battle was hard. It was harder than anything she’d ever done in her life.

They had to win, because the alternative was worse than death.

She stood up to a tyrant, the god trying to end the world with her friends, her family, by her side. They amazed her.

They chipped away at Corypheus. Sweat beaded on their skin. Dirt caked their clothes and armor.

Lavellan’s hair stuck to her face. The magister’s blood and stinking effusions coated her armor and blades, dripping and falling in wet gobs to the dirt. The smell was nauseating.

Solas was masterful. Her lover’s staff spun elegantly in his hands. He moved like a dancer. Solas stepped forward, pivoting and turning as his hands slid across the haft. His arms thrust forward as he extended his reach. Flames crashed down onto Corypheus. The staff blurred in a quick spin. Solas’s feet slid backwards, tapped down and he turned, aiming another spell. It was as if he swayed and moved to a symphony that only he heard the music to. Icy spikes shot through dessicated flesh. If not for the whole end of the world thing, Lavellan could have watched him for hours, gazing at him with wonder and love.

It was beautiful.

The damage he did was significant. Corypheus snarled and retreated to higher ground.

Solas did not let up his barrage. His face was slick with sweat, his lips taut and his brows knit with concentration. A small wrinkle at the bridge of his nose was the only evidence of his suppressed anger.

He was beautiful.

Solas was a beast; He cast his spells with precision and accuracy. His mana usage was adept as he whipped a variety of spells at the magister, ensuring his efforts never slowed.

Lavellan wound her way through the battlefield, hopping to and fro. She dashed forward and pushed herself to her limits. The air shook, like a warning from the gods themselves. Magic exploded against her, around her.

Lavellan stumbled and struggled to right herself.

Her knees quivered and she almost fell. She felt the air shudder again and turned to see death approaching, a red missile of magic crackling as it flew for her.

Shit!

A shield came up in front of her. The metallic clang was deafening as the magic shattered against the seeker’s shield. Cassandra snarled as she took blows intended for her. Corypheus flew at them, swinging his massive clawed hands. He attempted to knock the seeker down; The woman’s armored feet screeched against the stony ground as she was pushed backwards. Her sword lashed out, striking flesh and severing tendons, chipping bone. The woman was fearless and had won her admiration time and time again.

The magister roared in frustration.

“Somebody order a shot in the face?!” Shouted a scathing voice.

A bolt sank into Corypheus’s cheek, tearing flesh from bone. The bastard bellowed and ripped it out in a spray of fluids.

It bought Lavellan and Cassandra time to scramble away and reassess. She shot the woman a thankful glance before she was off running again.

Varric was a nuisance with barbed quips and a constant barrage of arrows.

He said he wasn’t a hero. He had too much humility. Lavellan knew better. The man had already saved the world once. She loved that damn dwarf and his scathing wit.

Lavellan suspected Cassandra felt the same, but lied through her teeth about it. It amused her to no end.

They were such a good team.

Corypheus fled their reach again.

A roar split the air asunder, shaking the very earth they tread upon.

They looked up.

The dragon fell.

Dirt and dust rained down on them. Wings flapped.

They faced a massive maw of teeth the length of an arm.

The minutes felt like hours. They fought on.

They made progress, bit by bit.

The dragon was down, Corypheus was running out of options.

Lavellan felt her blood singing, chanting. Victory, that’s all that mattered.

They ran up and up and up.

Solas met her eyes with his. He was by her side, like always.

He was her rock.

A supplies cache caught her eye. He was already there, throwing open the chest and grabbing potions and lyrium vials. They had mere moments. He threw a potion to her and she drank it down gratefully.

They ran again.

Whenever she stumbled, whenever she fell, whenever she needed a boost, whenever she was facing certain death, he was there to help her back up onto her feet – literally and figuratively.

The stairs, the climb, it was punishing. She felt the burn of fatigue in her muscles

Lavellan panted, her eyes darting around the battlefield.

Keep going!

She needed to keep moving.

The darkspawn-tainted-magister mocked her, laughed at their efforts, and ranted about something. It was a warble of sound, but she wasn’t really listening. 

Blood rushed in her ears.

Varric had called her Clover because she had the “Best worst luck ever”, or some other nonsense.

Magic came raining down like bile, the power and fury of hate manifested.

Lavellan dodged and evaded, but barely.

She really needed luck on her side.

The air buzzed with power as her mark glowed brighter and brighter, crackling and making her hair frizzy. Her anchor sparked ominously, pain lancing up her arm. She struggled to control it, but control it she did. Lavellan thrust her hand into the air. Power exploded outwards, then warped the air itself and tore it like it was simply made of fabric.

The air shifted with a gust of freshness, sweet and cold. She let the power of the anchor free, the veil whipping the magister in a torrent of Fade touched magic. He screamed in pain and it brought a wicked smile to her lips. The bastard still lived. The Inquisitor snarled as the tear folded in on itself and disappeared. The rogue swore under her breath, gripped her blades tightly in her fists, and charged.

If she survived the battle, she would wonder why the air tasted so familiar.

Corypheus flooded the battlefield with his wicked power, sending shards of energy and massive bolts of certain death in her direction. It was like a terrible game of keep away, the “keep the fuck away from me or I’m going to die” kind of game.

Lavellan slid and twisted her body in time to avoid a direct strike to her midsection.

Fuck.

A bolt of dark magic whizzed past her ear, slicing into her cheek like a demonic papercut. If she’d only been a single step slower he would have sheered her head right off her body.

Fuck!

Another blast crashed into the ground two steps to her left. She pivoted and ducked low.

Another shot just barely missed her. Lavellan leapt into a tucked roll and pushed off her wrists in a flip just as the next strikes came for her.

Boom!

She was back on her feet, running. Her companions were fighting hard. The magister had eyes on her and both he and his wrath followed.

A section of earth cracked open in a fissure just a few feet in front of her, showing nothing but sky below. She skid to a halt and teetered, throwing her weight backwards to stop herself from careening off the newly made cliff.

She almost let out a nervous laugh as she righted herself and managed to keep her balance. She was precariously perched on the edge of her oblivion.

Corypheus laughed and saw his opportunity.

A large rock, more like a small boulder, flew for her back.

Lavellan felt something and managed to turn her head enough to spy the end of her part in the battle. Her heart froze and her breath seized in her lungs.

She couldn’t turn fast enough to avoid it.

No!

Her luck was shit.

Cassandra charged forward and held her shield up, protecting Lavellan. Bang! The piece of earth smashed into the shield and pinged off the seeker’s shoulder, making her twist painfully as she tried to stay standing. They both crowded the edge of their doom.

Cassandra pushed forward. It was all the room she needed.

Thank you and your Maker!

 Lavellan dashed back toward the center of the battlefield.

There, she knew there would be little reprieve. Her eyes watched the monster before her. He drew his hands together, sneering.

Then there was some sort of red flickering light before a beam of something flew right for her.

Fuck fuck fuck!

“Feel my wrath!”, roared Corypheus as he flung down a spray of red hued magic. Somehow, it made the air feel slimey and also heated it up so much that it felt like she’d just shoved her face in a lava pit. It felt like being nearly touched by liquid evil, by wrongness that also would burn her flesh off her bones.

She felt her heard lurch in her chest as her eyes met her lover’s, ex-lover’s. If she survived, she’d forgive him. She knew her guilt and actions had chased him away. There was no other explanation to the suddenness in which he left her. Solas’s eyes widened, a stunning stormy blue-grey surrounded in bright white. There would be no coming back from this.

She needed to live. She needed to see this through. Everyone relied on her. She didn’t belong to herself, she belonged to the world. They world needed the Inquisitor.

Lavellan relied on her speed, praying it was enough to send some luck her way.

The wicked magic stank. It was slippery, sizzling as it struck, earth shattered and sprayed up like a geyser.

A puff of smoke wriggled like a wisp from the place Lavellan had just been standing.

It was a near miss. The force of the magic, the might of the blow, threw her hard into the earth. She wheezed face down in the dirt. Her teeth felt like they were vibrating and her mouth was gritty and tasted of copper and iron. She choked back a mouthful of blood and pushed herself onto her hands and knees, head spinning.

“Ah!”, Lavellan gasped. Everything was a little wobbly, spinning and bright. Her ears rung with a high pitched shriek.

Get up! Get up!

She saw stars and had difficulty regaining her footing. She needed to keep moving or she was dead.

“If you desire death, you shall have it!”, bellowed the magister. More dark magic whipped her way.

The Inquisitor grit her teeth expecting to meet her end, to feel the disgusting and malevolent energy crash into her like a tidal wave of sewage and flesh-eating creatures.

The magister cackled.

Oh fuck -

Cassandra barreled into the madman, slamming him with her shield hard enough to push him across the battlefield.

She could kiss her.

Varric let his arrows fly, bolts tearing into the diseased and dead flesh on Corypheus’s body. Unfortunately, many also pinged off of him and uselessly hit the ground.

She’d kiss the dwarf too.

Lavellan sucked in a breath and focused. The ringing in her ears dulled, but lingered still.

Time was up.

Solas was fighting at the outermost regions of the rocky landing. Sweat beaded his brow.

Their eyes met. She knew everything he couldn’t say in that moment.

This was the end.

This was the end for all of them.

Cassandra was gasping.

Varric was sagging.

She was too weakened to do this anymore.

They were exhausted and had pushed themselves past their limits.

She blinked back tears.

Vhenan.

She saw his firm look, his eyes flickering with determination. He would not go down so easily. Solas would not let her fall. He would see the world saved. He would see it flourish. She struggled and sucked in air. It burned in her lungs. Her blood thrummed to the beat of her heart, the beat of drums of war. She would not see her people suffer at the hands of a monster, see the world fall while she could still draw breath.

She had to be strong. She couldn’t feel fear. She couldn’t hesitate. Solas understood, nodded, and began to cast as his eyes refocused on Corpyheus. He would give his all. She would too. Nothing could stop them, not when they were united.

There was no time to spare, no chances to do this twice. They had to get right. Together, they had to save the world.

Corypheus threw magic at her with fervor.

A barrier wrapped around her, deflecting the blows from the magister’s dark magic.

“Feel my wrath, little wretch!”

Solas vanished in a blur. He Fade-stepped across the battlefield, just an imperceptible shimmer of magic.

The barrier held as the dark magic hit it, an onslaught that would have sheered the flesh from her bones.

Hands grabbed her, thrusting her back onto her feet.

She drew in a sharp gasp as her knees attempted to buckle under her. His hand held her arm and kept her on her feet.

Blue-grey eyes met her own.

A tiny faltering smile trembled across his lips. She returned a timid smile.

Despite the risk to himself, Solas was beside her.

It was brave.

She didn’t need words to know what Solas had planned.

It was brilliant.

It was stupid.

His battlemage robes wouldn’t be enough. They were too little to deflect the claws of their maddened foe or his magic.

The Inquisitor wavered. A few heartbeats passed and she pulled away from his grasp. Lavellan glared at the magister and stood upright, her feet steady under her weight.

They would do this. They had to.

There were no pieces left in play on the board.

“I shall wear your ears as a trophy when this is done, Rattus!”, spat Corypheus.

Solas’s defenses were too meager for him to survive a direct blow, yet the elven apostate stayed close to her side. He would not stray. Her heart, he moved his staff in rapid sweeping motions, casting over and over again. With every spell, he was burning through his mana in rapid succession.

It was all or nothing.

Either it worked, or everyone died.

Two elves were all that stood against the end of the world.

It would only take a single blow to kill them both.

It was insane.

She felt a tingle on her skin. She felt his magic, tasted it in the air. It was invigorating; He smelled of mint, ethereal and refreshing. She felt like he’d breathed life directly into her lungs.

Solas was defending her, healing her, rejuvenating her, and casting offensive spells to hold back the crazed would-be-god.

It was too much for the elven mage to handle – too much to cast, yet too dire if he failed. Already his movements flagged, his mana waned.

“It won’t be long now!” Corypheus mocked them, laughing.

The magister was right. It wouldn’t be long before Solas burned out.

Every second counted.

“You are nothing! A race of sniveling cowards that shrank before Tevinter power!”

Solas drew on his mana and cast again, stumbling and steadying himself with his staff. His pallor was suddenly sickly and his skin slick and covered in dirt and grime. This was the end of his mana. His last spell. It had to count. They couldn’t fail. They couldn’t.

Lavellan pulled out a flask and poured it quickly. Everything around her became crisp and clear, as if lit up by bright sunlight, but hazy and crackling on the edges like a summer storm.

Corypheus flew up high and out of her reach.

The monster was untouchable.

Lavellan was poised to spring into action, her body practically vibrating as jolts coursed through her.

With Solas, anything was possible.

“Go, now!”, Solas yelled.

His voice rang out. It was a beacon, a caress of air on her skin, a kiss and a goodbye, good luck. Lavellan was on her feet and moving, lightning crackling around her as everything seemed to slow to crawl around her. She felt his words and intent ripple over her, smooth and slow, as the air shuddered in her wake.

She didn’t need to be told twice – there would be no second chances.

Lavellan was gone.

She cloaked herself and ran to flank the bastard. Her feet moved as fast as she could push herself, and that was considerable. She moved so quickly that Corypheus was still turning and preparing his next attack. She felt like she ran through water that parted around her. Sounds were muffled. Everything was slowed to a trickle.

Everything except her.

She blazed across the ground.

The Inquisitor was almost there, almost facing that fucking monster.

She knew what came next, but still prayed on the timing.

It had to be perfect.

The magister bellowed, “I shall sear you from the very heavens!”

This was the end – the fate of the world decided by a pair of elves, a pair of daggers and the elven woman wielding them.

A massive stone hand ripped out from the earth. The fist flew for the magister.

Lavellan was dashed for it and leapt.

It was perfection.

A feral grin spread across her face. She was ferocity incarnate.

She sparked and landed, charging up the magical rocks. They smashed into Corypheus, knocking him off balance. She pushed off and flew overhead in a glorious twist, a feat of gymnastics that would put the greatest Antivan crows to shame. The magic stones vanished.

She was going to end this – but then the song called to her.

The air around him was tainted with his dark magic. It tasted like bile, like filth, scented like a battlefield days after the dead were left rotting in the sun.

Corypheus wobbled and his eyes began to roll upwards to the shadow he sensed.

The song of red lyrium erupted around her, in her. It sang in her head, dark and sweet like a poisoned honey. The melody got louder, too loud. It was twisting around her, melodic and horrible, filling her mind and telling her to give in, to stop, to submit. It sang of chains. It sang of slavery. It sang of the glory of the Tevinter Imperium, of the bodies of elves stacked high, drained of their blood to power the spells of magisters past and present. The music tried to seize her, its claws digging into her mind like a wanting child seizing a handful of candy.

It was poison.

It curled around her, clawing and dragging at her very spirit.

Lavellan’s heart pounded.

She spun and tumbled down and down. The song wrapped around her, desperate for a hold.

“Fuck you!”, She screamed out-

Suddenly, an arterial spray.

Blood.

Blood everywhere.

She sank down, disappearing in a geyser of red.

Corypheus stared at her.

Lavellan stabbed and tore her blades through his greyed flesh.

The blades sliced cleanly through his corpse-like body. He cried out in agony and recoiled from her vicious deadly attack.

The sparks sizzled and died on her skin. Lavellan felt time resume its normal speed. She hit the dirt with her feet before leaping backwards and holding her daggers up, preparing for the final blow.

Corypheus snarled and fell to his knees, his half-rotted face contorting ghoulishly still clutching at the orb that crackled with power. He managed to stand again.

How did you kill something that couldn’t be killed? What could she do really? She had watched him explode in front of her very eyes! Corypheus had been no worse for wear when he tore through and climbed out of a grey warden’s body, whole again.

“No! Not like this! I have walked the halls of the Golden City, crossed the ages – “

Just fucking die!

Lavellan felt the pull on her anchor and squeezed her fist tight. The mark crackled with green light. The Fade called to her. A different song sang in her head and whispered for her to reach out and take what was his-  

Whose?

Corypheus plied at the orb with his evil magic.

Lavellan snarled as a power took hold of her, twisting her to its will. The orb wanted to be reunited.

It belonged to-

It was hers.

The orb sang an ancient song, green light crackling off of the surface of it. Fury that wasn’t hers filled her. It was his magic. It wasn’t for that darkspawn bastard. It didn’t belong to him!She felt a burst of pride, a flicker of something ancient and powerful and angry beyond belief. It was feral and haunting.

 Corypheus’s red essence flickered around the orb as the two magics clashed.

“Dumat! Ancient Ones! I beseech you!”

She stepped forward, her hand crackling with power.

She could do this.

The foci, the orb sang in her mind. The voice was soothing, but firm, it directed her. It commanded her. It was familiar and made her feel a swell in her heart.

Take it! Take it and be whole!

Lavellen felt the pull. The magic needed to be caught though, like threading a needle.

There!

The orb shuddered. She felt the tie between them, the magic, the string, grow taut. It felt like a lifeline.

“If you exist – if you ever truly existed – aid me now!” The magister cried out, grasping for the orb as it glowed.

The Inquisitor’s lips twisted as her hand shot out. She commanded the orb to return to her.

Not this time, you cunt!

She snarled as she pulled on the taut magical thread with the anchor. The orb shot out, smashing into Corypheus’s face. Bone splintered and diseased flesh tore, blood spraying viscerally. The orb hit her hand and she grasped it, a laugh that wasn’t hers wanting to bubble up to freedom. Lavellan felt the power jolt into her. The air rushed into her lungs with the magic that tasted of spring, mint leaves, and cool breezes.

The magister fell to his knees, twitching as the remains of his face clung to his skull. She clutched the orb and its magic wound up her arm, green light crackling vividly in the darkness.

The orb still whispered and sang within her. It floated in her hand.

End it.

Suddenly she knew how to use this power. Visions swam in her mind’s eye. Golden cities, flames, bloodshed, armor and weapons drawn, walls falling, a woman dead, betrayal, desperate actions, something about the sky itself. She was tired, so very tired.

The voice spoke, but it was weary.

Do not pause. Do not falter. You must live.

The words, the visions, they were too much. She flinched and soon she was left with a singular command, thrumming in her veins. It felt like a familiar voice that she couldn’t quite place.

Save them.

She held her arm aloft and the orb rocketed into the sky leaving a burning trail of green magic branching off in its wake. The sky erupted in a furious explosion of light. She looked up, seeing the Fade, the Beyond, so much spread out before her eyes. She wasn’t herself anymore. She was someone else. She was someone overcome with grief and loss and anger. She was someone bent on revenge and calling it justice. She was someone who was fervent in their actions, in their beliefs.

The power was hers. The orb crackled and sputtered before it died in her hands.

She couldn’t think anymore. The magic was blindingly bright. Every nerve in her body burned with how much power coursed through her. She stared into the sky, unaware of the blue-grey eyes looking at her. The sky blazed with magic. Solas watched her, his eyes leaving her to look at the orb and tear in the veil as the rift in the sky knit shut. There was a burst of radiant light.

Lavellan stumbled.

She felt lightheaded.

The orb fell lifelessly to the ground.

So did the anchor in her hand. Corypheus fell to the ground, defeated.

It just wasn’t enough.

It wasn’t good enough.

She would see him suffer.

See them suffer.

Banish them!

Banish him!

She wanted to laugh. The magic whispered. It sang. It spoke to her in a language she only knew snippets of, and not spoken like that.

The voice was familiar and a comfort.

It thrilled her.

It scared her.

She moved like a person possessed and wondered if there was a demon controlling her. What had made that orb? What had such fury and power?

She didn’t notice the massive sections of earth that rained down, big enough to flatten a house. They didn’t touch her.

Corypheus was her singular focus. He needed to pay. This ended now.

She approached the defeated magister, his jaw broken and hanging off his rotting face. The bastard couldn’t even look at her.

The anchor sang and she let its magic ripple through her. She knew what she had to do. Lavellan’s eyes narrowed.

“You wanted into the Fade?!”, her voice boomed with authority and power.

She held her hand out. The anchor surged. Corypheus’s eyes glowed green. No, not quite. They didn’t glow green so much as they were illuminated from within. She had the satisfaction to see the horror in Corypheus’s eyes as she used the anchor puncture the veil within his very being. The magister twitched and then jerked up into the air as if she’d pulled him up like a puppet on strings. The magister screamed.

Fuck off!!!

She tore open a rift with a tug of her hand.

His body distorted and warped as the rift pulled him in, bones snapping and fluids spraying. Lavellan stared at him as his entrails wiggled and were sucked into the Fade like wet noodles.

The Inquisitor glared, a glare that could turn a man to stone.

The rest was frighteningly easy. There had been so many rifts that she was well practiced.

Lavellan squeezed her hand, sending a pulse of magic back into the rift like she’d done so many countless times before.

 The rift sputtered and the magic burst in the air. He was swallowed up with a howl.

Corypheus was gone. 

It was fitting that his end came from his own doing.

The power seemed to leave her all at once and she felt like she’d been dropped into ice water. Lavellan only managed to stay standing because of a strength summoned from somewhere deep inside, one she wasn’t sure was even her own.

“Inquisitor! Look out!”

Lavellan looked up, as if snapped out of a daze.

More massive rocks fell. It seemed as if the sky itself was falling. And like usual, there was a target on her back.

Oh fuck!

Her companions were running already.

The Inquisitor’s body moved with a blind animalistic need for survival.

The rocks fell like meteors, taking out whole sections of earth.

They ran desperately, jumping and falling and crashing and stumbling back to their feet. They dashed down stairs and over fallen columns and pillars.

Massive boulders crashed around them, narrowly missing their persons. Smaller pieces broke off and pinged into armor and hit their skin and bodies.

She stumbled once and grasped onto a wall or a rock, something large to steady herself with.

They made it to the ground. The shower of giant rocks stopped, or at least they stopped trying to kill the four of them.

The Inquisitor fell in a rush, her knees too weak to hold her anymore. She managed to catch herself with her hands bracing her weight from the earth.

Lavellan laughed in a panicked and shaken burst of adrenaline. Elation and shock and the thrill of victory made her head spin.

They were relatively unscathed.

We did it …!

We won!

Their victory was short-lived.

She was not the only one to fall.

She heard a thud across the battlefield and inhaled sharply. Her head spun to the sound.

No!

A shield hit the ground before it fell onto its side with a hollow metallic clang. Cassandra’s head sank as she groaned and fell to one knee.

“Cassandra!”, Lavellan cried out and started toward her, crawling before she managed to stumble to her feet.

“I am fine…” Cassandra insisted, sounding not fine at all. The woman’s sword arm didn’t look right. It was angled sharply enough that it was quite broken, likely only held together beneath the skin because of her armor.

Lavellan shot her a look and reached her side, looking her over for any other major injuries. Their beloved seeker was banged up, but other than her arm she seemed mostly in one piece. The Inquisitor gingerly reached for her friend. With the utmost care her fingers deftly and delicately helped Cassandra to her feet, despite moans of protest from the wounded warrior. She braced her friend against her, her own legs quivering beneath her.

Cassandra pulled out a healing potion, swallowing the liquid as quickly as she could.

Cassandra looked to protest, but instead growled out a quiet, “Thank you” as she regained her composure – the potion was helping with her pain. The seeker was able to stand on her own and nodded her thanks to her friend. The elf nodded back.

The bone would still need to be reset and Lavellan was about to say something when Varric shouted.

“Hey, you know I’m hurt too!”

There was some humor in his voice, but it came out more like a rasping chuckle. Varric had a nasty gash in his jaw, deep enough that blood flowed and soaked his jacket. His chest, which was usually and quite proudly revealed to the world, was sticky and covered in a barely staunched flow of blood.

“Don’t be a baby, Varric!”, Cassandra called back to him, a small smile sliding across her features.

“Pass one here, Seeker!”, croaked Varric.

Lavellan would have felt better if not for the fact Varric looked a bit more than just hurt. He was absolutely covered in blood.

Cassandra grimaced and swore as she pulled another flask. She threw it to him with her undamaged arm.

“Fuck”, breathed Varric as he caught the flask and downed the potion as quick as he could. The hurt dwarf pressed his gloved hand against his jaw, grimacing. His glove was soon coated red too.

Solas. He was missing.

Shit!

Lavellan strayed from the others as her heart beat and worry drove her past her limits.

Where is he-

As she peered over the edge of what used to be a stairway on the side of a building, the earth under her feet disintegrated.

She fell.

Cassandra and Varric yelled out.

Everything was a blur, a mess of rock and dirt and dust.

She felt her body moving, rocks and stone grazing her skin.

She fell and twisted in the air, flailing.

How far? She did not remember or know.

She might have screamed.

Lavellan’s worst best luck struck her.

Her body hit the ground. She survived it, because while she had bad luck, it was good too. Lavellan was just too stubborn to die just yet.

The Inquisitor coughed and gasped and shook it off as she climbed to her feet. Everything looked the same, dirty and grey. She wandered through the settling cloud of dirt and debris, blinking back tears of pain. Her eyes were raw, red, unseeing.

There!

She stood, stunned, seeing Solas kneeling, cradling the orb, looking distraught.

Solas …

Solas’s pain seemed unfathomable. Those sad eyes, persisted even when he felt happiness. She wished she could draw him away from the darkness that haunted him.

Lavellan had no luck in fixing the broken man.

He seemed unchangeable, as fixed as the stars in the night sky. He seemed to live in a state of sadness, everlasting.

So often, Cole tried to help Solas as he had helped others.

It never worked.

“You are quiet, Solas.”

“Unless I have something to say, yes”, Solas said with dark eyes and a placid face. He did not frown or smile. He was cold and distant, but not dismissive. He was controlled. Lavellan had tried not to prod at his heart, intrude on his thoughts, ask of his past. He seemed to put up walls when ever the subjects were broached.

Cole shook his head, looking pensive.

“No, inside. I don't hear your hurt as much. Your song is softer, subtler, not silent but still.”

Lavellan had listened but not indicated she was doing so, did not raise her head to stare. Her throat had squeezed tightly and she said not a word.

Solas was eloquant in his speech, refined. He seemed so noble then. He was regal and thoughtful in response, yet soft spoken.

She wished she could understand his hurt.

“How small the pain of one man seems when weighed against the endless depths of memory, of feeling, of existence. That ocean carries everyone. And those of us who learn to see its currents move through life with their fewer ripples.”

Cole looked at him from under his mop of sandy hair.

“There is pain though, still within you.”

Solas nodded grimly, his mouth a hard line and his eyes stormy as he looked off into the distance.

“And I never said that there was not.”

Always he rebuffed Cole’s efforts.

Her heart seized in her chest.

The man, the spirit, the being known as Cole was always trying, always striving to make things better.

He spoke to them even when she felt broken, even when she could barely keep from crying in the midst of battle. Solas had broken her heart so utterly, it was a wonder she could fight Corypheus at all.

She had taken it hard, the ending of their relationship.  She had lost people, but the depth of his loss she could feel on some sort of spiritual level. Her very soul had fractured, her spirit crushed beneath the weight of the loss of his love.

It had been her fault, she knew that. She knew that no matter what she did, she couldn’t undo the past. Lavellan had brought this upon herself. She had lost him because of her own actions. She was a plague upon her people, and yet no representative of such a legacy.

Lavellan lived as an insult to the memory of her people and the guilt of it ate at her.

Lavellan stared at Solas as he gripped the broken tatters of the orb.

This victory felt like a loss.

It felt like a funeral.

She saved one world by sacrificing her people’s, destroying the remains of their glorious empire in her ignorance.

She couldn’t bare having caused him pain. She didn’t mean to. He had so much of it.

Lavellan was a traitor, a monster, because she never tried to find an alternative. She gave up the most important things to her people in the efforts to stop a god.

She should have tried. She should have figured out something else, something better. Her breath hitched in her throat.

She stood, staring at him, afraid to speak and breathe. Her fingers trembled and her knees quaked. She took a step forward, her feet unsure and her muscles protesting.

Again, she struck at her people’s last vestiges of culture. Again, she destroyed precious things…

Solas looked grief-stricken and her heart broke again and again.

The Inquisitor feared the elven apostate. She was terrified he would look at her again with never-ending despair and loss. Blue-grey eyes that shone with tears unspent. Those hollowed out eyes that saw civilizations fall.

She could look in his eyes and see her people’s legacy burn in them, with her the cause of it all.

She could never forgive herself.

She prayed someday, he would.

I'm sorry. I couldn’t save it. Forgive me…

Chapter Text

 (Here's a song to go with this chapter, a little bit anyway. ) Dance With Somebody by Conor Maynard

https://open.spotify.com/track/1CrofNrIpyEcoa4a6SWX4j?si=1c9b3ef0ac744154

Solas sighed, rubbing the bridge of his nose hoping to relieve the pressure from a building headache. His agents were making progress, but it was slower than he had expected, had hoped.

Everyday we are delayed, the more of our people die, the more of our history is lost.

He was supposed to be their leader, but he felt lost. He grimaced, knowing much had to do with her. He had honestly gotten used to serving under her, taking orders instead of doling them out. He had even learned to enjoy it, the lack of power, the loss of needing to command others, the lack of responsibilities. He had not envied the hard choices the Inquisitor had to make, though he had judged her harshly at times. He had not let his love of her stop his scathing rebukes, and sometimes he cursed himself for his inability to withhold such severe criticisms.

She always managed to win him over or deflect an argument into something else.  He felt like a man parched in the desert.

He missed her. He even missed their arguments.

His mind wandered.

They argued in a quiet corridor in Skyhold. Lavellan thought she knew best, and she insisted that the mages that had previously attacked them be free to join the inquisition, no strings attached. He thought it was stupid, and he was a mage. These mages had no loyalties, no reason to be trusted at all. If they pledged their loyalty, that still meant nothing. The last thing he needed was her to be hurt or killed because of her own foolish ideals. Not everyone was worthy of trust. Some would lie to your face day in and day out.

He knew that all too well.

“You think I made a mistake”, Lavellan said with a stern look. Her brows drew down and her eyes bore into his own.

“Yes. I think it was a mistake to let them live”, he said as his posture stiffened and he put his hands behind his back.

She looked irritated.

Good. Let her see what a fool she ’s being. Maybe she’ll learn. There’s hope for her yet.

He snorted as she scoffed at him, “To let them live?” Lavellan threw her hands out and rolled her eyes, “And what would you have done? Oh no, don’t answer that. Let me guess? Kill them with fire?”

He grimaced at the rebuke. She was right. His actions before… when those mages had shackled Wisdom and turned her into a demon? He had killed them all. He had burned them alive without the slightest thought. He had not cared for them. Worst, he still didn’t.

They deserved to burn.

But being tarnished in her eyes? That hurt. It hurt that she saw him in a different light. She saw a monster… Lavellan had seen the other side of Solas, the man he hid away. It was only just a glimpse of him. He worried it would be enough to turn her away.

He shouldn’t want her approval. He shouldn’t want her admiration.

He shouldn’t want her.

Solas’s jaw tensed but his eyes met hers and he saw she knew the truth of it. There was little he could hide from her, except for the entirety of who he was. He scolded himself for thinking he could even hide that much longer. She already had a glimpse of his darker nature. She could illicit information from him because his guard was almost always down around her these days. She read him like a book and it was disconcerting. He had been dangerously tricky for millenia, and one Dalish elf unraveled him until he practically fell apart. All this chaos and doubt because of kisses in the Fade. He felt sick with himself. The anchor’s magic kept pulling them together and he tried to fight it, the draw to her. It would have been easier if she was a blithering fool, but no.

She had to be cunning…

She had to make him curious.

She had to be a force that took his breath away.

She had to be something he never knew he wanted.

She had to be his.

Solas said nothing but his teeth ground together. Things were getting too heated, too emotional. He feared proximity to her because he didn’t know how much longer he could resist her. She was charming, but not in a way he was prepared for. She was charming in her realness, in her frankness, in her honesty, in her being. Lavellan was completely unexpected. She was unassuming, kind, unrefined, and utterly raw.

He had to keep his distance, but she pursued him relentlessly.

What did she see in him?

He had thought her interest in him was purely physical, but he had found quickly that he was wrong, so very wrong.

She felt something.

Solas feared that she felt more than she let on.

Seeing the flickers of hurt crossing his face was enough to make Lavellan take a pause.

She looked remorseful as shook her head, “… I’m sorry”, Lavellan said softly.

It was astonishing that she was apologizing to him. He murdered men and advocated more murder, and yet she was the one to be more mature and self-controlled? He felt shame flare within him. He did not feel his thousands of years, did not feel his age.

She made him feel foolish, but also young. He felt youthful and invigorated by her side, in more ways than one.

She was fierce and feisty.

He looked at her with a dark hunger.

Solas drew closer.

She jut out her chin, “Well, I think it’s worth the risk. I cannot judge them all based on the actions of a few.”

“You should”, he stated with a lowered voice. 

Lavellan was too foolhardy with trust, practically giving it away to anyone who would pledge themselves to the Inquisition. She was foolish enough to trust him.

Her trust will get her killed.

Betrayal was common. Relationships ended. Friendships ended. Things twisted over time.

His heart beat steadily and he looked at her. She was young and vibrant and full of life.

He did not like all the feelings she inspired in him, all the urges.

The woman put her hands on her hips and cocked her head as a wry smile twisted her lips. He quirked a brow at her sudden shift in demeanor. It was suspicious.

What is she up to?

“So then, based on your recommendation, I should distrust all mages and simply trust every templar?”

She was twisting his words against him, not misinterpreting what he’d said. He felt his nose crinkle as he scowled at the idea of trusting templars. It was reprehensible. She snickered at his expression.

What?

Lavellan could make his blood boil. His cheeks burned suddenly as she stared at him. He continued to scowl and she grinned at him. It only made him scowl more.

The Inquisitor kept smiling in that roguish way. It made him on edge. What was she trying to do to him? She was driving him crazy. Her aura trailed over his skin and he felt like jumping out of his skin. Or jumping on her.

Solas meant to have a serious conversation on the matter, but her smirks and grins and the mischievous sparkle in her eye distracted him, enthralled him. He watched with alarm as she stepped closer. Another stroke of her aura on his skin. Did she know what she did to him?

 “Maybe I should have every apostate gathered up and put in chains…” Her lips curled around her words, whisper quiet like silk or velvet, bedroom whispers.

His jaw dropped.

Damn her.

Solas hated that he loved to flirt with her. She was relentless in her pursuit of him. He enjoyed the thrill of it, though it also terrified him. She was tireless and it was truly impressive that she could dish things back and take him unawares, that she could give as well as take.

He wanted to give her something. He wanted her to take something.

He needed a cold bath.

If he was smart, and he was indeed quite smart, he’d shut this down immediately.

She was becoming too close to his heart and he couldn’t let his plans be derailed for a momentary pleasure.

His heart thrummed. How momentary would the pleasure be? He could make it worth it…

Solas was a smart man.

Even smart men did stupid things.

He had meant to stay serious, but her flirting enticed him to be bold, to be foolish. The temptation was too much to resist. Flirting was innocent fun, wasn’t it?

“Hm… chains? Perhaps, but I would prefer rope…”, he said as he met her eyes with a smoldering stare.

She laughed that magical laugh that made his stomach twist and his heart race. Lavellan tried to hide her smile behind her hands before smoothing her wild hair back with her fingers.

“Really? And why would I be foolish enough to use rope? Apostates are dangerous, and you’d just burn your way free…”

Solas moved another step closer and felt her aura ply at his, sending a thrill up his spine. He wanted to see her smile more, laugh more, to see her moan and beg and scream his name.

“Ah, but not if you tied the rope very tight”, he suggested.

He watched her lips quirk up and her cheeks turn a pretty reddish hue. It made her freckles and scars stand out.

“Be careful what you wish for”, Lavellan said with a throaty growl as she stepped forward, close enough they almost touched. Her body gave off so much warmth he could almost feel her skin on his.

She was dangerous. So very dangerous. He liked it. He liked letting her control him and wanted to see more. He also wanted to see her losing her own control to him. Oh, the things he wanted to show her, give her, do to her.

Solas swallowed hard, his adam’s apple bobbing as he inhaled sharply. She smelled of hibiscus and spice and pine needles and so utterly her.

Would it be that bad to give in? Would it be so terrible to enjoy her skin beneath his? Couldn’t he just keep it physical, nothing more?

He knew he couldn’t.

He couldn’t get enough of her.

If he dipped his toe in the water, he knew he would drown.

He wanted a kiss. Just a little of her, just a touch and a kiss to every inch of her-

 Solas stepped away from her.

“You are right. I am sorry…”, he stammered as his face flushed.

Lavellan’s playful mood died in an instant; She looked confused, frustrated, surprised and upset.

He didn’t give her the chance to question him. He was terrified of feeling with her, for her. He couldn’t let it happen. The flirting, the teasing, the anything and everything had to stop.

“Good evening Inquisitor”, he said before turned on his heel. Solas fled her presence.

He remembered the heated look in her eyes. She was stunned. He remembered how badly he wanted to give into the teasing and flirting, the allure of her was killing him.

He could not feel love. He could not risk attachment.

He needed to be selfless. He needed to live for the people and do what must be done.

Solas moved briskly to his room, his mind reeling. He wanted nothing more than to return to her and see how much of her flirting was just talk, and how much could be translated into actions.

Would she use rope? Or fabric? Chains? He could imagine her fingers tying him up tightly, her smile nearly villainous. His heart raced.

No, no, no.

He tried to tell himself it was foolish, it was just lust, it was just desire and nothing more. Solas was, deep down, a liar. He lied to everyone for so long that the truth was obfuscated by his stories, his words, his charm. He lied to himself too, but those lies were to keep him going. A lesser man would have given up already.

He had to tell himself it was just lust, just physical, nothing but the anchor and a pretty face. Otherwise, did he have the composure to keep going? Could he destroy a world with her as a part of it?

He couldn’t stomach the idea of loving her. If he loved that woman, if he had to kill her along with every other mortal on his whole world, he would break. How could he raise his people up and save the world when he was crushed under the weight of his actions?

The idea of it was horrific.

So he couldn’t love her. He couldn’t acknowledge that she was indeed a person, she was real.

He denied it with all of his being.

His psyche had taken so much punishment in his long life, but he couldn’t keep hurting himself. He needed to just see this through, get his foci back from that blighted magister, and do what he needed to in order to save his people. Everyone else, they were the living dead. They were damned.

She couldn’t be special.

She couldn’t be precious.

She had to be a thing, nothing more.

The lies he told himself kept him going.

 He knew she was special. She was precious. He knew she was real.

He couldn’t let himself love her.

Solas had told himself so many different lies, hoping to keep from falling into her arms, falling under her sway. It felt good when he did give in, it felt so very good to surrender to her.

Every day he felt such immense regret that he thought it would consume him.

He regret so much.

But he didn’t regret her. He didn’t regret her love. He didn’t regret his love for her.

He did love her. He always would. When she was nothing more than a memory, when the world had forgotten her name, when his people were restored to their proper place, he would remember her.

He regret the pain he put her through.

He would regret what he did to her.

He would mourn her.

He would always love her.

It was Ivun who pulled him from his thoughts.

His guardian cleared his throat as he approached.

“Sir, we’re ready to move”, Ivun stated with a kind smile. His voice was thick and deep, contrasting with his smile that was agelessly youthful.

Solas nodded but his eyes were distant and his face looked somewhat miserable. So many lives had been lost already for their cause. It would be a tragedy for any more of their people to die in his service.  Felassan was already gone…

Ivun was one of the youngest of their people. He had been one of the few elvhen born free before the fall of elvhenan. Ivun was born to parents that served Fen’Harel in the slave rebellions. They died in his service. Solas, as Fen’Harel, had taken in a good number of children under the watchful eye of some of his most trusted allies. Ivun had grown up with Haleira watching over him, helping him develop into a good and honest man. She had been a good influence. One could not be seen far from the other, they were siblings in all ways but blood.

Ivun had only ever known service to Fen’Harel, no master, no gods. Despite his job, guarding Solas, he was a jovial fellow. He seemed to have boundless optimism and a smile seemed easy for him. Solas envied the fact the boy seemed to have such a light spirit, a soul unburdened by the past or future. He looked at Ivun who only smiled wider at him in response. Some thought Ivun foolish, but he was simply honest and kind and warm. He was a soul that could only have been borne of freedom.

Solas still scowled in the face of Ivun’s friendly grin. General Haleira noticed the look upon their leader’s face and joined them. She did not smile often, but perhaps that was because Ivun smiled more than enough for the two of them. Haleira’s tightly wrapped bun looked flawless, not a hair out of place. It was such a sharp contrast from Lavellan’s hair, the wild madness that she chopped every few weeks with her daggers, like a wildwoman. His heart ached.

Haleira quirked a brow, “Is he bothering you?” Ivun’s smile was dashed with a pout, dramatic and childish enough that it made Solas snort back a chuckle.

“I am hurt!”, Ivun said with a huff and a forced scowl. He was ever-so-playful.

Haleira clicked her tongue at her adoptive brother and shot him a disapproving look.

Solas smiled slightly and turned to the general, “No, I am simply tired from the journey. How long until we reach the fortress?”

“It will take two days by hart. Yours is prepared for-“

“And walking?”

Haleira was taken aback, her brows rising and falling, “What?”

“I assume there are not enough harts for everyone, correct?”

“Well, no there are not enough for all, but-“

“Then I will walk”, he stated calmly.

She looked distressed at such a simple statement and her eyes darted to Ivun.

The big elf just shrugged and smiled, as if it were no trouble. Haleira looked irritated at his lack of suppport, huffing at the response he showed her. She tried to sway Solas’s decision.

“My lord, I would suggest-”

Solas shook his head and his eyes looked to the agents, made up of the ancient elvhen and modern elves that worked to forward his cause. Haleira followed his eyes.

“I understand your concern, but if the people must walk then I will walk with them.”

Solas looked into her eyes. He insisted for a reason. She must see that.

They have been alone long enough. They need me to do more than just lead them, but to walk among them.

“I see…”, his general said as she seemed to finally understand.

Ivun smiled peaceably.

Solas let his shoulders drop slightly.

Ivun clapped his hand on Fen’Harel’s back with a bark of laughter. Solas flinched.

“Perfect! We will have time to catch up! I have so many stories to share. You must tell me of your adventures, my friend!”, he boomed with a smile that would make men and woman alike swoon.

“Delightful”, Solas said with an exhalation, hiding the grimace of pain from Ivun’s blow.

Haleira looked like she wanted to crawl into a crypt to die, her expression mortified. Her jaw hung open until she managed to shut her mouth and glare at the younger elvhen. The two were so complementary, so much each other’s opposite. Ivun was warm and giving and jovial, and Haleira was rigid and strict and stern, unmoving as stone. They were his agents, his advisors, his companions, his friends. He loved them truly.

Their back and forth was consistently amusing. Solas would have wanted to chuckle, except his back was stinging like he’d been struck with a boulder. He let a sliver of magic coil into his muscle, healing the damage from becoming a future bruise.

The big man was loveable and meant well, but he was a bit much at times.  Solas felt a flicker of concern. There was a sweet innocence to the man, but it was concerning in this modern age. Ivun became attached easily, giving and seeing love everywhere.

Probably because of his childhood. Without his parents.. And there were so few children then …

He was someone who could have only been born free, because if he had been born a slave he would have been broken a thousand times over and never chanced to act thusly. He worried that the destruction of the veil would hurt the young man’s very spirit. He had so much affection for their new agents, it was disconcerting. Ivun seemed to revel in making new friends, meeting new faces. If anyone was a people person, it was Ivun. He had been too trusting to send out into the world though.

Felassan had been brilliant and cunning and a perfect spy.

It hurt to think of him.

The harts were penned and readied, wearing ancient bridles and harnesses. He stared at them with a fondness, an admiration for such beautiful creatures. He was thankful they survived the fall of their people. They were given the treatment such sacred animals deserved, their many pointed antlers painted gold and red, their coats brushed to a healthy sheen, and their heads held high.

They were beautiful and inspiring.

Solas’s heart ached.

A few breeds were outfitted for the journey. There were Tirashan Swiftwinds in greatest numbers, grey harts that were most comfortable scaling the mountains of the Hunterhorn mountains and the steep forest inclines of the Tirashan. Nearby were the Brecilian Sure-Foots with great brown coats and amiable personalities. Their rowdiest were the few Wild Harts that had been tamed, but barely. They were fine beasts for war as they had been in ages past. They were quick-witted and quick-tempered. Their harts that were hardiest for the colder climates were the Greater Frostback Elks, great white beasts with bolder grey striping than their smaller and more temperate-living kin. Solas looked them over, his heart gnawing at him.

None were red.

His mind went to Lavellan. His heart pained him.

A little over a year before, Solas had received a note curled up and stored in a tree near one of the Inquisition campsites. It mentioned a need for a meeting and good news. It was not safe for them to meet in person, so they spoke in the Fade. Visiting a dreamer was still exhausting. He needed his powers restored.

Tonight, Solas’s form in the Fade was a massive wolf with six eyes. Solas walked into the Dreaming, approaching his spy master.

Sylvae looked up at the Dread Wolf and nodded in greeting.

“I’m glad we have time for a chat”, Sylvae said with their usual smooth tone. Solas knew they kept their cards close to their chest, and they seemed cool and casual even when it was far from the truth.

“You wrote of news?”

“Yes, nothing major but I believe it would be beneficial to share” Sylvae stated before they tilted their jaw, their hair hung over their shifting red vallaslin. The tattoos were constantly on the move, sliding seamlessly from one design to another. Solas knew they were hypnotic and magical in ways even he was unsure of. He was curious but Sylvae had never shared information on them.

The spymaster continued, “There has been sighting of a Red Hart roaming the Brecilian Forest.”

Red harts were rare, exceptionally so since the fall of Arlathan.

Solas perked up at that, “Really? Hm…”

“Once captured, it would be a good motivator for-“

 “Have it brought to Tarasyl'an Te'las as a gift for the Inquisitor”, Solas commanded.

 Skyhold would be abuzz with rumors of her divinity, with both elves and non-elves expressing surprise and shock. The elven Inquisitor could use a mount as glorious as the fabled Red Hart.

Lavellan could look like a true elvhen soldier if she had the armor for it. Solas imagined her in gilded armor and hooded garb. He thought she could play any role with that brilliant mind of hers. The Inquisitor was both noticeable and not. She could stand out or blend in. The rogue was capable of such deception and sleight of hand. She could get lost in a crowd and her victims be none-the-wiser. He was drawn to her because she was a living juxtaposition of soft and hard, trusting and distrusting, honesty and deceit. Lavellan wore masks just as he did, but she held both up for him to see. He saw the best of her, the worst of her, and everything in between.

“What? Why? We need mounts more than the Inquisition does. It’s important to our-”, Sylvae argued with a soft spoken voice but a gruffness that showed they were highly opposed to his plan.

Solas simply stated, “A Red Hart will inspire elves to join her cause, which will forward our own goals.”

Sylvae wanted to argue further but the look from their leader, the great Dread Wolf, left no room for arguments.

“Have Ivun train it. He has a way with beasts…”

The spy master bowed slightly.

“Understood. It will be done.”

 Sylvae had not liked the order, but relented and sent raven’s to their agents. Within two weeks, the beautiful stag had been carefully corralled and brought to the Tirashan Forest. Sylvae had ensured that Ivun trained it, so that it would be a reilable mount when sent to the Inquisitor.

Once Solas was notified that the animal was ready to be gifted, he arranged it to be delivered to the Inquisitor, he penned the letter himself to alert the agents of the Inquisition. They delivered the letter to the war room, which read:

“We find our kin in strange places. Though we know not if you will carry tradition with you, we would see you carry pride in some form. For the wounded sky is all of ours, whether belief is shared or not. Let all see this, and convey yourself as we should be. Emmasalin var suledin evanura (May this help you persevere through struggle).”

Solas had thought himself so witty and cunning, amusing himself in his subtle message of the creature’s origins; It was a gift from him, from Pride.

It had been snowing that day the agents found the creature left like a gift, adorned with a green silk bow with golden thread on the edges. The hoofed beast pawed at the snow and shook its crown of antlers as it stood in the early light of dawn. Fen’Harel’s agents had left the red hart by the lift to Skyhold. Solas would have loved to see the expressions on their faces, but settled for Lavellan’s reaction to seeing it for the first time.

She will be delighted.

Solas stood by the stairs below the entrance of the main hall as her agents ran up the stairs to alert her. The Dread Wolf was patient as he waited and waited. After ten minutes he felt a mounting frustration.

Where is she?

He only had to wait a moment more as he heard the murmur of agents and workers make way for the Inquisitor. He looked disinterested as Lavellan walked out of the main hall and stopped at the top of said stairs. He did not smile, but his heart pounded and he was nervous with expectation.

The scouts and workers paused, gazing at the beautiful and nearly mythical creature as it was paraded across cobblestones toward the stables. Lavellan was quiet, which was unusual.

Solas expected a reaction. Her non-reaction was distressing. He felt a pang of worry, a panic that this was all foolish.

Why do I even care? Why do I even try? She wouldn ’t apprecia-

“I can’t even-“, Lavellan said breathlessly. She blinked back tears. Solas only caught a glimpse of her face.

He saw her expression.

Joy.

It was all worth it.

Horsemaster Dennet stood at the stables, grasping a wooden beam, looking like he might be suffering from an affliction of the heart. Commander Cullen stepped out of the main hall behind the Inquisitor and turned to question one of their premiere spies, agent Charter, “Is the beast something important?”

“You have no idea…”, the elven spy said as she tried to keep her mouth from dropping. The elves of the Inquisition were silent, speechless. They were in reverence.

Solas felt a confident smirk hiding behind his calm gaze. He wanted her raised up, he wanted her to be seen for the wonder she was.

Sure, it helped his own agenda too…

He looked up to the stairs again with the expectation of gloating at her reaction and saw she was gone. Lavellan was no longer standing at the top of the stairs. He furrowed his brow and his eyes darted down the staircase at first until his peripheral vision picked up movement.

Where?

Lavellan was airborne. She completely bypassed the stairs and leapt to the ground. The Inquisitor curled into a forward roll, bounced up on her hands, and flipped onto her feet. It was fast and fluid and effortless. She was agile. Solas felt his jaw slacken. She dashed toward the animal.

Her excitement must have overrode her common sense.

The agents escorting the animal jerked back in surprise at the suddenness of the rogue’s arrival.

The hart whipped its head toward her, sharp antlers lowering to a height that could easily skewer her. She slid to a stop and stared at it.

Solas felt his chest tighten with a sharp pang of panic. Tensions were high, the air seemed to crackle with the intensity of the standoff. Solas watched Lavellan’s aura flare and flicker like a flame around her.

She was being a fool, and perhaps he was the fool for having given her something so treasured over thousands of years. He had to pray that Ivun had done what he ordered, and done it well.

The hart huffed and pawed the ground, gesturing with its antlers. The two escorting the animal backed away, looking nervous and worried. Horsemaster Dennet was probably going to fracture a tooth with how hard he clenched his teeth together.

Lavellan didn’t back off or back down. She just stared down the beast, and the beast stared right back.

Solas had felt a flare of anger and panic, a growl coiling inside his throat.

If anything happens to her …

Lavellan tentatively reached out. The hart did not move, did not flinch. Her fingers wrapped around its antlers, grasping gently but firmly. As if it were a challenge, the hart stomped its hooves and pushed forward. Lavellan kept hold of its antlers and was pushed through the dirt for over a foot before the animal stopped.

Solas watched as did the growing crowd. They marvelled but also feared the beast. This seemed like a dangerous situation that everyone was scared to interfere with. Solas balled his hands into fists.

The elk tossed its head with a loud grunt, but Lavellan held its head firmer still. Nostrils flared, eyes focused, mouths drawn into a straight line. It was a stand off.

This was a mistake …

He feared she’d be injured or worse, because of him. All because he wanted to flaunt his power, treat her to something worthy of her very being, and pretend it was all for his own organization’s gains. The only thing he wanted to gain was her smile and a boost to his ego.

The Inquisitor and massive animal stared at one another until it lowered its head and closed its eyes. Lavellan tilted her head, getting closer as she bent to press her forehead to the animal’s.

“Andaran atish'an. (Enter this place in peace)”, she spoke softly. The crowd seemed to finally breathe in relief.

“Welcome to the Inquisition”, she said with a warm smile. Lavellan’s eyes were wet, or perhaps it was a trick of the light.

Solas too let out a sigh of relief, trying to not notice how hard his heart beat in his breast.

The Inquisitor was as polite to the sacred animal as she would be any Dalish Keeper. Solas’s ears perked at her voice, her words, her welcome to the great beast. She was honoring it, and so honoring him. He smiled. She was appreciative of his gift. She was worthy of it. His heart swelled. The beautiful woman was that much more beautiful in his eyes. He was enraptured by her, his eyes gazing at her with a more than just a fondness, with a love he would not admit to feeling. She was an amazing woman… She was worthy of his admiration and so much more.

 The great red stag stepped forward and huffed a breath all over her face. Its whiskered snout nuzzled against her face, rough bristles of fur tickling her skin. Lavellan laughed in delight. She ran her fingers through the red-brown shaggy fur, bringing the hart to prance in place in a show of its own delight. Solas felt a warm joy spread through his entire body.

“You’re beautiful”, she said before wrapping her arms around the stag’s neck.

As if in agreement to her statement, it let out a loud bugle that made people jump. A scout nearly fell from the parapets at the sound.

Her joyous laugh made Solas smile more than he had in ages. Using the crowd to blend in, he weaved through the people to lean against the stone wall closest to the stables. Lavellan crooned to her new mount. It rumbled and made quieter bugling sounds. It  seemed to enjoy the sound of her voice and the stroke of her hands. It’s ears flicked and it seemed to vibrate in place with energy.

“Are you excited to meet me too?”, The Inquisitor said as the red hart began to nibble on her hair, which was the same stunning color as its fur.

“That’s a fine mount you have”, Dennet said finally, the red color in his face becoming less severe. Solas crossed his arms and enjoyed the show. Lavellan grinned and nodded in agreement.

“I think you match”, the Horsemaster said with a grin as he thumbed to her hair. She and the Red Hart had hair that was remarkably the same color. Solas wanted to laugh at the observation, one that he hadn’t realized until it was pointed out.

And he considered himself observant!

They were a good match, not just in coloration.

It was meant to be.

The hart nudged her with eagerness. The Inquisitor patted its snout before giving its neck a great hug. She wound her fingers together and practically hung off it. Solas was very pleased. The Hart seemed quite comfortable with her. Its soulful eyes blinked. Lavellan nuzzled her forehead against its cheek.

“I know, I’m looking forward to taking you all over. We aren’t due out just yet, so you’ll have to hold on-“

There was a sudden flurry of movement as the hart whipped its neck back, launching Lavellan onto its back.

“Ah!”, Lavellan cried out.

The crowd gasped in shock.

The Inquisitor had excellent reflexes and held on. The hart bugled as it suddenly took off in a gallop.

Solas failed to hide his chuckle of amusement as the great beast dashed across the grounds of Skyhold. It practically paraded Lavellan around, as if she were the prize and not itself.

People scrambled out of the animals path, yelling in alarm and clamoring to safety. Lavellan laughed and held on, righting herself into a proper riding posture. She didn’t look like a fool; She was magnificent. Lavellan finally looked the part, like an inspirational leader, a savior, a glorious elven soul. Solas tried not to swoon, but failed in that endeavor as well. He had eyes only for her, a heart that beat for her, a spirit that pined for her, a body that ached for her.

This animal would start people talking about the Inquisitor and her role, her organization, especially elves. They would whisper, and whispers could change the world.

She was a beacon for hope and courage.

He wondered if fate existed, if this was always meant to happen, if she was always meant to have Skyhold, the hart, the anchor, him…

The hart was always meant to be hers. It was beautiful.

In that moment in time, Solas believed that they could be together. They could be a pair. For a moment, the world melted away and he only thought of her and him. This crowd, these people, he saw only her.

She was worthy of his love. He hoped he was worthy of hers.

She was beautiful. His heart was always meant to be hers.

In the present-day Skyhold, Lavellan had somehow successfully hid her pregnancy from all, save for Leliana. She had needed the time to come to grip with her condition. She had struggled for over a month to come to a conclusion. Now, she just needed the confidence to speak to her friends, her advisors. She swallowed, desperate to clear the knot in her throat.

Lavellan had made her decision.

As evening came to a close, she walked to Josephine’s office, knocking once.

“Come in!”. The Antivan woman called out.

Lavellan let herself in and shut the door behind her, pausing for a deep breath, then finally turning to her advisor and friend.

“Inquisitor. I’m surprised to see you at this hour”, Josephine said as she put her pen down from her previous intense scrawling.

How do I start?

Lavellan spoke quietly, her brows furrowed and her demeanor looking grim.

 "I need you to reassign the servants cleaning my quarters, washing my clothes..."

Josephine sat up and looked at the elf with a startled expression.

"What have they done to displease you?", Josephine asked, a flush coming to her cheeks.

“Nothing! It’s not like that, it’s-“

Shit no, Josie … ugh. Fenedhis.

Lavellan grimaced at the difficulty, at the misunderstanding. She ran her fingers through her hair, trying to shake her nerves. Josephine was her friend. She would be startled, sure, but her fears were unnecessary, right? Josephine looked at her and pursed her lips, her brows knit in worry.

“Then what?”

“It would be easier if I showed you."

Josephine arched an eyebrow and stood from her chair, stepping away her desk with her clipboard in hand.

“Showed me what?”

Lavellan looked anywhere but at Josephine’s eyes before she pulled off her cloak, revealing her previously hidden pregnancy. She hated that she resorted to some sort of dramatic reveal. She just couldn’t speak with how nervous and anxious and scared she was. It was easier, but only just.

Josephine’s eyes widened.

A gasp.

The clipboard clattered to the floor.

 The woman’s reaction was like a stab to her heart. Lavellan winced as she felt her mark flare with pain quickly following.

“Oh my - I can’t even- are you okay?”, Josephine rushed to her, clipboard forgotten. Her friend took her hand gently, leading her to sit in a chair like a doting mother. As if her thoughts had run away and answered her, Josephine shared her never-ending thought process aloud, “The pain will pass. Are you keeping it? Of course you are. There’s so much to do to prepare! We will need a crib, a midwife - I know someone who spoke wonders of-“

“No! None of that!” Lavellan said in a panic as she gripped her friend’s hand a bit too hard. Josephine was jolted from her rambling thoughts as Lavellan practically begged, “I can’t have anyone know. So the servants, they can’t come to my room, they can’t deal with my things, no visitors… Understand?”, Lavellan said, her eyes big and fearful, pools of amethysts.

“What? But you must have-“

“Think of how many enemies I have Josie… A baby? You really think any child of mine is safe, even here?”

Josephine frowned, her eyes scanning the elven woman with concern.

“But-“

“That’s an order.”

Josephine sniffed and then pouted somewhat, making Lavellan’s tough demeanor soften. She knew her friend was scared for her, but also excited. And it was a relief to tell someone, finally. Lavellan chewed her lip and looked at her expectantly. Josephine was a trusted friend and she would do what was necessary, she knew that.

“I understand”, Josephine said with a nod of her head. She then gave Lavellan a gentle hug, which the elf accepted gladly. She needed touch and felt starved for affection.

Lavellan spoke firmly, "Order nothing out of the ordinary. No one can know... And the Dalish, We-we do not raise children with possessions and luxuries, but with family...”, she said as her eyes drew away. Her stomach churned and her heart felt crushed. Lavellan had only her father until she was a teenager. Now, she had no one. No family. There was no one to help her. Her clan would not come to aid her, to give her much needed help and resources and information.

“We are family, are we not?"

Lavellan looked up at her, cheeks burning with shame.

"I-I suppose", she stammered out as she felt tears welling in her eyes.

“We definitely are. You have family. We will be here and we will help you through anything and everything.”

Josephine hugged her gently.

Josephine patted Lavellan’s shoulder affectionately. The Inquisitor watched her friend walk over and  pick up the clipboard from the floor.

Would the others take this as well?

“I- I need you to tell Cullen”, the Inquisitor stammered. Her shoulders drooped and her body looked much more tired than she had when she walked in the room. She no longer had to hide under the guise of normalcy.

“Oh. You would not prefer to do that yourself?”

“I can’t… I just, I can’t-“, Lavellan said nervously.

I can ’t let him look at me with eyes full of disappointment. I can’t.

"Do not worry yourself. I will inform him"

Relief washed over Lavellan's face.

"Thank you...." She says with teary eyes.

Josephine returned to her friend, giving her arm a gentle squeeze.

“You will be fine, we will make this work. You saved the world, this is just another challenge.”

I hope you ’re right.

The elven woman prayed that was the case. She definitely hoped motherhood would be easier than saving the world. She had no intention of having to do that again. Maybe domesticity and a simple life would await her. She couldn’t imagine it though.

Hours later, after Lavellan had left to sleep and the candles had burned low, Cullen arrived to Josephine's office. She was writing up a storm, choosing to order certain things that would not be out of the ordinary for the Inquisition. She would not let her friend go through this without some comforts, good food, good health, and support. Cullen knocked on her door, tired from the day's work and wondering why he was summoned in the dead of night.

"Come in."

He opened the door, shutting it tightly behind himself with a quiet carefulness.

"I received an urgent missive, what is it?"

Josephine motioned to the empty chair.

Cullen furrowed his brow.

"That bad?"

He ran his fingers through his hair and sat in the chair. He poised himself on the edge of his seat, looking a little anxious as he leaned forward.

"We are going to discuss a sensitive matter, but before I speak I must ask… Will you stand with the Inquisitor, no matter what?" He felt his mouth go dry. Was this about the lyrium? He had struggled, yes - he knew that. He still had nightmares, still shook sometimes. The tremors in his hands were not that noticeable, or so he thought. He stared at Josephine and felt his jaw tense.

Cullen frowned deeply, "Josephine, what is this about? You know how I feel... I am nothing but loyal. Has someone said otherwise? Is this about my-"

"She's having a child."

The commander felt words die in his throat. Cullen’s mind froze mid thought. He sat there with his mouth ajar momentarily until he felt his thoughts resume, now racing.

How? Who? When?

"What?", he gaped with an astonished expression.

Josephine sighed, "Lavellan is… and it will complicate matters, yes. But she will not always be the Inquisitor, after all..."

Cullen gripped the chair’s armrests with white knuckles. Josephine frowned at his stiffened posture and state. The commander’s lungs protested until he remembered finally to breathe, "And she’s-"

"She's keeping it, yes."

Josephine noticed the dumbfounded look on his face, before it made way to a reddened flush.

"Maker's breath... It explains her behavior... So, now what?"

He scooted back in his seat and released the chair’s arms. His hands seemed unable to stay still. He was restless as he began rubbing his knees and then his hands found his hair, his jaw, his face. His hands pulled at his expression, before Cullen let out a deep sigh. Josephine watched as he tried to wipe the tiredness and sleep from his eyes.

"We prepare, we keep her hidden and safe, and we support her."

"Really, a baby?" He still seemed to struggle with the concept.

She nodded and felt the need to bring home the gravity of the situation to Cullen, in case he was still struggling.

"We are her family now... She has no where else to turn. Will you stand by her?", Josephine asked.

He snorted and waved off Josephine’s question, looking slightly offended, "I will stand with her until the end of my days."

The Antivan shook her head gently as her smile came with a relieved sigh.

“I don’t suspect a child will usher in the end of your days, so that’s likely unnecessary”, Josephine said with a little mocking smile.

Cullen chuckled weakly.

“I should hope not.”

It was the following afternoon, after a brief meeting in the war table room, Josephine and Leliana left leaving the two alone in the room.

Cullen cleared his throat as he looked at Lavellan from across the table. The map was laid out with pins and notes on missions. She glanced to him and then her eyes fled to the map. He felt a knot in his chest. It hurt.

His eyes searched her for answers, his voice a trembling warble thick with emotion.

“Elyssia, why didn’t you tell me?”

Lavellan inhaled sharply and looked up to his eyes, feeling caught in a trap. It was so rare that anyone spoke her first name, that it almost sounded strange to hear it. She looked at him with doe eyes, her back to the door.

“Please”, he begged her. He looked like he was wounded.

“I was afraid…”

“Afraid?”, he kept his distance and didn’t approach her even though he wanted to.

She is afraid of me?

He always thought of her as fearless. The woman stabbed a blighted god and send him to the void. She saved the world. She slayed dragons. She was afraid? Of him?

Cullen held his breath, heart beating and feeling sick to his stomach.

His eyebrows rose and then furrowed, confusion muddling his face.

“I- I didn’t want to disappoint you…”, she said as her eyes began to leak.

Cullen could not stand by and watch her fall to pieces in front of him. He quickly moved around the war table and strode to her.

"Maker’s breath, how could you possibly disappoint me? You're an amazing woman that's done the impossible! Look at what you've done! No one in this world could do what you've done and if anyone can tackle motherhood it would be you."

His voice was calm and firm, but gravelly from the emotions tearing through him.

Lavellan sucked in a breath as her tears fell, unrestrained. She stifled a sob and looked away from him, her cheeks red and her miserable expression clawing at his very soul.

Cullen took her chin in his hand and tilted her head up, forcing her to look into his eyes.

“I will help you, support you, no matter what. You are selfless to a fault. You worry about everyone but yourself. You helped me with my lyrium addiction. Saw to it that Cassandra kept an eye on me. Helped me stay on my feet when I had lost hope. You helped all of us so much. You saved the world! And you did it all with a smile on your face! You astound me! All this, even though the anchor pains you, you do your best, you always give your all. How could I ever be disappointed in you? I know you do not believe, but I do. I believe that the Maker put you here and that you are the Herald of Andraste.”

“It wasn’t - If not for the anchor-”

“The anchor didn’t save us. It was you. Your power doesn’t come from this”, he motioned to her glowing hand. “It’s from here”, he pointed at her chest.

He meant it.

The heartfelt gravity of his words floored her.

She cried and he frowned. Cullen put his hands on her shoulders. He was not the hugging type, plus his armor wouldn’t make for a very good hug. He hoped this would suffice. Lavellan sniffled and sobbed.

“I’m not very good at this…”, Cullen bemoaned.

“Keep going”, she said as a little laughter interrupted her sobs.

Cullen chuckled, “Oh, so you did all this to fish for compliments? Very tricky. I suppose you are also an excellent rogue.”

“Yes, it was a long con…”, Lavellan said with another little laugh bubbling up.

Cullen smiled as she drew a hand up to grasp his arm and squeeze it affectionately. He looked into her eyes and saw a friend, an inspiration. She was not like anyone he’d ever known. He had faith in her to a degree that she was nearly on a pedestal. He could aspire to be as good as she was.

Lavellan sniffled and wiped at her eyes, her lips turning upwards into a small smile.

"You’re not that bad at this… but I highly doubt I’ll defeat the next big bad with my heart...", she scoffed gently.

"Well if anyone could, it would be you. You have my utmost faith”, Cullen said with a warm smile.

Cullen was positive that Lavellan would be a great mother, a great leader, and continue being an inspiration for years to come.

Chapter Text

I've included music to go with the chapter:

Black Leather by Call Me Karizma

https://open.spotify.com/track/2e96RRtIrC2yBye5QwebHF?si=14e67e9035494f52

No Gods No Masters by Garbage

https://open.spotify.com/track/56Fv0B4phzb9VxOdC4aczt?si=2c81ee7ac86d4d6d

Rage by Halocene

https://open.spotify.com/track/4pEuLFIeBYOPdd7fpoAWNR?si=e1ca7b825a694083

Solas learned early on to play The Game or die.

He saw it everywhere. Everything was a part of it. Life was a transaction. Relationships were used to get ahead. People were used and discarded. Friendship and romance were fleeting and ultimately used for gain in some capacity. This perspective that life was just part of the Game, it was comfortable to him. It was his normal. He was so entrenched in this world view that to argue otherwise with him would be futile. There was so much evidence to support him, but that did not mean he did not wish for change. He wanted to build a world without a Game to run it. He wanted people to have true freedom to live and die, to decide their fates. He used people to achieve his own goals because he had to, he saw no other way to live.

He worked toward a better future, but a future was for the elvhen and no one else. His heart ached, when he would not have felt much only a few years earlier. She changed everything.

He thought of her, his dear heart. The Inquisitor was introduced to the Game in her short life around the same time he himself had in his immortal one. He had been but a child. He shook his head, knowing that he was molded by the Game and it made him into who he was. He feared that it would change Lavellan too, more than he ever could. He hoped he was wrong.

He did not want to see her become who he was made to be.

In Elvhenan, over eight thousand years earlier…

Solas stood dressed in fine armor, the likes he had never worn before. It was shining silverite with leather greaves and protective chainmail. It shone brightly and made him look like the moon reflecting on the surface of water. His vallaslin stood out on his bronzed skin, a shimmer of silver in the symbol of Andruil. His hair was tied back into a ponytail of braids, decorated with metal rings, beads, feather, and bone. He wore a wolf pelt over his shoulder and tucked into his belt. It was one of the few possessions he owned to his person, a hard won kill that became his warmth in the cold winters. The master did not furnish them more than threadbare blankets. His belt was mostly decorative and his back held his weapon, a six foot long glaive. The weapon was topped with a terribly sharp blade spanning over a foot in length. Most warriors did not use pole arms or spears for battle, but Solas wasn’t like most warriors. He did not rush in like a fool with a sword or an axe. He did not defend with a shield. He poked and prodded and punctured flesh until his prey fell.

Solas blended in with the other fighters in the Colosseum, many walking around in armors as fine or finer, with weapons big and small. He looked to see a gathering around a board, a glowing parchment lighting their faces in blue. Solas made his way to the small crowd, vying to see what they are all looking at. Unfortunately, seeing didn’t help him as the paper is a list of sorts with writing he cannot read. He did not know his letters, only his own name, which he found in a bracket with some other writing across from it. Some of the fighters grumbled and turned away. After a moment, the majority left to sharpen weapons or practice on floating training dummies.

Solas was left standing in front of the board, furrowing his brow. His master would not allow him to learn to read and unfortunately the rest of his slaves were also illiterate. They were not bothered by it, but Solas was. His first scrawlings were drawings, not written characters. He drew notes that he passed in secret to his fellows in his master’s home. When he fought a great beast, he would spend hours drawing the event on parchment or even walls, as long as he knew he could clear it all away before the master found out. It was his one act of rebellion and it brought a smile to his lips, when he found himself in a safe enough place to dare smile. This was not a place for smiles. He saw himself at a turning point, either he would do well in these games and be rewarded or he would do poorly and likely be sold off, or worse.

A voice spoke behind him, raising his hackles because he had not even noticed someone was there.

“You look lost”, said a woman’s voice. It was gentle and had a warmth to it that could put fools at ease. Solas stiffened and turned his head slowly, to show no fear and to give no indication that he had been surprised.

“I am not”, he said as convincingly as possible.

The woman had impossibly dark hair that was tied back into a ponytail, bangs cut short and wisps of hair curling in front of her ears. Her dark skin sparkled with pale orange vallaslin. Her master served under Mythal. He heard whispers that those under Mythal were blessed, lucky even. His master ordered him to kill whoever got in his way. He had to comply. There was no alternative.

Solas wondered if he would kill her on this day. It seemed like a waste. She was pretty to look at, but so were the others that were now rotting corpses. He narrowed his eyes and looked at her, his eyes tracing the tattoos on her features. A blessing from the gods wasn’t going to save you from certain death. Or he didn’t think so.

He looked back to the board, his brow furrowing with frustration. The characters glowed. He was desperate for knowledge, yet it was denied. His ignorance grated on him. Solas felt her eyes upon him.

The woman smiled just a little bit, almost imperceptibly small dimples showing with an upturn of her lips.

“I can see the look in your eyes. You cannot read, can you?”

Solas furrowed his brow, his eyes betraying him as he glanced to her face, then at the words, before returning to her.

She was not haughty, she was not mocking, she was not teasing. She seemed genuine. Genuine people got killed. He was supposed to take any advantage he could. Be ruthless and bold.

He growled his response, “No.”

Her head dipped in a nod before she stepped forward and ran her fingers over the glowing parchment. Characters glowed brighter in the wake of her fingertips.

“Tell me your name”, she said as her eyes scanned the words, names in pairs for battles.

Solas crossed his arms and put his weight on one leg, arching a brow and trying not to sneer. He did not trust her, he trusted no one. It was harsh and cruel and lonely. Slaves killed slaves. Slaves sacrificed others to get ahead. It was a cruel world. It was a life borne of desperation, envy, fear, and hate.

He kept silent.

His master’s slaves would do anything to ingratiate themselves with him, to earn praise and rewards. They were treated like dogs, except the dogs were treated better. They did not have to hunt to survive. They were fed regularly. They were given temperate housing and not left out in the cold to fend for themselves against the elements. He had to hunt and kill to eat, to skin pelts for warm blankets and leathers, to live like an animal. The life of a slave was purely transactional, they were a commodity to be bought and sold. Even within slave society, everything was a transaction as they bartered skills, sold their bodies, and traded favors to survive. Some winters were too cold, some meals too meager, and clothing and armor needed mending. Solas suppressed a sneer. He should throw anyone down in his path, trample them, kill them all to get ahead. He should, but he did not. He was a stupid foolish boy that shook at the injustice of it all, with a quick tongue and a bold fierce spirit. Solas was a youth that had yet to be broken, yet to be tamed by his cruel master. He was beaten often for his insolence. He needed to learn faster.

“Tell me yours first”, he said defensively. He practically bristled like an angry pup afraid of a gentle hand reaching for him.

The woman smiled at that and even chuckled softly, turning to look at him.

“Seems you are a true warrior of Andruil – so distrusting”, she smirked. Something mischievous danced in her eyes and she shook her head gently. Was she teasing him?

“You did not answer”, he stated plainly. He would not play along with her games.

He hated games.

He would not play.

Games got people killed.

Solas felt a pang of regret and a flood of emotions. He hurt as memories hit him like a tidal wave. He felt like a little boy again, fear spiking and his heart jumped in his chest.

Solas had been playing with sticks and stones…

He remembered her hands.

His fingers trembled and he balled his hands into fists.

Solas blinked and hid his emotions behind a mask of calm and took a deep breath.

The woman turned from the board and bowed to him, showing him a level of respect he had never been given in his life. It stunned him and he inhaled sharply, stepping back. She made him feel off-balanced and confused.

“I am Lailani. And you?”, she brought her smile under control but her eyes looked like they shimmered with mirth. Her name meant ‘she who guides the lost’. How fitting, when he was so utterly out of his element and very much lost. He furrowed his brow, searching her face for malice, for trickery, for some angle. She must want something.

“Solas”, he said curtly. He knew she would probably mock him now – they always did. He hated his name because he had no real pride to speak of. His name was but a remnant of the child he once was. He tried to distance himself from his childhood, the pain of loss, the weakness he had. He was strong now, and he’d prove it.

Lailani did not mock him, instead she nodded before turning back to the board. “Solas… here.” She pointed to his name. He wanted to growl but suppressed it. He knew the characters for his own name.

Lailani then pointed to the written characters across from his name. “And you will be fighting Vahari”, she stated. Her expression darkened.

His mind tried to equate sounds to symbols. Did each sound, each syllable, equate to a character? He furrowed his brow with frustration.

“Vahari?”, he asked as he glanced toward those training nearby. There were many, a sea of skin tones and hair styles, armors and leathers, and different weapons.

The mirth was gone from Lailani’s eyes, “Yes. He has fearsome strength. He has fought here countless times. He slays all those he fights.”

Fenedhis.

She looked concerned and even frowned. “You have not fought in the games before”, Lailani stated as fact. She was correct.

Solas gave a nod, “This is my first.”

“It will likely be your last”, she said with a dark look crossing her face, her eyes looking like deep oceans of black.

We ’ll see.

Solas snorted at that, “Just point out this Vahari.”

Lailani motioned to a male elf that looked like a wall of muscle, two and a half heads taller than the rest. He had very little armor on, practically leaving his stomach and chest bare, wearing only leather bottoms and belts holding his greaves and arm guards in place. Vahari had amber skin and wild red hair that flowed from him like a flame. His vallaslin were black and everywhere, not just his face. His whole body was marked for his patron god of Elgar’nan. His weapon was a massive two-handed axe with an edge that had been sharpened enough that it looked like it could cleave a hair in two.

Solas shifted his stance, feeling a nervousness that he tried not to show. Maybe it wasn’t nervousness, maybe it was fear. He did not want to feel a thing, but especially not fear. He’d fought plenty of people on the battlefield. Surely, this would be no different.

Shit.

Lailani stepped past him and looked over her shoulder.

“It was nice to meet you. If it’s any consolation, I wish you luck.” She said with a nod before leaving him.

Lailani joined two men in a corner of the competitor’s area. All three had Mythal’s vallaslin. The smaller of the two had dark skin and a mohawk of hair and dark brown eyes. The man lounged against a pile of bags and crates with his legs up and feet wiggling. He laughed easily and chewed on a long thin plant, a strand or stick of something that bobbed in his mouth. He wore a little armor, but his chest was mostly uncovered. The mohawked elf’s skin was littered with an assortment of mostly faded scars. He looked as relaxed as one could possibly be. Solas thought he was an idiot already. Someone who acted so carefree had to be stupid.

The other man was tall, broad, and powerful looking. He was a blonde with loose kept hair tucked into a sloppy bun with strands spilling over his shoulders. He was not what most elves would consider the standard for beauty, though he was undeniably beautiful. He was chiseled, with a wide jaw and pronounced brow. He practically oozed machismo. His armor was gold in color with engravings and intricate designs. He stood out among the others, not just because of his armor and masculine looks. He had a short beard. Solas felt small.

He had never seen an elf with a beard. Hair was status. The man must be someone important. He felt a curiosity about the blonde and what he had done to achieve such rank.

As if he had called the man’s name, the blonde looked at him with a piercing stare. His eyes were amber colored like honey. Solas met his eyes with his own, stormy grey with flicks of silver.

You don ’t scare me.

Neither would look away or back down. Solas refused to be intimidated. The blonde let a slight smirk graced his lips before he rolled his shoulders and put his hand on Lailani’s back. Solas’s eyes darted to his hand, the intimacy of the touch. The elf whispered something into her ear. Solas’s face burned with a rising heat, a growl nearly in the back of his throat.

Solas kept silent.

He felt envy.

He felt anger.

He felt like the butt of a joke.

Lailani said something and the man chuckled, his eyes never leaving Solas’s.

He hated  him already.

Solas felt like the guffawing fool couldn’t possibly look more stupid as he chewed that twig.

Simple-minded …

The blonde turned to look at his jovial companion, before making some other remark to Lailani. She laughed softly, tossing her hair behind her shoulder. The blonde smiled at her with a warmth and affection in his expression, a stark contrast from the piercing stare Solas had been met with.

Solas felt a pang of envy. They all had some status, some freedom, friendship, glory… If he had been brought up under Mythal, maybe he could have learned to read, maybe he could have learned to trust. He felt a bitterness in the back of his throat.

Solas felt envy clawing through him. His aura flickered.

The other man, the mohawked fool, laughed and hopped up onto the pile of things he’d been lounging on. With quick feet, he dashed across the equipment caches before he jumped down onto a barrel. It teetered from the weight of him.

Flailing limbs.

The barrel wobbled before it tipped.

Mohawk man fell in a dramatic flap of his arms, backwards off the barrel.

He yelped as he hit the ground. Dirt kicked up in his wake and he grinned like a child, stick still jutting out of his mouth.

Lailani looked unsurprised, and the blonde just chuckled.

Solas snorted with derision.

The fool surpassed his expectations of stupidity. Solas was loathe to think that this idiot had a higher standing in life than he did.

Solas drew his eyes back to his competition.

Enough distractions.

Vahari trained with a dummy, swinging his axe in broad sweeps. He had range with it, he had strength, and he was huge. Solas frowned and stepped back, leaning against a pillar to watch. If he were to survive this bout, he needed to be smart and skilled. Bravado and fury would only get him so far, and this man would end him quickly if approached like that. Instead of training, he only observed.

Booming drums sounded the commencement of the games. The first matches started, and he paid them no mind. It would not do to watch the others and die in his first match. He could watch if he survived. When he survived.

Vahari was skilled, but Solas could see weaknesses. He needed to exploit them to survive, but could he win? The man was huge, but slow. He favored his left side, and he had a deep scar running up his back. His bulk was concentrated in his upper body, so he would be top heavy. Solas’s mind worked quickly to devise a battle plan. He visualized scenarios, seeing the brute swing for him. He needed to keep his distance, as his glaive would still give him a long reach. He just needed to stay away and be swift like the wind. In these battles, ‘anything goes’ was the order of things. He could play dirty, though it was not his first choice.

Honor mattered, but a corpse couldn’t win much honor from the grave.  It was laughable. As if he would get a grave.

His master would move on quickly. Solas was only a prize while he could bring the master accolades. Failure meant his worth was spent. He would be worthless.

He would be dead, either fallen in battle or at the hands of his master. Solas’s eyes narrowed and his lips formed a harsh line. He feared dying alone, but knew a quick death would be preferable to one provided by his master.

A shudder ran through him.

This battle would change everything for him.

Survive or die.

The match before his ended in a roaring crowd and the winner walked out of the ring, blood covering them as if they had bathed in it. Solas watched the elf walk across the ground, leaving a wet trail of bloody footprints behind them. Bloodshed was part of his everyday life. His scars and eagerness to jump into the fray were testament to his training.

Vahari turned to the doors when their match was readied. Eyes flicked to Solas and the other competitors looked at him with pity, sympathy, mocking smiles. He furrowed his brow and stared forward. The big elf hefted his axe onto his shoulder, looking down at him with a toothy grin.

“I will make this quick for you, little one”, Vahari said with a deep voice lacking in animosity. The man offered to make his death quick, the best offer he could get from a fellow slave in these games. Some would have him butchered, drag out his death until he begged for the killing blow. Vahari had honor. Solas would not be joyous if, no when he killed the man.

Solas turned to look up at the man, staring at his face. Vahari was going to be a challenge.

He had no intention of being killed. That did not mean that luck was on his side.

I will have to make my own luck.

“I will do the same”, Solas said with a little nod of confidence.

The man guffawed, “You are a bold one!”

Solas gave a single curt nod. The drums began, pounding along with his heartbeat and growing in intensity. He felt the ground under his feet as he walked toward the doors that loomed like a threshold to the afterlife.

They boomed. His ears rang with the cheering, the whistles, the screaming, the chanting, the fervor of a crowd looking for entertainment and bloodshed. His nerves were tense, his body nearly shaking as a tremble passed through him.

Stay calm.

The massive doors opened to the ring and the two were released.

The ring itself was very large, the size of a pond or larger. The walls were high, spattered with blood and scorch marks from the previous matches. The crowd was a cacophony of noise overhead, like a raucous sea of madness. High above it all were gilded thrones and tiny little figures, tiny only because of distance. Solas peered up at them. Were they the fabled gods? The Evanuris? His lips pulled into a sneer.

Vahari was announced as some champion of some such battle and previous games and stomped toward the center of the ring. Solas hung back, eyes darting about. There had to be a way to win, other than hoping to tire out the man. The longer the match lasted the more likely he was to die.

Solas was no fool, he saw the odds were not in his favor. His chances of survival were low.

“And the youth fighting today is Solas, warrior of Clan Terisin”, announced a booming voice over the nosie of the crowd. Solas felt his blood run cold as the crowd actually booed him. He didn’t expect their praise, but their ire? That made his jaw tense and his muscles clench. He bristled with anger.

Fools! They put us here to entertain you so we don ’t strike out…

Solas had his suspicions that the most troublesome, influential, and powerful slaves were pit against one another in the games in order to maintain the status quo. Slaves couldn’t exactly go against their masters with the power of the vallaslin controlling them, but it was possible they could have colluded to make some changes. These games kept those who could potentially wield power at bay, occupied with survival and glory instead of machinations of a better life in society.

Gaining rank among slaves usually meant ruling over them, in some capacity. Those that survived and still made names for themselves, who performed well, who were loyal to their masters and obedient, sometimes had the rare opportunity to become Keeper. A clan’s keeper kept slaves in check, and the cycle continued. A clan was just a quaint name for a house of slaves, with their clan name taken from their master. They were his pets.

A Keeper could read, could write, had their own room, had their own meals, and even their own entourage of slaves in their service. Keepers professed dedication, order, and acceptance. They controlled who was tasked with which jobs and often times who lived and died. They ensued that the work of their master was carried out. As a perk of their important role, they got to entertain themselves and enjoy whoever they so pleased.

Keepers were monsters. Mathras, his Keeper, was no different.

He was the slave every slave feared and hated.

Mathras was a cruel bastard, often times doling out the master’s punishments onto others himself. The man seemed to find a sick thrill in the screams of others. The screams kept Solas up at night. As early as he could remember, he avoided the Keeper’s gaze. Mathras had an affinity for children. Solas wanted to slit the man’s throat, but that would be too kind of a death for him. There were many threats within the clan, all of them reporting back to the Keeper. The head of the pecking order, just below him, was the First of the Keeper. He was the head lackey. Their job was to tell tales and weave stories, betraying and ensnaring fools that opened their mouths. The clan watched and listened for opportunities to ingratiate themselves to the First, to the Keeper, and to the Master. Solas had been lucky he had lived as long as he had, a scant forty or so years.

Trusting anyone in a clan was beyond stupid. It bothered him to see all of these other competitors did not act similarly to him. They didn’t seem concerned about those around them, fearful or distrustful of their clan. Solas snorted at the idea of clan meaning something, something akin to family.

A family would not send a child off to die in some game for the amusement of others.

Before his thoughts could run away with him, drums sounded the start of the match. Vahari wasted no time as he rushed forward, swinging his axe for Solas. The youth jumped back and fled toward the edges of the ring. The crowd hissed and booed. Let them yell and scream at him, he only cared to survive this. He would never care about what the people wanted.

The young warrior’s hands went to his glaive, grasping it with white knuckles. His hands trembled. He had some magic at his disposal, but his barriers were short lived and would not survive a direct blow from that axe. Solas knew he needed his smarts to keep him alive, but his heart rate and fear made it hard to think. He needed to stay calm, but he needed to breathe to stay calm. His heart betrayed him, his lungs screamed, his chest felt like a constricting cage for his organs. Vahari’s blade would free him from such physical limitations. The man would kill him.

Move! Move!

Vahari stormed forward at a frightening pace. Solas leapt away, heart pounding in his ears. His blood raced in his veins and he felt his breathing come in rapid clips. Vahari was surprisingly fast for his size. He moved like an oncoming avalanche. Muscled rippled and his body charged toward him.

Fear prodded him to stay alert. The boy did all he could to keep away from the promise of death. Dirt and rocks scraped his bare feet. His braids tangled and wrapped around his face and neck like seaweed as his head bobbed and ducked from killer blows. For what seemed like forever, Solas was kept moving, his lithe body forced to duck, dodge, roll, and dance away. The only positive was Vahari was losing his patience and growing angry, a sweat breaking out across his brow. No matter how often Solas darted away, Vahari was quick on his trail. He could span the distance in a heartbeat, swiping at him with his axe. He swung again and again, and again it just barely missed removing Solas’s head from his body. The blade sliced past his face. A sharp pain sliced into him as it nicked his cheek. The blade didn’t just marr his face. It severed two braids from his head. They fell to the dirt.

When Vahari stormed after him, he pivoted on his heel and thrust his glaive for the man’s legs. He missed, but Solas managed to hook the blade behind one of his ankles, sending a massive man crashing into the dirt. Vahari grunted as he stumbled and nearly fell. Solas retreated. It bought him time to run away. Time to think. Time to live.

Solas grit his teeth, his heart feeling like it might explode with his growing panic. He had fought many battles, killed countless others in war, in the games the masters played. This was not a war. This was not a weaker opponent or someone at his level covered in armor. He feared he could not use his surroundings to his advantage. He felt lost. He felt fear, terror even.

Fenedhis! Think!

 Solas knew he needed to use his magic, he knew he needed to tip the scales in his favor before he ran out of opportunity, ran out of time.

Vahari was on him again, practically upon him with his bulk. The axe swung with the might of a falling tree in a hurricane. Solas ducked low. The blade sliced the air where he’d been standing and he thrust his glaive into the brute’s left calf.

A roar of pain, blood sprayed into the dirt. Solas felt blood slicked hands grasp uselessly at his glaive, unable to grip it to pull it free. Vahari howled and his blade came crashing down.

Solas released his weapon in time to jump away. The man’s axe chopped his glaive into chunks. The injured brute grimaced and ripped it free from his leg. He limped toward him, his eyes burning with fury.

Solas wanted to laugh. He’d struck the first blow, but now he had no weapon. Vahari moved again, but his steps were off balance. The pain was making him move stiffly, the blood loss was profound. The dirt became muddy. Solas danced away again, braids trailing him.

Time seemed to move very quickly, dizzyingly so. The young elf found himself getting closer to the walls of the exterior of the ring. Soon he was nearly trapped. His head spun. How did he get there? His heart pounded and his blood thrummed with a song of war. He looked around, desperate for ideas, for some way to earn more time to breath and live. The fire haired man panted, his grimace deep and his eyes blazing.

“No where to run now…”, said the man in between gulps of air.

Solas was tiring as his adrenaline waned. He stared at the man, who stared back. There would be no begging for his life. There would be no saving him. Solas had to be his own hero, his own champion. He would learn from his, he would survive and he would learn.

He would never rely on just a single weapon again. Solas thought desperately as his eyes flicked across the ring.

I need a dagger.

 Vahari leapt for him. Solas’s aura flared before he sent out an energy blast into man’s mind. It was enough to stagger him, earning Solas a window of escape. He took it and ran. His body protested, his energy flagging. He had enough mana to maybe survive, maybe cast a few more spells. He ran for the blood slick dirt. Vahari roared in anger and spun on his heel. He chased him across the ring, charging across like a bull with its horns down.

Solas leapt and rolled, grabbing a fist full of dirt with one hand and his other grasping onto his prize. Vahari came up on behind him with his axe raised. Solas spun to see the man, his eyes widening as fear shot through him. Vahari glared at him, his eyes full of boldness.

The man did not fear him.

He should.

Solas threw dirt in his eyes. A yell of outrage rang out as Vahari sputtered. The beastly man crashed into him. Solas was emboldened. Their bodies met in a painful clash of muscle, skin, and bone. Solas felt the man knock the very air from his lungs as he crushed him into the ground. Solas’s dirty hand tried to hold back the man’s massive arms, to prevent any killing blows from the axe he still wielded. His blood covered hand slammed up into the man’s chest and stomach repeatedly. Vahari snarled, throwing Solas to the ground and stumbling back.

The bigger man looked winded, hurt, confused even. His chest and stomach gushed blood from gaping wounds that hadn’t been there moments earlier. He stumbled backwards, looking to the youth who sat in the dirt, covered in blood. Solas held the broken tip of the glaive in his hand like a dagger.

He could win this.

Vahari’s aura suddenly flared a deep green.

Vahari’s mouth dripped with spit and blood as his body changed. Muscle grew, rippling and twisted and changing. His limbs elongated, his body grew larger and larger, fur rippled across skin, his eyes blazed and his teeth gnashed into massive fangs.

Solas was too stunned to laugh, to cry, to taunt, to do anything but stare.

He stared at the face of his death, the face of a massive bear.

He was sent here to die. He felt a tremor in his limbs. He forgot to breathe.

He thought of all his smarts and he wanted to laugh at how stupid and foolish he truly was.  There would be no escaping death itself.

The bear charged at him.

In his terror, Solas scrambled to his feet and ran. He called his mana to his hands and spun in the dirt to face his death with pride.

Solas was a fool.

Solas was a dead man.

He was going to die, but he would face his death.

He was nothing but a child, but he would die a man.

A fireball tore from his fingertips.

The bear roared in pain as the fire hit its target, its injured leg. It’s body twisted in pain before eyes blazed with renewed fury. The smell of burning fur and flesh scented the air. Solas backed away, limbs trembling.  Blood rage fueled the elf-turned-bear.

Blue-grey eyes widened at the beast.

Solas didn’t have a chance.

He let out a nervous laugh, fingers grasping the broken glaive. His heart thumped in his chest.

He would die on his own terms.

No more running away.

Solas dashed toward the bear with swift steps driven by his adrenaline. The bear reared up with a bellowing cry. its massive claws outstretched. It had to be ten feet tall, a wall of muscle and fur and claws. Solas felt like a passenger in his own body watching his own death unfold before his very eyes. His heart pounded in his ears, deaf to the sounds of the roaring crowd. He was fast, so was the bear.

Vahari’s body came down, claws slashing.

Solas let mana flow, his aura flared brilliantly.

A flash of light.

A sizzle.

A rumble of thunder.

A roar.

A boom cracked in the air and a shockwave shook the ground.

Claws met flesh.

A scream of pain.

The bear seemed to completely overtake the young elf as he fought for his life. It was nothing more than a mass of muscle and fur blanketing the smaller form beneath.

A desperate thrust.

Blood sprayed, a gushing arterial flow.

Fingers trembled as they fell away.

Solas fell under the weight of the massive beast, swallowed up by its bulk.

Death sang its haunting melody.

The crowd screamed. Thousands of voices roaring, the sound shaking the very air.

Elves in the audience jumped up and rushed to the edges of the stadium. They crowded the balconies, clamoring to see.

The bear shook slightly on quaking limbs.

The people stared with widening eyes, watching with bated breath. 

The bear let out a groan as it sank down over the elf’s body.

The crowd quieted to a hush.

In the silence, the bear collapsed in a great thump.

Death.

The red pool grew wider.

All was still and silent, save for the gurgling of blood gushing onto the ground.

Hushed whispers, expressions of shock, murmurs rippled through the people.

This was the game.

Risk and reward.

A glimpse of something in blood and fur.

The glaive.

The edge of the broken weapon stuck out from under the beast’s jaw, as its jaw hung open and its tongue lolled from its mouth.

A hand reached up, soaked with red as it grasped at the blood slicked fur and pushed limbs away.

Gasps.

Solas pushed against the crushing weight as his muscles screamed in protest. He trembled as he rose to his feet.

His armor was in shambles and damaged, his arms tore open, blood pouring from wounds.

Solas’s biceps were raked with deep gouges, slices from claws that found their mark.

The bear’s form melted away, returning to that of an elf.

The crowd screamed in shock, in outrage, and in awe. They screamed for their new star.

Solas had been the underdog and the underdog won.

Vahari was dead.

Solas had done the impossible.

The boy had challenged one of their champions.

The boy had won.

Was it luck? Was it skill? Was it smarts? Did it matter?

Solas stared up at the screaming crowds, a mass of bodies that blended into a sea of colors, no one person identifiable other than a shape with pointed ears. He wavered on his feet. Everything was a light-headed whirl from blood loss.

A bubble of laughter escaped his lips as he stared up at the crowds.

They would cheer him now? These people would rally under him when they had just vilified him? Hypocrites. Solas took a deep breath and let his mana stem the bleeding. He grimaced as the world came in to clearer focus. He regretted not knowing better healing spells. Solas was aware of the screams, the chanting, the hoarse yells as he returned to the competitor’s area.

Would there be a healer? He frowned, unsure. If not, he feared his glory would be short-lived, as his next match would be his end. If injured, he would die at the hands of his next rival.

Ara’nan was shocked when the boy walked out of the ring covered head to toe in blood, alive. It was the exact same expression they all had.

The big bearded blonde watched the boy with renewed interest.

He won?

Lailani was speechless. He nudged her with his elbow.

“Ha! You lost! I’ll take my payment when we get back”, barked their companion with a jovial tone that did not suit the mood. Immediately he regretted making a bet with him. He felt a flicker of humiliation flare in his belly.

Idiot!

The blonde hissed at him to quiet.

Revanas wouldn ’t know discretion if it bit him in the ass.

Lailani glared at them both.

Revanas looked stupefied and his face scrunched up, “But Ara’nan you said-“

“Shut up.” He said with a tremulous growl.

Revanas’s mouth snapped shut.

“What did you learn of him?”, asked Ara’nan.

Lailani seemed to be pulled from her thoughts and looked to him. She still seemed far away, but she attempted to focus.

“This is his first game”, she said quietly, her eyes never leaving the boy that dripped with blood. Solas returned to the competitor’s area and walked with his head held high, a head with a few less braids.

Ara’nan managed not to gawk at her words, at the boy.

What?

A red stripe bled down the youth’s cheek like a badge of honor.

He ’s but a child!

Children in the games were fodder for seasoned warriors such as himself.

Like Vahari …

This is a death knell. But here he walks alive when Vahari is very, very dead. Is he a prodigy or just a lucky little fool?

Ara’nan hid his surprise. The boy had bested one of the strongest competitors in his very first match in his first games. A deeply hidden part of himself was curious, intrigued by the boy’s potential.

What would happen if he were properly trained?

Andruil’s slaves were formidable, but usually they were so quick tempered they were easy to dispatch. He was actually stunned. This child actually thought before he acted. How unusual.

Lailani frowned and Ara’nan wondered what she was thinking. She had such a soft spot for underdogs. He supposed this boy would be her newest fixation, a cause to champion. He sighed.

That’s all he needed.

A pet.

He groaned inwardly.

Ara’nan looked to the board as the magical parchment glowed, shifting names into the next set of brackets. If the boy continued to win, against the odds, he may be paired against one of them. Ara’nan smirked. It was beyond unlikely. It had merely been bad luck that the boy had even been matched with Vahari, as usually newcomers were matched with someone more their own skill level.  Ara’nan wondered about that. He assumed that this child had really pissed off someone to get matched with a former champion. He scratched his beard thoughtfully. They were seasoned veterans of the games, with Ara’nan having the most wins of the three. Lailani had the second most, and Revanas was last because he slacked on his training and made stupid mistakes, then waved them off. It was a wonder he wasn’t dead yet, in all honesty.

The golden haired warrior yawned and stretched, leaning against a pillar and glancing at Solas with a side eye.

Let ’s see what the boy can do. I doubt his luck will continue, so he’d better hope for a miracle.

Solas felt the blonde’s eyes on him again. He bristled and ignored it. Lailani glanced to him and his chest thumped with the beating of his heart, which did not calm at meeting her eyes with his own.

Lailani gave Solas a tiny nod of respect and a smile that showed in her eyes.

Solas’s heart raced but he feigned a reserved calm. He was a good actor. In another life, he would do well to don masks and play a role, weaving stories of truth and lies. He gave a curt nod back before finding a bench to rest on. His muscles burned and his body ached. He pushed more mana into his limbs, managing to heal a little more damage so he wouldn’t bleed to death. The wounds knit somewhat, still oozing a trickle of blood.

He grimaced. Solas knew the scars were going to take time to heal and he already had enough scars from the master’s wrath. The blood was the problem, it was a distraction he didn’t need. He wiped it with a dry patch of his wolf pelt, making the fur look even more gruesome. He scowled at the blood sodden fur.

Ara’nan smirked and confidently approached Solas. Other warriors took notice and gathered closer, curiosity piqued.

“You put on quite the show, little wolf”, the man chuckled.

The others smirked and grinned. A murmur rippled through them. Solas met his eyes with his own, his steely blue-grey meeting fierce amber. He was not in the mood.

“Nothing? Hm… I wonder if I can make you sing.”

Solas sneered, flashing white teeth, a stark contrast between the red that coated his face.

The blonde laughed at his response. The crowd snickered and whispered. Solas knew he was the fresh meat in the competition. He felt a burn of shame, a fury flickering in his heart.

“Oh my. I quake with fear!”, the man said loudly.

The people around them chuckled, all save for Lailani. Her eyes looked distant and her face a slate of stone. Solas searched her face. Did she pit this moron against him? Did she do this?

Ara’nan continued to jab at Solas’s minuscule pride, “Beware the dread wolf, for he takes your life in his wake!”

I won that fight, you pissant!

Solas’s shoulders stiffened. His eyes flickered a bright blue in his burning anger. He would see this man fall at his feet. He would see him split in twain. His aura flared, drawing renewed chuckles around him.

Ara’nan gestured to Solas with a dramatic bow, “Fen’Harel, what a fitting name!”

The competitors grinned and chuckled at his expense. Their eyes were on him, staring. Solas was becoming a spectacle; The eyes on him made him feel small. So many eyes. They were unnerving. His heart raced and his eyes narrowed. He felt like he was ready to snap.

Stay calm. He just wants a reaction.

Solas felt like this man was his personal demon, as if he was made by the Creators just to torture him. His brows twitched and his eyes focused on Ara’nan’s face. Solas tried to breathe slowly to calm himself. His nostrils flared. He let an unsteady breath escape between his teeth.

Just wait.

Emboldened by the chuckling of his peers, the blonde continued his taunting. Solas felt his eye muscle twitch. He was going to give him a reaction.

“Look at his power, the pinnacle of Elvhenan! Who could possibly stand up to him?”, said the elf as he grinned wider and wider. The crowd broke into laughter.

Solas narrowed his eyes. He wanted to punch someone and this blonde with his stupid beard would make a lovely target. His posture stiffened as his fists clenched at his side.

Every part of his being itched to leap up and punch Ara’nan right in his smug fucking face. He knew to hold back. He had to be smarter than his enemies. He had to be better than them. He had to-

Wait.

Not everyone was laughing. Lailani shot Ara’nan a disarming glare, enough to make him pause for a hair’s breadth. Ara’nan looked away to his companion, his grin faltering at her expression.

Now!

Solas leapt up and swung his fist into the side of Ara’nan’s face. He felt such satisfaction when he felt his knuckles crack into the man’s jaw.

The gasps of the crowd were well earned. It was a cheap shot.

Ara’nan hadn’t expected it then, though he had been clearly goading him into doing just that.

The boy was fast. Ara’nan would have been impressed if he hadn’t been immediately pissed off at the boldness of this child.

Unfortunately for Solas, Ara’nan was faster. Amber eyes flickered with magic as he shifted his weight and lashed out. His right hand snatched Solas by his throat. He threw him against a pillar, raising him single handedly as if the boy were nothing but a paperweight. The golden-haired elf snarled, his grip putting extreme force on Solas’s windpipe. It was hard to breathe, but he could still manage.

Solas gulped for air but his eyes blazed. He called mana to his fingertips. Ara’nan put further pressure on his windpipe and a sudden dizzyness overtook Solas’s vision. Disoriented, his mana sputtered.

The crowd gawked and no one attempted to intercede on the boy’s behalf.

Ara’nan sneered, “Do you even know who I am, you fucking simpleton?!”

The man let some pressure off Solas’s throat. He felt the world spin back into place and stars dance in his vision. Solas swallowed a lungful of air, his eyes slowly coming back into focus on the man’s furious expression.

Solas should have kept his mouth shut, but instead he decided to poke back.

“No. Should I?”

Ara’nan glared at him and gnashed his teeth together, his  aura rippled a dazzling orange hue.

The man seemed easy to manipulate, in Solas’s opinion. He was hot headed. Solas was too, but he was trying to learn to be smarter, wiser even.

 He held Solas aloft for a moment longer before growling and lowering him to the floor. His grip relaxed a little and Solas tried not to make it obvious that he was thankful for the air that filled his lungs, unobstructed. The blonde seemed to get control over himself.

“I am the Golden Lion”, Ara’nan said haughtily. More than a few of the others nodded to this statement, as if that name should mean something.

And they call me Pride.

Solas snorted at the absurdity of it.

He knew of no Golden Lion.

Actually, Solas didn’t know much. He was angry that he was so ignorant of the world. He wanted knowledge, coveted it, desired it. He intended to know quite a bit, some day, somehow.

The blonde elf released him with a measured huff of air, flexing his hands into fists repeatedly. His brows were drawn and he was clearly incensed and attempting to temper it.

Solas should have kept his mouth shut.

He should have. But he didn’t.

Solas was but a child.

“You don’t look like a lion”, he said with a smirk plucking at the edges of his lips.

Ara’nan slapped him hard across the face. His damaged cheek spattered blood against closest pillar. The crowd around them winced and drew back, as if they too had been slapped by the mighty warrior.

Solas stared at Ara’nan, his eyes blazing. His face dripped blood and his lips curled into a further smile.

Ara’nan looked furious. His fury made Solas smirk. Ara’nan was further angered by Solas’s bravado.

“And you don’t look like a wolf! You look like a foolish child!”

Ara’nan stared at him with glowing amber eyes, his nostrils flaring and his shoulders trembling with barely suppressed rage.

Solas took a grim pleasure in the fact that he managed to make this great warrior’s temper flare and his control snap like a worn rope.

Solas chuckled.

“Says the adult having the temper tantrum”, Solas said with a widening smirk.

Ara’nan lost his temper. In a flare of golden light he changed into a massive golden lion.

He glowed, practically sparkling with amber light. The lion was bigger than any bear.

Solas felt a spike of fear. His eyes widened and his heart plummeted into his stomach.

Maybe it was a mistake to pick fights with golden champions…

He felt fear, but despite it he felt a rush of adrenaline, an insane thrill of excitement. This elf, he could turn into a lion. The other one was able to turn into a bear. Was this magic beyond his reach or just waiting for him to master it? He needed to know more.

Solas dreamt of being more than just an elf, just a slave. He wanted to have claws and fangs and tear into his enemies. He wanted to never hurt again. Never suffer.

The lion roared at him and Solas froze in place.

It was madness.

He wanted to laugh out of terror. His life was short and meaningless.

Solas swallowed once and stared up at the lion. It growled as it towered over him. His heart pounded. His mind screamed at him to shut up and stop being a fucking idiot. The boy was wound up, shaken and foolhardy.

Ara’nan spoke, his voice booming.  It was as if his voice came from within Solas’s mind and without. The lion’s mouth curled into a terrifying snarl.

“What a smart mouth on you!”, snarled the man’s voice.

Solas should have said nothing.

He should have kept his mouth shut.

He wanted to laugh at the fact he was quaking and yet his words tumbled out-

“That makes one of us”, he said with a grin, despite his fear.

 The professed Golden Lion looked at him with murderous intent.

The lion roared.

Solas flinched.

It had been a mistake. That was the wrong thing to do.

Solas was the master of mistakes.

It was suicidal to mock this mighty warrior to his face. Solas was just a boy trying to be a man, facing off against a massive magical golden lion.

Ara’nan’s paw came for him, claws out and deadly.

Suddenly vines shot out and captured Ara’nan’s limbs, twisting and trapping him in place. He roared in fury and struggled against them. Solas gasped and stepped back, eyes wide.

“Ara’nan! Enough!”, yelled Lailani, the source of the vines. Magic fluttered around her, green and vivid. Vines spiraled out of the ground at her feet, as wide as tree limbs. Solas felt his heart swell. She was stunning.

The man with the mohawk ran to join Ara’nan, a belated attempt to help the lion. His fists drew fire as if they were dry kindling struck by flint.

“I said enough!” Lailani repeated, glaring at the mohawked man. He shrank under her gaze and extinguished his flames. The lion twisted before grunting, its body going slack.

All eyes were on her and Ara’nan.

The fight was over before it began. They had a lot more magic than he did, and it was so varied.

The golden lion glowed brightly. Ara’nan was an elf once again, dropping free of the vines and landing lightly on his feet. He shot Solas a glare before scowling at the vine wielding woman. Lailani glared right back at him and he tilted his jaw with pride, snorting and crossing his arms.

“I wouldn’t have hurt him… too much,” Ara’nan said.

Liar.

He was acting far calmer than Solas believed he actually was. This man had some skills, and clearly acting was one of them.

Lailani flicked her hands and her magic receded, the vines sucking back into the ground at her feet and disappearing in a flutter of flower petals and tiny leaves. She approached them, her mood evident with her stiffened body language. She was angry. Very angry. The mohawked man retreated back to their former corner of the competitor’s area.

Ara’nan took a step back from her as his proud expression slipped to one of mild contrition. Solas wanted to smirk, seeing that the man clearly was going to be chewed out by the woman at some point.

Suits you right.

Solas tried to look calm and peaceable. He looked at her and she met his eyes, anger flickered in hers and something else.

Concern.

Why was she concerned? Why would she even care?

Strange.

“You can fight him in the ring if he makes it to our bracket. Understood?” Lailani said gruffly to Ara’nan, who seemed suddenly cowed. He shuffled a little from foot to foot before crossing his arms and looking away. 

As if he’d made up his mind, the blonde nodded finally.

Ara’nan waved off her scowl and put a slick smile on his lips. Solas tensed his jaw. The man was like an oil slick, with how slippery he seemed to be. Solas felt such a distaste for the man. He was just like all the rest of them, ready to stab him in the back to get ahead. No one was trustworthy. No one had ever been. These people were all the same. The only person he could trust was himself. Solas was very aware that he needed to get ahead before he was trampled by those who controlled the reins.

“Enjoy what time remains of your life, Fen’Harel”, Ara’nan said with a toothy smile before he turned and walked away. He rejoined his flunky, the fire wielding elf.

Solas saw in the brisk and heavy clod of Ara’nan’s armored feet that he was not the calm man he portrayed.

No, he was furious. He took some satisfaction in getting under the man’s skin.

Solas would tuck that information away for later in his mind. He very much intended to survive these games. Golden Lion or no, he would survive.

Lailani waved off the crowd that was milling about with some casual interest. They grumbled and groaned and left at her dismissal. Solas felt a wave of relief as all those eyes left. They were nightmare inducing. He suppressed a shudder. So many eyes.

The woman sighed and approached him. She looked frustrated but relieved.

Now what? Come to mock me?

He bristled when she got close enough that her aura invaded his personal space. She reached over for Solas’s face. He flinched and drew away, his hand coming up quickly to block her. Lailani shook her head and a tiny smile drew on her lips. “I’m going to heal you, not hit you.”

What?

Solas blinked and withdrew his hand, He looked at her with distrust written on his face. His posture was awkward as he leaned away, his shoulders stiff, and his eyes watching her movements carefully. Solas held his breath. Her eyes seemed to smile along with her lips and cheeks, as her hands glowed faintly.

She moved her hand close to his skin, but never touched him. He felt a warmth wash over his flesh, knitting it gently and painlessly. The scent of her magic was of cinnamon bark and earth. When his cheek was unmarred she then ran her hands over his arms. The deep gouges became shallow cuts, then those cuts knit and sealed and healed until his arms were as they had been before the bear attack. His heart beat steadily.  Lailani pulled her hand away and gave him a disarming smile.

“There. Good as new”, she professed.

He stared at her perfect lips.

Solas couldn’t find his voice. His mind reeled.

Kindness?

He found himself staring into her eyes. She was kind to him. He wasn’t even sure how to process it.

She was beautiful, enchanting.

His cheeks burned, not from injury but from a flush that crept up them rather suddenly. How could she want nothing in return? How could she give without taking? How could she smile with a warmth, with generosity, with earnest? It dazzled him, took his breath away, left him stunned.

His heart pounded in his chest.

He prayed he’d see her again.

Lailani smirked and stepped back, “Good luck da’len…”

“Fen’Harel”, he corrected her with a little smile.

The woman turned, chuckling.

“I hope you live up to the name!”, she said teasingly over her shoulder as she walked away.

That I will.

Solas watched her leave and felt his stomach flip, his heart flutter. He had to see her again.

He would crawl and climb his way up from the dregs of society to the upper echelons. He would make his enemies quake in his shadow.

He had to be something more than what he was. He had to be something fierce. Something worthy of his soul name, Pride. He felt a renewed fire in his spirit.

Solas smiled.

He would show the world the Dread Wolf.

Chapter Text

Solas was an immortal ancient elvhen. He was not made for this world. He learned this all too well one day, not long before their adventures together came to an end. They were happy together then. 

Solas sneezed while they made their way back to Skyhold, grumbling in the snow and muttering to himself. His body ached and he shivered.

What is this? I feel awful.

By the time they made it to Skyhold’s lift in the mountain pass, his eyes were heavy, his voice hoarse, and he was coughing sporadically. They walked into the cage for the elevator and Lavellan threw the switch. The platform rose into the air. The view was incredible. Solas had always loved it, even thousands of years earlier. It looked the same, the mountains and snowcapped peaks. He could not enjoy the view today. He coughed and his chest ached terribly.

"I am unwell…" He bemoaned as he grasped the handrail of the lift for support. Lavellan arched an eyebrow at his complaint.

"A bit dramatic, aren't you?" She teased gently. He did not return her playful tête-à-tête.

He coughed harder. His ribs were sore.

Thinking was a challenge. Everything was fuzzy, hot, and his eyes felt like they might just burn the skin around them. They felt like fireballs.

Varric looked at the two elves and shook his head, "Looks like Chuckles is out of commission. Guess we'll have to swap out our mage when we get back. How about Dorian?" Solas shot him a glare.

You bastard.

Varric grinned in a sly way, "Dorian is always a delight..."

Solas did not want to be replaced by that vapid Tevinter pretty boy. His flirting with Lavellan was like an insult on a new level, down to the very core of his being. He was a human, a man that kept slaves, a mortal, and that ridiculous moustache. How dare he flirt with her. She was his!

His forehead was hot and sweat beaded on his skin.

Solas’s mind was fuzzy and he had a sudden powerful urge to punch Dorian in the face. He was not going to switch out with that preening fool.  He could not entrust her life to that man.

No.

She was too precious.

He would stay by her side.

“I will-“, Solas attempted to argue, but coughed hard enough to wheeze in his next breath.

Lavellan frowned slightly and looked to Solas with a tender expression, "We can take Dorian while you recover."

Damn him.

Solas glared daggers at Varric as they continued their trek. Solas’s paranoia flared as his skin burned with fever. It was his fault. The dwarf wanted him out of the picture. Perhaps he’d poisoned him. His head swam.

As they crossed the bridge into Skyhold, Iron Bull looked at them, snorted and shook his head "Solas, I thought you were made of tougher stuff..." Solas glared at Bull and coughed again, sniffled, and glowered. He took a step back and felt like he’d been hit with a boulder. Solas didn’t even have the stamina to exchange wits with Bull. All the noise they were making was just that, noise.

Varric smirked a little, "I'm sure he'll be feeling much better once tucked in by his favorite Dalish elf..."

Bull chortled and then, when glared at by Lavellan coughed loudly into his fist. He feigned sickness and made a sad face, which was hard to do because Lavellan was glaring at him with reddening cheeks and she just looked so adorably irate. How could they not poke fun at the two of them? Solas wasn’t as slick as he thought he was. Bull knew he was quite enamored with the Inquisitor. She had quite the fan club.

"Shit boss, I think I'm coming down with something... Do you do bedside visits?"

She punched him in the arm with a hiss, “Bull!”

He barked out a laugh. "Alright alright!"

Lavellan ended the teasing by putting her hands out and declaring, "Everyone get some rest!" in her Inquisitor voice.

Varric chuckled and left with Bianca slung over his shoulder. Bull walked straight for the tavern.

Solas grimaced and pressed his back against the closest stone wall, his breaths coming out in heavy puffs. It was like there was a huge weight on his chest. Solas hung his head, closing his eyes and trying to regain his focus. He feared that this may be a mortal affliction that he did not account for, a fatal one.

Lavellan looked to him with a heavy brow and a frown.

“Solas?”

 He looked paler than usual. Lavellan frowned deeper. He looked positively stricken with fear and in need of comfort. His sincerity pulled on her heartstrings. It worried her a little bit.

It ’s only a cold, isn’t it?

She wasn't sure.

 Lavellan hooked an arm around him, rubbing his back as she helped him toward the main hall.

"You'll be okay. We’ll get some tea in you and you’ll be feeling better in no time", she said in a soothing voice. He didn’t even comment about the tea, he just let her steer him toward his room.

That ’s not good.

It took a few minutes to make the journey. To him, it felt arduous, torturous. His body shivered against hers. He coughed and spoke not a single word.

It worried her further.

Lavellan nudged him against a wall in order to open his door. She then held it open with her foot, wrapping an arm around him to help him get inside.

Solas’s room was dark, the window curtains drawn. The scent of mint seemed to permeate everything. She took a calming breath.

Solas trembled, his skin moist with a thin layer of sweat.

“Time to get undressed”, she said as she shut the door behind them. Solas took tentative steps into the room, leaning heavily on his staff.

He coughed and it shook his whole body.

“It is the plague”, he groaned. Speaking seemed to aggravate his lungs, making him cough harder than before.

“It is not the plague”, she assured him. She frowned at him and placed his staff by the nightstand.

 Lavellan gently steered him to his bed. She pushed him to sit and he complied without a word, without complaint.

He must be quite sick … Poor thing.

Solas managed to pull his coat off.

“You know, most men would kill for me to take their pants off…”, Lavellan joked as she hoped to lighten the mood.

Solas just shot her a miserable look. Lavellan unlaced his pants and pulled them off his legs. His skin was hot to the touch.

“You’re hot…”

A fever, no wonder he feels like shit.

It was a struggle to get his sleeves off as his tunic had seemed to suction to his skin. He breathed heavily and pulled his sweat slick clothes off himself with her aid. 

Lavellan screwed up her face before turning to grab a nearby cloth, basin, and jug of water. He had a whole desk of medicinal items, herbs, and notes.

“You’re lucky you keep so much stuff…”, she said as she poured the water into the basin and dipped the cloth. She soaked it, then squeezed out the excess water. Solas had coughing spell that left him breathless. His body shook as he sank down into his bed, not bothering to get under the covers.

“This might be a bit shocking…here…” She rank the cool cloth against his skin. The apostate gasped, his eyes flashing to her.

“It’s cold”, he hissed softly. The man pushed her hand away and flopped onto the bed with a groan. His eyelids fluttered. His frown was severe enough that she wanted to laugh, but knew he felt like shit and it wasn’t appropriate.

He ’s exhausted, and yet he will still fight me. Stubborn.

“Yes and you’re burning up. If you want to get rid of that fever and feel better, you have to put up with me…” She said with a snort.

He looked at her with bleary eyes before lying his head back onto his pillow.

She took the damp cloth and placed it against his skin. Again he sucked in a gasp. She worked silently for a few minutes until she was satisfied he could not be cooled down any further. He wasn’t on fire anymore, so that was some progress.

“Now you need rest. Close your eyes.”

Solas didn’t want to, he was afraid. He wiped at his face and tried to stay awake. Every inch of being wanted to be asleep. He feared it would be his last. The darkness called to him and he did not want to go, not yet. Not when he hadn’t told her, not when-

No …

Solas tried to sit up. Lavellan huffed and pushed him gently back to the bed. His head pressed into his pillow. His skin stuck to the fabric immediately. Solas trembled, his eyes watering as he stared at her.

She was beautiful and kind and didn’t deserve the fate he had carved for her. She was much too good for him.

Vhenan …

"Don't leave me" Solas begged.

His eyes were red and he tried to focus on her face. His lip trembled. If she were the last thing he saw, that would be a good death he supposed.

“Sleep”, Lavellan said as she drew the covers over him. He wanted to push them away. His heart raced and his mind felt like it was filled with cotton balls.

Lavellan carefully lifted his wolf jaw necklace from his neck.

Solas caught her wrist, his face pleading. He should say goodbye, there was so much he needed to say, to tell her.

“You won’t leave?”, he asked with a small voice full of disbelief.

“You asked me to stay. I’ll stay.”

His eyes swam and the Inquisitor wobbled in his vision.

He looked like he wanted to say something before another coughing fit struck, leaving him breathless.

He reached for her face, but Lavellan took his hand in hers.

“Get some sleep. I will be right here.”

He looked torn, the pain in his eyes nearly palpable.

I ’m sorry.

She stroked his cheek and forehead. It made him shiver, such a gentle touch felt like a kiss goodbye.

He tried his damnedest to stay awake, but her soothing touch made his head dip and his eyes closed. He succumbed to the darkness.

A single tear rolled down his cheek.

Lavellan sighed, wiping his face and pressing the back of her hand against his forehead.

He was still hot, but she would work on that. The last thing she needed was him having a lasting fever. Lavellan was glad to see he had fallen asleep. He still looked sad, but at least now he’d get some rest. 

“You’ll be okay”, she whispered softly. He did not wake at her words. She rubbed his hands and gave them a gentle kiss, then placed them gently on his stomach.

There was much to do. She shrugged out of her outwear and left her boots by the door. Barefooted on the floor, she padded over to his bureau, scanning through the linens. Lavellan gathered some fresh blankets and clothes for him. Her own clothes were damp too, so she pulled out one of his tunics for herself.

It would not do if she got sick as well. She changed her clothes and took a moment to pause and breathe. She set about her tasks, gathering their wet and discarded clothes.

She looked around for something more. Cool water and blankets would not be enough. She didn’t want him miserable. He needed actual medicine. Herbs.

Elfroot. He must have some.

Lavellan dug through his things, carefully placing objects aside in her search.

She was hardly a potion maker, alchemist, or healer, but she had paid enough attention to her father when she was younger to remember some helpful concoctions.

She smiled when she found her prize, a bunch of elfroot, dried.

It would do.

She would just have to rehydrate it.

Oh, he ’s going to hate this.

The Inquisitor returned to her bag, belts, and pouches. She dug into them, taking out bits of this and that. She wasn’t quite a walking pharmacy, but she had a good store of things on hand.

I suppose we both are pack rats.

He would hate it, but it would help.

Lavellan walked to his desk. There was a mortar and pestle. She sprinkled in the herbs into the bowl of the mortar. He groaned and she raised her head to look at him. Solas turned a little in his sleep, his brow knit and his frown deep. She sighed and watched him until she felt she could return to her task. He was still asleep, but he looked plagued with dreams that were no better than reality. Lavellan set to work.

After twenty minutes of grinding, she had the disgusting smelling sludge ready to go. The tea would not be much better than the scent of its contents. All she needed was to prepare some water. Solas’s room had a small hearth. Beside it was a stack of firewood.

Lavellan spent a good five minutes searching fruitlessly for what she needed next.

A fire starter. She checked his desk, the drawers, the bedside table, even his baskets and bureau.

There was no sign of it. Nothing.

She grumbled angrily, spinning in place before she sat in his chair.

It dawned on her.

Of course!

She almost smacked herself in the face at her own stupidity.

You ’re a mage , of course you wouldn ’t have a damned fire starter .

She groaned at herself and ran her fingers through her hair. She looked around, her frown dimpling her cheeks.

And considering your distaste for tea, you don ’t have a kettle.

The Inquisitor stood up and her hair fluffed up. She would not be deterred.

“Lucky for you, I come prepared”, Lavellan whispered aloud.

 Her bag had a few essentials, and one was her kettle. She walked and pulled her tiny tea kettle from her travel bag, her fire starter, and a wooden cup.

Based on the foul taste, she decided she’d sacrifice her own cup just in case the wood became tainted from her efforts.

She smiled at him as he slept. He would be utterly miserable, but it would help.

You will have to forgive me …

Solas woke an hour after he first drifted off to sleep, his throat raw and his cough returning. He grimaced and tried to sit upright, but felt so weak he could barely raise his head. He still tried until his cough forced him to press his back against the headboard. He held his chest, his ribs aching terribly.

Solas blinked, bleary eyed. Lavellan saw him stir. “Welcome back to the world of the living”, she said with a sympathetic smile.

You stayed …

He looked toward her. He made no noise as he attempted to speak, his throat felt like it was clawed to ribbons.

She was rustling around doing something, he couldn’t tell what. After a moment of hard coughing, he groaned into his pillow and slid back down into the bed.

Out of the corner of his eye, he witnessed her pour water from a kettle into a cup. Lavellan blew on it gently.

She put the cup aside and touched his forehead with her hand.

Solas still was hot, but not as much as before. He was still pale, but had a little more color to his cheeks.

He stared at her with big wet eyes. He sniffled and looked utterly pitiful and broken. Lavellan sat beside him.

“I’m sorry you feel so dreadful”, she said as she dipped a rag in water and again mopped his brow. The cold felt nice now and he felt his eyelid close.

He feared sleep still. He feared this would be his end.

Lavellan rose and picked up the cup.

“I’ve made something that will make you feel better”, she said as she rejoined him and carefully handed him the cup.

Solas looked morose, his downcast eyes and large pupils making him look softer, younger. He frowned and looked at the cup, holding it in two hands.

“I-“

“Shhh… Just drink it.”

You don ’t understand…

Solas coughed. He held the cup, but said nothing of the horrid medicinal smell. It permeated the room and steamed directly from the cup. It seemed he was too miserable to even complain about it or too sick to notice. Lavellan’s heart swelled. How dare he look so pitiful, so cute and needy. It stirred something in her and she tamped it down.

She already knew she loved him. What more could he get from her?

“I fear I may be dying, Vhenan”, he said breathlessly.

Lavellan pursed her lips, a sympathetic look in her eyes.

 "Solas, it's just a cold."

The apostate looked unconvinced. She nudged him and he relented, taking a sip of the nasty concoction. She half expected him to spit it out.

Many times when she was a child, she did just that. Solas seemed quite childlike at the moment, vulnerable.

He swallowed it. His grimace was comical, and would have spurred her chuckle at his expense if he were not so miserable.

She waited. Solas definitely pouted before taking another tiny sip and swallowing the mouthful of medicinal brew.

“You need to drink all of it.”

He let out a heavy breath, his hands trembling.

I wouldn ’t put it past him…  to spill the whole thing and burn himself, if even just to avoid drinking it.

 She took the cup, too concerned it would tip in his state.

She placed the cup on his nightstand.

Solas groaned and shut his eyes.

His expression was grim. He swallowed with difficulty, his adam’s apple bobbing. Lavellan rubbed his arm.

Solas put his hand on hers, staring at her. She loved the dark blue-grey of his eyes. She saw storms in them, lightning flashes at times. He was a storm and she felt swept away in the very presence of him. He astounded her, though she would not tell him as he had a bit enough ego as it was. She smiled softly, but his expression was still distressed.

Solas spoke with the utmost sincerity, "If I die, there is something I must tell you-"

Lavellan laughed. It tumbled out of her.

Lavellan didn’t mean to laugh, she didn't. 

He looked at her with such a hurt and bruised expression.

She quickly put on a serious face as regret washed over her.

“Solas, you will be fine”, she squeezed his hand that held hers with her other. The anchor lit up his skin, casting a sickly green pallor on his skin.

He persisted.

“Vhenan, I want you to know-“

“Solas. Stop. You are not saying your goodbyes. No last rites. None of that shit. This is a common cold. Everyone gets them. I’m surprised you haven’t been sick earlier!”

Countless people have been sick in the past month and this is the first you ’ve been waylaid.

Redcliffe had been practically brewing with people coughing and sneezing the last they visited. She hadn’t let anyone know that a few months earlier she had been sick herself. Lavellan had felt like she’d been run over by a stampede, plagued with fatigue, and her throat had felt like a bogfisher had clawed it to shreds.

The Inquisitor didn’t get days off.

She’d taken potions, made ointments for her chest, sucked on candies, and drank this awful tea. She knew his pain. She knew how shitty he felt. He stared at her with those fathomless eyes, deep dark and endlessly storm-filled. The man looked broken hearted. She sighed and stood up, before kissing his forehead. It was warm, but not hot.

Luckily, you aren ’t the head of a massive organization trying to save the world. You can take a few days to recover. So stop fighting me and do that.

“Finish the tea”, she urged him. The Inquisitor picked up the cup and placed it into his hands.

He looked up at her, looking utterly put upon. He was irritated, sad, angry, and morose. It was as if his world was ending.

All because of a cold.

He took the cup and sniffed the liquid. Lavellan’s brows rose when Solas scowled worse than ever. He must be feeling better if he could finally smell that brew. It practically gave off fumes.

“I cannot.”

He attempted to return the cup to her.

Lavellan snorted and crossed her arms. She refused to take it.

“Don’t give me that. Just finish it. You’ll feel like shit if you don’t.”

“I do not want my last memory in his world to be drinking this swill”, he hissed.

Oh good, he ’s feisty now.

“Oh?”, she furrowed her brow and put her hands on her hips. “I made that swill. For you. So you’d feel better instead of whinging about your impending death.”

He glared; His scowl told her that this was a hill he was willing to die on.

“Well, if you don’t need it then I can go” She said as she turned toward her things.

“No” he looked reticent and pleading, “please stay.”

“So you’ll drink the tea?”

“… No.”

She planted her feet down, nearly growling in her frustration.

Dread Wolf take you, you stubborn man!

“Are you kidding me? Because if you don’t then not only do I leave, but the healer will bring leeches, and I doubt you want them as your nursemaid.”

He mumbled a curse under his breath. She wanted to throttle him, just a little bit.

Don ’t you push me. I swear…

“Go ahead and complain, but do it after you finish the cup.”

He glowered. She would not admit that she loved to see the fire in his eyes, the eyebrows draw.

He looked at the cup and then sneered at it.

Lavellan almost laughed. She had to pinch herself to stifle it.

“Drink it. Go on, before I lose my temper and I force it down your throat.”

He sat upright and grimaced before he tilted the cup back. She watched him drain the contents and then smack the cup onto his nightstand with an immature amount of force.

He scowled and glared at her before he sank into his pillow, huffing and puffing.

Yes, he was feisty.

Good.

The Inquisitor smirked at him, feeling like she’d just won a great victory, like she’d defeated a god. No man, beast, or god could possibly combat her iron will.

Lavellan had been by his bedside for days, just as she promised.

The bed was warm and absurdly comfortable. Solas stirred, nuzzling into the pillow and the warm body against him. Hair tickled his nose. He felt the need to burrow and sought out the warmth deeper under the blankets. He was only faintly aware of her as he woke just before dawn. It was a pleasant discovery to find the lovely Inquisitor curled up with her back against him, her tousled hair tumbling over his pillow. His mind was still foggy from sleep. The scent of her skin and hair made his eyelids flutter, his heart beat a little faster.

Solas’s fingers absentmindedly traced the skin of her thighs and hips under the thin tunic, his tunic. The proximity to her was intoxicating and exciting. She smelled of him but he ached to make her his with a sudden raging need as another part of him stirred.

Solas nuzzled his face into her neck and kissed the back of her ear, dragging his lips gently to the next kiss and the next.

“Vhenan”, he murmured.

Lavellan squirmed against him and he groaned.

The pressure against her was nice, but he wanted more than that.

“Wake up, my heart”, he said as he ground his hips into her. He felt her arch against him.

His fingers traced her breasts, gently pinching and tweaking her nipples until they were stiff peaks.

She moaned, “Solas…” and felt for him, her hands lost in the blankets and her sleepiness. Solas tried to wake her to satisfy his needs with a promise he would satisfy hers. He continued to tease her, placing gentle kisses down her throat.

A gentle poke and nudge against her backside had her groaning.

“Mm….” She stretched against him and he felt himself press deeply into her thighs, “Seems you’re feeling better…”, Lavellan said with a sleepy wisp of a voice. He felt her fingers dig into his thighs, the nails biting into him, and he pressed on.

“Much… but now I have a new need of you, Inquisitor”, he growled out. She wore his tunic and her smalls. His eyes darted to them. They would have to go. Or not. But he’d prefer to see her in the dawn light.

You have too many clothes on.

His lover yawned and stretched like a cat before she looked at him over her shoulder. He grinned at her beautiful sleepy face. She grinned with a devilish delight. He knew that expression all too well. She thought she had him trapped and she was the one holding all of the cards, she controlled the game. He would let her think that, and then show her who was really in control. Solas’s gaze was penetrating and dangerous. So was his smirk.

“Oh?”, Lavellan squirmed against him. The friction was divine. He gently bucked his hips against her.

Damn her.

“Convince me. I’m not feeling generous with my time”, she drawled.

He chuckled. She had been a good healer considering that she was not one by trade.

It is time that you are well rewarded for such good bedside manners.

“As you wish…”

His fingers left her breasts, roaming south. He gently scraped the skin near her navel, watching her shudder in response.

Solas brushed his lips against her ear, “I will have to ward the room to hide your screams.”

“Cocky much?”

“Deservedly so”, he said with a grin.

He nipped her ear with his teeth and let his fingers continue their slow teasing trail. His palm and fingers pressed against her hips, pushing her against him. In retaliation, she ground her backside against him. He groaned in response.

You do not play fair, Vhenan.

 Already he felt a dampness from them for their efforts. His fingers found his their way into her smalls, dipping between her thighs to the wet slick folds between. He played her just as she liked, delicate swirls, circles, and the barest of direct contact against her most sensitive spot.

A moan escaped her lips and he leaned over, gently biting down on her shoulder. He loved to see how she twisted, twitched, and jerked. His fingers worked at her as he tried to focus, but it was quite hard. She squirmed against him, writhing and making him suck in air as if he was denied it. He felt her hands find his hips, before her thumbs hooked into his smalls and pulled them down. His naked flesh pressed more fervently against her thighs.

Lavellan whimpered and tried to grab his length with her own growing need. Solas  moved quickly, turning her and pulling her on top of him as he spun onto his back. She gazed down at him, her face flush. There was a hunger in her eyes, the raw predatory look that made him feel enraptured.

The Inquisitor pulled off the tunic and tossed it onto the floor. His fingers pinched her nipples and cupped her breasts. They didn’t bother to remove her smalls. He grinned as she moved her hips, slid her smalls aside and pressed down onto his length.

“It seems you have been convinced”, he said with a husky growl.

“Shut up and make me scream”, she demanded as she bit her lip and shut her eyes.

Solas smiled wickedly, “As you command, Inquisitor.”

He flicked his wrist once and magical wards flared to life in each corner of the room. They would isolate the sounds within so only silence could be heard outside his door. Lavellan wanted discretion and he did not want to advertise their relationship or actions. Also, the last thing he wanted was interruptions. He wanted her rewarded… though perhaps this would become a torturous and lovely punishment.

Time would tell, and he never had enough of it.

Hours had passed, and yet he was insatiable. With only a few breaks in between sessions, Lavellan was thoroughly exhausted. Solas, not so much. He could do this for days, or longer if he felt particularly virile. He doubted she could last that long, as she was barely coherent and trembling from head to toe. He loved that. He loved to see her fall apart. She was a prisoner to his whims and it gave him a deep dark satisfaction.

Solas held her hips, pressing his weight against her from behind. She gasped and held onto the headboard with quaking arms.

“Aah!” She arched against him, panting. She quivered and trembled. His fingers dug into her hips before he leaned forward and slid a hand between her legs, stroking and circling her swollen flesh. He grinned fiendishly when she jerked against him.

“By the Dread Wolf!”, she hissed out.

Fenedhis …!

He groaned at her words, his fingers flicking. Her muscled tensed as he thrust into her, grasping her with a renewed need. “Do you know the story of the girl who cried ‘Dread Wolf’?” He said as he pulled out of her, gasping. She whimpered and turned her head, her eyes looking almost panicked at the loss of his flesh from her own.

“Nn-what?”

He needed her to fall apart to utterly, that she would never be satisfied without him again. His pride was on the line. Solas ran his lips and tongue down her back, kissing and biting. His fingers never stopped, but he teased her by slowing them whenever he felt her body getting close to her climax. He would not let her dive off the cliff just yet. He traced her flesh with his teeth. His fingers plied at her, teasing, rubbing, dipping within her until she was quivering.

 Solas rose up off the bed. She furrowed her brows and looked confused, unsure of what he was doing. He chuckled at her little whimper of need.

Do not worry. I am not going anywhere.

His fingers pressed into her, curling and stroking her until she was gasping and struggling to speak. “Well? Your answer?”, he asked as he pulled her to the edge of the bed. That would give him the best angle.

“M..no..”, she mumbled her response, as if she found it difficult to understand words. He enjoyed her like this, helpless. She trembled under his hands as he pushed her forward and spread her thighs. He stroked her, bringing his face close enough he could bury it between her legs. His nostrils flared and he clenched his jaw briefly.

He held back, to warn her, to educate her…

“The girl’s fate? The Dread Wolf, he ate her up”, he said with a husky threatening growl. He could wait no longer. Solas dove in with gusto, lips eager and tongue quick. Lavellan cried out.

He was insistent, meeting her crying need with his eagerness to please her. Her howls of pleasure brought him joy and satisfaction.

He needed her to succumb to him, to submit to him. She was his, forever and always. He could not imagine a life without her in it. He could not think of such a thing, though thinking at all right now was completely impossible. She dared to lie with the wolf, she would pay. Her foolishness, her love…it was a boon and a curse. He would not cease until he felt she had been both rewarded and punished.

It was not long before she screamed.

It was well past the hour in which one would break their fast. The day was upon them, bright and vivid outside. Business was as usual for almost the entirety of Skyhold, save them. Solas was quite aware that Lavellan would be inquired about, if she hadn’t been searched for already. She had admitted to him that her advisors had been informed she was nursing him to health and to not disturb them. He had taken advantage that fact. When would they ever get this opportunity again?

He was sorry, but not really.

He was selfish.

He enjoyed it and would do it again and again if given the opportunity.

That would not happen again though, and it made his heart clench.

He frowned slightly.

The Inquisitor dressed first, wrapping her breast band around herself before pulling on her shirt. He gathered his clothes and pulled on his smalls, before sitting to pull on one pant leg and then the other. Solas’s eyes scanned the floor and discarded clothes for his belt and tunic. His room looked like a hurricane had hit it, which was apt comparison to what they had been up to since dawn.

She seemed a bit fatigued, likely sore. Lavellan eased herself into her smalls. He smirked with a crude satisfaction that they were likely still damp. She bent over, picking up her pants before stepping into them. Solas admired the view, which was too enjoyable to ignore for a need of finding clothes that he could care less about. His clothes could wait a thousand years…

Hunger flared within him. She made him sick with need. He could blame it on his thousands of years of sleep, but really he’d always had a strong libido. This though, this was nearly uncontrollable. He stared. Solas wanted to grab her, bite her, bend her over and make her scream again and again. He swallowed hard, his eyes flickering with a dangerous silver tone. She bent and shimmied the fabric up her thighs. The view was magnificent and he felt his loins throb anew. She had to be teasing him. Solas’s hand balled the covers into a fist and he suppressed a groan. Lavellan finished squeezing into her tight pants to his utmost pleasure and pain. Watching her had been a mistake.

Unable to witness any more, he leapt off the bed and grabbed hold of her. She squealed in his grasp and he chuckled darkly.

“Mmm.. Look what I’ve found. Breakfast. Delicious.”

He kissed her brusquely, nearly panting. He still tasted her on his lips. He was eager to share.

The Inquisitor laughed. It made his heart swell with joy.

He could die happy if all he heard was her laughter until the end of his days.

His body drove him to focus on the physical. He kissed her neck and pressed himself against her again. How could she deny him? If he must convince her, he would.

“We are already running behind”, she said with a smile as she pushed him away gently.

Let them wait. I will release you by the dinner hour.

Solas teased her thighs with his skillful fingers. She suppressed a moan but he could see how her body responded. He grinned at her, his eyes taking all of her in. He had to seize the day, make his claim. She brought out the most debased and debauched instincts in him. He reveled in it.

Lavellan slapped his hand with a grin. “Enough… Put your pants on. We’re going to be late- later.” Solas grinned wide, teeth flashing like fangs. “Ah, I believe we have a problem then, Inquisitor. I don’t think I will fit.” Solas stroked himself, smirking as her gaze was drawn to his length. Her eyes widened slightly as he showed how much of a problem they had on their hands.

She broke out of his loose hold and danced away from him. His eyes flickered and his smile turned wicked. He approached her, stalking.

He cornered her against the wall and loomed over her, brandishing his need like it was a sword. She giggled. Giggled! Her! He almost laughed at the silliness of it all. Lavellan bat her lashes and tilted her head away, diverting her eyes like a coy shy thing. Solas pressed himself against her stomach. She flushed hotly.

“I need your assistance”, he said with a bit of a groan.

 She laughed and covered her face, reddening at his state.

“Just magic it to fit?”

“Oh come now. Where is the fun in that? I need your avid skills. Manual adjustments are so much better”, he purred.

She snorted and scoffed, but he saw the smile lighting her eyes up and making her cheeks red and rosy.

“Do your own calibrations”, she teased.

“You’re the one that saved me. Now you have to live with the repercussions, Inquisitor”, he breathed out.

She laughed.

His eyes flickered dangerously. She stood up straight and faced him, usually a full half head shorter than him. Lavellan was a little taller than usual as she nearly met his eyes. His brows drew downwards and his smile turned wicked. The Inquisitor stood on her tiptoes and he laughed.

“Obey me”, she commanded in her ‘Inquisitor’ voice. It would be a lie that he did not enjoy her use of the voice, the authority. It did send a shiver up his spine.

“Very intimidating!”, he quipped.

She chuckled. His love bloomed in his chest, filling him with such happiness. He had never known he could feel this way. Everyday beside her was a day he could feel whole.

He loved it.

He loved her.

“Oh my heart…” He grabbed her and wrapped his arms around her, pressing his forehead to hers. He was breathless and wanted nothing more than to lock the door and never leave, ever again.

He lived in the moment.

It was the best he could manage.

He held her and they breathed together. One heart.

I will never let you go.

He wished it were true. He could not dare to think of the future when the present was so enticing, so wonderful. The threats to the world mattered not when he could fall into her arms.

Lavellan smiled. Her eyelashes tickle his cheeks.

His fingers pinched and squeezed her flesh before his hands cupped her behind.

“I will completely lose myself to you.”

His lips found the dip in her neck and he kissed it, running his tongue across her collarbone. She groaned.

“You’re insatiable”

“For you and only you…”, he crooned.

His lips found hers. They shared a kiss. Then another.

Soon they were gasping, sliding against walls and door and caught up in the moment. A gentle clatter of teeth, tongues sweeping, lips pulling and biting.

The lovers panted, eyes searching eyes. Faces flush. Hearts pounding. Solas’s hands pulled at her pants. His were on, save for the front being only pulled up as far as his thighs and gaping. She was dressed, but not for long.

Lavellan’s hand wrapped around his length and stroked him. He let out a ragged breath and arched his hips with her palm.

“I need you…”, he groaned.

“You need a cold bath…”, she said with a smirk.

“Later. We will both need one.”

He tugged at her pants and she let out a little huff of laughter.

“Later, bath. Now, you”, he growled out as he tugged her pants downwards. His thoughts were lost, his instincts driving him as her hands plied at him and stoked his needs. She drove him wild and she knew it. She enjoyed it. He did too. His fingers dove into her smalls, rubbing her.

“Solas…” She groaned. He felt her hand squeeze him tightly. He let out a gasp. It was not difficult to wind her up again.

He pushed her up against the wall, fingers stroking vigorously. Her thighs buckled and he let out a chuckle as he held her in place.  He was a gentleman and chivalrous, he would save her from a potential fall. He pushed a thigh between hers to keep her upright. He also rubbed that very thigh against her and enjoyed the moan she let out in response. Yes, he was quite chivalrous and well-intentioned.

Lavellan didn’t protest when he leaned in to capture her lips in yet another kiss. He left her lips red and raw. He switched his hands, bringing the slick one up briefly to his lips. He ran his tongue over his fingers and made an appreciative hum. The apostate was so pleased, she still smelled of him, dripped from him. Her eyes were wide, dark pools that threatened to drown him. He would not drown, he would dive in. Solas tilted her jaw up to him. She trembled.

Solas breathed out a husky prediction, “I fear you will not be walking today, Vhenan.”

She let out a whimper at his torturous fingertips.

“Tell me you need me…”

“Solas…”

“Beg.”

“Solas, please…”, she whined as she shut her eyes and slid against him.

“Ah, perhaps we should stop.”

His fingers stilled.

Lavellan’s eyes shot open and her glare was fiery.

“I will beat you with your own staff”, she threatened with a flicker of fire in her eyes. He chuckled. His fingers hooked the fabric of her smalls to the side and he spread her thighs. It only took a moment for him to line himself up. He pressed up into her until she was whimpering loudly, grasping his arms and trembling.

“Are you sure you need me? Perhaps I should just-“

“Solas please, I will die if you stop.”

“Now who’s being dramatic?”, he rumbled with satisfaction.

She wriggled against him and whimpered.

“Please…”

“Let me hear you say it”, he growled as he teased her, pulling away, rubbing against her, then sliding back and forth.

She cried, “Oh please I need you, don’t you dare leave me like this. Don’t you ever leave me”, she said breathlessly, begging.

“Is that a command?”, he said as he dipped into her again. She huffed and wrapped her thighs around his hips.

“Yesss”, she hissed in his ear before she bit down on it. He groaned and picked up the pace. They were lost in one another again.

Time was meaningless.

It was well past midday.

A bang at the door interrupted their never-ending amorous adventures.

“Hey, lovebirds! The day is marching on and we’re going to do the same without you if you don’t move your asses!”, Varric shouted.

“C-coming!”, The Inquisitor yelped. Solas did not mention that the wards were still in affect.

Solas nibbed her earlobe and whispered with a throaty growl, “I can make that happen…”

Lavellan squeaked and Solas grinned like a dastardly villain.

He held her tight against him, fingers exploring and pinching.

She stretched and reached out to his desk.

He groped her behind, squeezing. Solas loved her with all of his being. With her, he could be passionate. He was barely contained.

“You know you want to”, he said as he placed kisses upon kisses on her flesh.

Her hand was faster than his eye.

Lavellan swatted him in the head with a rolled up bundle of parchment.

Solas flinched, then chuckled.

“I mean it!”, she growled out but her smile ruined her facade, that adorable faux angry face.

“Yes, my heart…”, he pretended to sulk.

He released her and she stepped away. She spun and swatted him again on the ass.

“And that’s for making us late. Jerk.” Her smile was dazzling.

He would never show this side of himself to anyone, ever. No, this was just for her. Solas existed wholly for her.

He grinned. “I’d do it again too..”

“Don’t get any ideas”, she warned.

“You cannot police my mind”, he said obstinately with such a smirking stubbornness.

“Get your damn clothes on”, she said as she shot him a grin and started to dress, again.

He dallied, enjoying the view yet again. She snatched up the roll of parchment and threw

it at him.

He ducked easily and bowed to her.

“As you command, Inquisitor.”

Chapter Text

Lavellan was stunned at how quickly the months seemed to pass. Josephine ensured that no one would enter her quarters and that she could pass her laundry to a trusted servant, and even got her own washboard. She was feeling a bit better. The pains weren’t as intense and her anchor didn’t flare as often. She was hopeful that she could manage this… Once she could stomach food again, she was all too happy to eat whenever she could. The Inquisitor put on a bit of weight finally and started to look healthy again. She still hid in the bulky clothes and cloaks, but at least it was winter so it was expected.

Still, the pregnancy took its toll on her. She found any bit of work more exhausting than ever, and whens he did finally sleep she slept like the dead. The Fade did not plague her as much as it had, and demons kept their distance. Spirits seemed drawn to her, but she waved them off. One always seemed to linger just on the periphery of her vision in the Fade, but whenever she turned to see it, it was gone.

She was going through reports in the war room. She worked there often enough that she had a smaller desk to sit at and a chair that was supposed to be comfortable. Her back protested that description. Lavellan grimaced and rubbed her lower back. Another day, another ache and pain. She sighed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear.

A knock at the door.

“Come in”, she said as she pushed back from the desk and turned to the door.

In came a young man with a baby face and lanky limbs that looked like he hadn’t yet filled out into a grown adult. She felt a little jolt of anxiety at his appearance, his youth.

He ’s young. Wonder how he came to be with us…

“Chargers are back, sir”, the young man said, looking nervous in her presence. She was framed by the Inquisition crest of the eye on the wall behind her. He stood stiffly, as if he were made of wood like a scarecrow.

“Ah, good news then. Is that all?”

“Yes sir”, he said as his eyes darted everywhere but her own.

He looks like he might just run. Am I that intimidating?

She smiled and stayed seated, knowing that rising might make him even more nervous. “I don’t bite…”

He looked to her, his face colored with surprise. Lavellan grinned.

“Well, not too hard anyway”, she snapped her teeth together. He let out a nervous chuckle.

“Thank you scout-“, she looked at him expectantly with a gentle smile.

“Murphy sir. Brennon Murphy.”

“Thank you scout Murphy. You’re dismissed”, she smiled and nodded her thanks. He spun on his heel and quickly left the room. Lavellan groaned softly as she rose from her seat. The last she needed was a new scout worrying about her or seeing her struggle to get up from a damned chair. She snorted and left the war room, locking it up behind her.

It was early Wintermarch and the wind and snow was heavy and wet. The Inquisitor made her way down to the main hall, feeling the warmth of the fires, even in the draft kicked up from the main doors. She stopped at the top of the stairs as the icy wind cut through her clothes and made her skin prickle.

Lavellan sighed and looked out over the grounds and to the tavern below. She didn’t know how long Bull was scheduled to stay put, but she couldn’t keep putting this off.

I need to speak with him.

The stairs were dry, which made her smile appreciatively. No falls on ice for her today. She still had a bruise from the last time she and ice had a sudden meeting. Lavellan gently rubbed her thigh at the memory. Still cautious, she walked down the stairs carefully enough. Her boots carried her safely to the ground and she stayed to the cleared sections of path to the tavern, avoiding the snowy mush made by unending foot traffic.

The Chargers had returned from their missions in Ferelden, with their giant qunari leader, the Iron Bull. Lavellan smiled as she pushed open the tavern door and was met with a raucous din of conversation. The chargers were boisterous and merry. They had spread out and took up the corner of the ground floor of the Herald’s Rest tavern. The booze was flowing. A day earlier the tavern was packed with bodies eager to celebrate First Day, loud enough to stagger her. Today, they were loud but the tavern was mostly empty, luckily for her poor ears. She stepped inside and smiled when the Chargers spotted her and roared a welcome with mugs held aloft. Lavellan grinned at their greetings.

“Hey boss”, boomed Bull. Beside the giant horned captain was his lieutenant, Cremisius Aclassi, lovingly referred to as Krem. The handsome Tevene man grinned wrly as he took a swig of his ale, his eyes mirthful. She made her way to the group, winding between chairs and stools that were still scattered about from celebrations. Lavellan glanced to him and hid her concern. Krem looked her up and down before quirking an eyebrow. He put down the mug.
Crap.

Lavellan felt a flush go to her cheeks. She had hoped she looked rather formless in her cloak and heavy jacket. Did he know? Maybe she was just paranoid.

Bull waved his arm out for the barmaid, “A drink for the Inquisitor!” he yelled.

Krem’s expression faltered. He coughed and rose to talk over Bull, “Actually, I think she’d prefer a water. She’s had a bad stomach bug lately, isn’t that right?”

Bull gave them both a strange look and Lavellan nodded, feeling like a fraud. She hated to lie to her friends. It was just a white lie, just a temporary one. She wasn’t going to confess in front of the entire Chargers. She owed it to Bull to discuss things in private, but she also wanted to save some face. She was embarrassed still.

“Huh, I hear that’s going around”, Bull said before he settled back into his drink and they made a spot for Lavellan to join them. Krem gave her shoulder a pat. Of course the man would know what she’d been hiding, he had been a woman once too.

The barmaid looked lost.

“Oh, yes if I could have a water…”, Lavellan said to the woman.

Lifesaver.

“Thanks Krem. Always the gentleman”, she whispered with a smile. Her eyes shined with appreciation and said more than she’d admit in front of others.

 She sat beside them as Krem pulled up a fresh chair and lingered close to her periphery. Lavellan felt comforted by it. He was a good man. She was thankful that the Chargers hadn’t been sacrificed for an alliance with the qunari. They were worth more than a dreadnought or two. Bull was her friend, and they were his friends, no his family. Lavellan smiled. Family stuck together. They all made sacrifices to be here. Bull was considered a traitor to his people because he kept his family alive and chose to stay by her side. She would be by his side in return. She supported him and he supported her.

Lavellan glanced to the other Chargers, thankful that the other elves and women, Stitches and ‘Dalish’, had said nothing. Lavellan figured if Dalish could get away with pretending her staff was a special elven bow and lie about being an apostate, that she could manage to keep another secret. Stitches wasn’t particularly chatty.

“So, I know you just got back but I was hoping I could talk with you when you have a chance”, Lavellan said quietly in Bull’s ear. He arched a brow and his head pivoted as he scanned the room. They all settled into comfortable conversation, much of it about their last few missions and what everyone did for First Day.

“Stitches got shitfaced”, Krem said with a grin. The city elf turned mercenary snorted into her ale.

The others laughed, “We all did!”

Bull smirked, “I had to carry them on my back across the damn mountains to get here.”

“That’s some shit, and you know it!”, Krem laughed, smacking his mug onto the table top.

Ale sloshed out over the edges and down the sides of the glass. Lavellan smiled and watched the foamy bubbles pop.

“You were barely standing”, he said to Bull with a wry grin.

Rocky chuckled. “We found some of the good stuff”, the dwarf insisted with a smirk. The others nodded emphatically.

A few hours later and the Chargers had wandered toward the bar, leaving Lavellan and Bull alone to speak.

“So, what’s up boss?”

Lavellan shook her head and got up.

“Come with me.”

“Ah, shit. Am I in trouble?” He asked with a grumble of discontent.

That made her laugh and she shot him a look, “No, not yet. What did you do?”

“Ah, nothing boss! Just checking…”, he said with a sheepish grin.

She was not convinced.

“Uh-huh. Anyway. Come on.” She lead him outside and up the stairs, climbing high until they were on the highest walls near the mage towers. Lavellan liked it up there. It was peaceful. It felt like she was the last person on the face of the world, everyone else disappearing. It was quiet there, except for the howling wind.

“Ugh.. My tit’s are freezing. Why are we up here?”, Bull asked as he shivered.

“This is why you should try wearing a shirt some times”, she chided him with a grin.

“You know Seheron is hot as balls, right?”

“You’ve mentioned that a few times, yes.”

“Yeah. Plus they’re not exactly quick to put on. One horn in, then tilt my head and-“

“Bull, you’re not in Seheron anymore.”

“No shit”, he groused at the falling snow and crossed his arms over his chest. It was hard not to laugh at his self-inflicted torture. Sometimes he was practically adorable, in a big oafish way.

Lavellan glanced around and pulled off her cloak, before tossing it over his shoulders.She knew for a fact those damn horns wouldn’t allow the hood to pass over his head, so that was the best she could manage. It looked like it was a big scarf.

“Uh, thanks boss.” He said as he patted the cloak to his neck and collarbones. 

 The wind was far below freezing but she was still fairly comfortable in her coat and gloves. Her ears were a little wind whipped, reddened like her cheeks. She stood at the edge of the wall, hands over the banister’s edge. Bull was a former spy for the Ben-Hassrath, the qunari intelligence. He knew to look for all sorts of things, to read people better than they knew themselves. To most, he seemed affable. Lavellan knew that behind the banter and jolly persona, he was deeply troubled and fiercely loyal to his people. At one point, those had been the qunari people. Then it was his Chargers. Now, luckily, he considered her one of his people. He hadn’t been in Skyhold for months, so he’d missed a lot of tell-tale signs that Lavellan had a secret. Bull’s eyes trailed to her. His brows rose.

People hid things all the time, but Lavellan wasn’t hiding now. The wall hid her stomach from those far away and those below, but not him.

Now, there was no denying it.

Snow fell in squalls and bursts over the high walls of Skyhold. It was pretty and the snowflakes distracted her from the gnawing pain in her heart. She waited for him to speak, watching her breath float away as little puffy clouds in the cold air. Her shoulders were forcibly relaxed, but she was waiting with a nervousness that she knew he could sense.

“That’s new”, he commented calmly, but there was surprise in his voice.

“Yep.”

he leaned over the banister to also look as relaxed as she pretended to be, “Who else knows?”

“Leliana, Josephine, and Cullen”, she said as she stayed close enough to him to feel his warmth.

Bull snorted with a bit of a wry grin on his scarred face, “So that means you’ve also got Charter”, he paused and tilted his head down to her, “and Krem; I knew he was full of shit.”

“Yep.”

Bull bent a bit to get closer to her, his good eye squinting and his expression looking serious suddenly, grim even.

“What do you need? If Leliana has intel, I could probably take him down pretty quick as long as he didn’t see me coming. Or Dalish could-“

“Are you suggesting what I think you’re suggesting, Bull?”, Lavellan asked.

Her eye brows were high on her head.

She wasn’t sure if she should laugh or cry.

“Er, so I guess you don’t want me killing Solas then?”

“No, that’s for me to do.” She said with a little smile.

“Ah, sorry boss. So how can I help?”

“Well, I still need to tell Sera, but I’ll probably need some help getting in and out of Skyhold unseen… eventually.”

Bull’s brows furrowed, “Uh, you’re a rogue. Sneaking, that’s what you do.”

“With a baby?”

“Shit, right. Well what about Charter?”

“Well, I’m not exactly going to be telling her where I’m off to.”

Charter had been promoted to spymaster at Leliana’s insistence. They were still getting used to running the show, but the new Divine insisted that she would help the woman acclimate to the position, to the role. She was integral to their operations. Charter still did a lot of things herself, she was very hands-on with her approach.

“Secret mission?”

“Sure, you could say that.”

Bull hummed and huffed and took a slow breath. He looked like he wanted to say something but couldn’t make up his mind. Lavellan frowned slightly. He was never one to mince words.

Out with it.

“So you’re going to go run off, pop out the kid, and just run it back here? Like a courier service?”

She nodded.

He shook his head, his horns starting to drip with melting snow.

“That sounds, really…”

Bull turned to her,  “really stupid, boss.”

“Wow, thanks for your vote of confidence”, she drawled as she rolled her eyes.

He ’s not wrong.

Her hair and eyelashes were coated in snow flakes. Lavellan’s ears twitched.

“No seriously, that’s dumb as fuck. You’re not a dumb person. Why are you doing that?”

“You wouldn’t understand”, she said with a sad small voice. It was timid enough to make Bull look almost alarmed. 

“So make me”, he insisted with a voice that was full of concern.

“I just, I want to do something right for once. I’m Dalish and it’s tradition-”, she said with a sorrowful look in her eyes.

“Really? You’re about as traditional as-“

“I know… but it’s done with family and-and it’s important to me”, she explained with a steadfast expression on her face and a sorrowful longing. She wasn’t going to take no for an answer.

She ignored the fact her eyes were wet and threatening to overflow.

“Yeah, well if you die in the process-”, he huffed.

“That’s where you come in”, she said in a hoarse croak. Lavellan peered over the edge, looking at snowflakes as they started to come down quickly.

Bull snorted, raising a brow at her. His eye patch didn’t hide the scrutinizing look he gave her.

“If shit goes bad and it’ll be real, real bad.”

“Either you can help, or not - it’s your choice. It’s not an order”, Lavellan said as she shook snowflakes out of her hair. They melted on her ears and cheeks, but caught on her eyebrows and lashes.

Iron Bull put his hand on her shoulder and turned to her, looking at her firmly.

“Look. I’m not about to let you get killed out there, even if your plans are stupid as fuck. So I’ll be there. I’ll be there. You tell me where and when and- “

“You think the kid will make an appointment? That there’s some sort of schedule? Perhaps Josie can pencil it in?”, she mused with a little grin.

“Oh come on! We were having a moment!”

Her eyes still swam as she looked to him with her heart swelling with happiness.

Bull chuckled.

He helped calm her nerves. She was terrified of what was coming… Her, a parent? It was inconceivable.

“I’ll do my best to inform you of arrival times. Stay in Skyhold, I’ll divert your missions so you’re free and clear.”

“Shit, the boys won’t like that. They’ll be itching for a fight”, he said as his hand went to the back of his neck, adjusting the cloak.

“Well, I don’t think it will be that long…”, she said looking a bit anxious.

“Ah, gotcha boss. Well, I suppose I can say we’ve earned some well-needed downtime. They’ll like that until they get bored.”

“Just stay out of trouble. I’ll see to it that you all get access to some of our stores of ale and wines”

“Ooh, bribery? Nice.”

He grinned, the scars on his face shifting as he flashed his teeth. The Inquisitor leaned against his arm and shook her head at him. Bull was a good man, a good friend.

She had so many things to be thankful for. So many people that cared about her, that she cared about.

She would do anything for them.

“Thanks Bull”, she said softly with a voice that cracked. Her face was wet.

It was only snow, wet, drippy snow that was melting… melting from her eyes. She wiped her face.

Bull gave her a nudge and she looked up from her hands.

“So, boss…How soon until I can teach the kid to punch something?”

She laughed.

It was the following day that Lavellan was caught red handed in the kitchen. She flushed a deep rouge as Sera gawked at her and then cackled, “I knew someone was pinching em! It was you!”Lavellan had a cookie in her mouth, in her hands, and wrapped in cloth stuffed into her pockets. She had many, many pockets.

Sera’s maddened giggle fit was cut short when Lavellan pitched a cup at her head. Her friend caught it with a lightning quick reaction time.

The blond woman squawked, “Oi! Wazzat for? You got caught, not me!”

“Fer bein’ loud”, The Inquisitor said over the cookies in her mouth. She was the complete opposite of any vision someone could possibly have of the powerful Inquisitor. Sera snorted loudly.

Lavellan chewed, glaring at her with a sour expression.

This is humiliating … Ugh.

She didn’t want to be caught, she was embarrassed by it… And Sera, well, she would milk this for all she was worth. Lavellan didn’t have the heart to be teased or taunted. Her emotions were frayed and fragile. She blamed the kid, it was making her moody.

Sera placed the cup down on a table and put her hands on her hips. She eyed her suspiciously.

“You gonna tell me what’s up? Spill it.”

Lavellan swallowed her cookie and wiped the crumbs from her mouth with her hand.

“Not here”, she said darkly.

Sera went from sarcastic and sassy to immediately concerned.

“Uh, okay. My room?”

“No. Too many people nearby. My room.”

“Shite, that bad?”

 Sera looked nervous and was quiet, which was rare. Lavellan didn’t answer but frowned, her face looking grim. She popped another cookie into her mouth and pushed open the door, leading the way. Sera followed her, trying not to look too worried. They were quiet as they traversed halls and up stairs before arriving at the Inquisitor’s quarters. Lavellan locked the door behind Sera and stuffed the key in her pockets, before plucking another cookie out and stuffing it into her mouth. Her cheeks were full like a fat nug. As a testament to her serious demeanor, Sera managed to only snort rather than laugh.

Don ’t you say it. I know. I look ridiculous.

Sera blanched at Lavellan’s stoic glare. Lavellan huffed before walking over to her desk. She pulled out the chair and sat, motioning Sera to another chair nearby. She chewed and crunched. They sat awkwardly facing each other. It felt like a standoff.

“Arsebiscuits. Am I in trouble?”

Lavellan swallowed her cookie and wiped her mouth.

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

Sera looked at her quizzically. “What’dya mean everyone?”

The Inquisitor shook her head.

“Doesn’t matter. Look. Uh, I don’t have that many friends and I don’t have anyone alive from my clan-“

The blond scoffed and groaned, “Ugh, elfy stuff? Ya know I don’t do-“

“Sera, shut up and listen. Please.” Lavellan said harshly, but her eyes looked scared, sad, upset. Sera zipped her lips and furrowed her brow, confused and upset at how her friend was acting.

 Lavellan’s eyes looked like deep pools of darkness, so deep and dark that someone could drown in them.

“My parents are dead. I don’t have any siblings, cousins, nothing… and with my face like this”, she motioned to the missing vallaslin on her skin, “my clan they’d- Fuck. Sera, I need your help. Please, I’ve never asked anything of you…”

Sera fiddled with her leggings, her eyes darting away. She looked uncomfortable, nervous.

“What’s this about, yeah?”

Lavellan grabbed Sera’s hands in hers and put them against her stomach. Sera was startled, her own eyes widening.

“Oh fuck!” The blond almost jumped out of her skin when she felt a flutter of movement under her palm. She released Sera’s hands. “That’s- that’s a- Shite! I thought that- You’ve been hiding this, yeah? That means you an’ His Elfyness? Oh fuck-”

“Yeah, that’s usually how it happens…”, Lavellan said with a self-depreciating smile.

 Her friend sat back, taking a deep breath. She tried to digest the information. Lavellan let her.

Sera shut her eyes and rubbed her face, “What’dya need?”

“I’m not having it here. I need to sneak out and I picked a spot…”

Sera didn’t react well. She jumped out of her chair, looking angry and alarmed.

“You fuckin’ daft? Yer gonna go out into the middle-of-fuck-all and just pop a squat and call it a day, yeah? That’s crazy! Did you hit yer head?!”

Lavellan sighed and sank down in her chair. She felt small. She felt foolish.

This is so stupid. Bull, Sera … they’re right but-

“I need to-“

“Nuh-uh, you need to stay here! We got healers and help and there’s no bears and shite like that! What about bandits, demons? Did you even-“

“Sera I’m going whether you help me or not”, Lavellan growled at her friend. Her eyes were wet.

Do not fucking cry. Not again.

“I could tie you down”, Sera countered.

Lavellan stared at her and something seemed to just crack, her mask of Inquisitor falling away like shattered glass.

“I’m supposed to have my mother or my father, Solas or- or- someone beside me that will help me and I’m fucking scared! Sera, I picked you! You’re the closest I have to fucking family! ”, Lavellan yelled, tears suddenly overflowing.

Sera stood there, stunned. Her her mouth hung open and her eyes flew open wide. She had no quick retorts or arguments.

Lavellan cried and stared at her, begging with a voice that broke.

“Please, Sera. I’m terrified! I need to do this right. I need to be Dalish, not the Inquisitor. I need to do this…”

Sera stared at her friend, the most powerful woman she’d ever met, probably the most powerful woman in the whole of Thedas, begging her for her help.

Her.

They gazed at one another, eyes swimming, minds spinning.

Tears fell and soaked into fabric.

A sniffle, and a trembling lip.

“Okay”, Sera breathed out, her own cheeks stained with rivers of tears.

“I’ll help.”

Lavellan leapt up and pulled her into a powerful hug, crushing the air from the archer’s lungs. Sera squeaked in shock.

The Inquisitor loosened her hold and smiled through her tears. Sera started to laugh, a nervous cackle bursting from her.

“Thank you”, Lavellan breathed out in a hoarse little whisper. She sucked in a wet gasp, a lungful of air through the tears and the tightness in her throat. Sera grinned, her cheeks red and her eyes still dripping.

Her friend chuckled a little as she patted Lavellan’s back. She hung her head against Sera’s neck. They held one another, an embrace among family.

More sniffles and smiles.

“Ugh. Yer gonna get snot on me”, Sera said with a little whine.

Lavellan laughed into her skin, blinking back tears, “You should be grateful. Inquisitor snot is exceptionally rare.”

“Ew. No thanks.”

Lavellan took a deep breath and pulled back, wiping her nose and face on her sleeve.

Sera rubbed at her own eyes and dried her cheeks with the palm of her hands.

They both had reddened skin and noses and looked a mess.

“So, how’re we doing this, yeah?”

“Here’s my plan…”

Sera listened devoutly.

The agents of Fen’Harel were on schedule to arrive at the fortress in the Tirashan in five or so days. The journey to the fortress was two days by hart, but they were walking. Solas kept apace with the others, often coming up on their rear rather than leading. His guardian Ivun was by his side, shooting him furtive glances. Commander Haleira led their forces, so she took up the position at the front of their procession. A few times she turned her hart and peered back at Solas, her expression unreadable.

Not all of their forces would be stationed there. Solas and his advisors had made sure that they kept the bulk of their forces scattered about Thedas, so no one attack or catastrophe could cripple them. As much as Solas wanted to believe he could do everything alone, he knew that those he surrounded himself with were integral to his plans. Even the veil’s very existence was because of help, the help of an old friend.

An old friend that was gone now.

He scowled.

He had made so many mistakes. His advisors, they were one of his successes. He gave Haleira a nod. She clicked her tongue and her hart turned away and continued to plod along at the front with their soldiers and spies and other agents following. Ivun made polite conversation with a few elves near him, who seemed incredibly nervous in his presence or in their proximity to Fen’Harel, their godly leader, in the flesh. Solas thought it was somewhat amusing that the gentle giant made people quiver with fear. He had not seen Ivun truly angry, and for that he supposed he was thankful. He had a unique sort of innocence that made Solas feel a warmth in his heart. 

Ivun was born free.

The man had never experienced slavery, never served a master. Not many could say the same. Ivun was a testament to the potential of Fen’Harel’s movement, his rebellion.

Solas looked to the big elf. It was all necessary.

Some day soon, our children will be born free. Because of our sacrifices, they will live with all the potential to be more than what we are, untainted by a cruel legacy.

Ivun was proof that no matter what Solas had sacrificed, no matter what terrible things he had done and would do, there was some good to show for his efforts.

Solas reaffirmed that he was doing the right thing. That’s what he had to tell himself to make it all fit.

It was what he told himself to justify his actions.

They would be truly free.

No matter the cost …

Despite every misstep, every mistake, he worked toward a future for their people that was a worthy inheritance.

He would give them their lives to live as they saw fit.

No Gods; No Masters.

It is all the reason and more to stay focused.

Only two of his advisors had accompanied them on this trek. Sylvae was absent. They had other responsibilities, other missions to attend to. Agents at their command were gathering more city elves to their cause. Many came from the burned and razed alienage in Halamshiral. News of how they were slaughtered had spread quickly. The elves of Orlais, the city elves forced to heel at the boot of the humans under Empress Celene, they were angry. They were looking for a cause to join, eager to strike back. They were unorganized, but Sylvae could change that and put them to good use.

Sylvae would use this fervor, this rage to their advantage. With their skills, they could turn a gaggle of fearful servants into a dangerous group of scouts and killers. There was much to do in Orlais.

They continue to impress.

He was pleased with Sylvae’s efforts thus far. They had been pivotal when his rebellion grew large enough that it could no longer stay underground. They had been by his side for ages, dedicated to their cause. While Haleira commanded their forces, Sylvae was the one who steered the ship, so to speak. They had directed every arm of their organization while Solas had slept in Uthenura, recovering from having thrown the veil together and sealing away the elvhen pantheon and the Forgotten Ones.

When the veil cut off magic from Thedas, their people could have lost everything, fallen apart. Much was lost, but not all. Sylvae was lead from the shadows, the leader that was never seen. When Solas slept, they ran his organization and kept their people alive. For that, he was forever thankful.

In ages past, many of their final campaigns against the Evanuris were organized and carried out by Slyvae and their units. They converted people to their cause and helped recruit followers in advantageous positions in their society. They were a master of manipulation that led others to believe it was their own ideas that they followed, their own thoughts. A whisper to a blacksmith and a master’s armor could be forged with impurities, allowing assassins the opportunity for a kill they would not have otherwise had. They were devious and quick witted, seeing both the big picture and the smaller elements. They exploited their allies strengths and their enemy’s weaknesses.

Solas was glad that they were an ally.

They would be a truly dangerous enemy to have.

Sylvae relied heavily on the modern elves to carry out Solas’s plans. Solas regretted that they needed them at all, but it was better that they were sacrificed than his people. The mortals were expendable; the elvhen were not. The modern elves were a necessary sacrifice for their cause and outnumbered them considerably. Sylvae had also noted that they bred quickly enough to be replenished if need be. The elvhen? Not so much. Their own numbers were falling low enough that Solas was having real concerns on the diversity and viability of their offspring, their future. In the four thousand years he slept, there had been less than a handful of children born. That was a danger, but something that they could address as soon as the veil was removed.

Magic was key.

They desperately needed the veil down. The Fade, the Dreaming, had to be restored to the people. They could not survive without their magic. They needed it to help them bolster their numbers. It would also keep them immortal, rather than letting this world quicken them as it did their brothers and sisters in ages past. Solas did not know where those elvhen were, the ones that were the ancestors of these barely living and quickened descendants.

It is likely they are dead.

To their empire, their people, time had never mattered. Now, time was ticking and they were on the precipice of extinction.

Every delay was another possible death knell for the elvhen people.

There were so many things to consider, so many pressing issues. 

If we are to survive, the veil must be destroyed as soon as possible.

They stopped at an outpost after a day’s journey through the forests. It was little more than a campsite with a few cabins where they could rest before they would continue the journey to his mountain fortress. The Agents of Fen’Harel worked diligently, abuzz with excitement at Solas’s return. He kept to himself, as he had much to think about.

 He turned toward a cabin, pausing to put his weight on his staff. Everything felt so familiar, so normal. It was like traveling in the Inquisition, like when he and Lavellan lead them to Skyhold. Thinking of her immediately made his heart rate quicken. He grieved what he left behind, and the loss he would feel when she met her demise, just like the rest of them…

He felt as if someone had punched him, right in his heart.

Ivun approached Solas with a concerned expression. He nearly fawned over him.

“Is there anything I can do for you?”, Ivun asked with those puppy-dog eyes of his. They were a cerulean blue. Solas shook his head, “I am fine. I just need some time before I set out again.”

Ivun looked like he was on the cusp of saying something.

Solas waved him off.

The big man nodded. His lips were pulled tight in a line as he turned back to the others. Solas retreated to a cabin and shut the door behind himself. The little log structure was clean and well kept, with a small narrow bed, a desk and chair, a hearth, and a single window. He leaned his staff against the wall and shrugged out of his coat, hanging it on the back of the chair. He placed his bag on the desk.

It was a bit heavy, filled with items that were mostly necessities.

Not all of them.

Some? They were precious.

He opened the flap of leather and pulled on the drawstring gently. His hands sank in and he carefully reached past objects that made his heart seize and his throat tighten. He tried not to look at them. Still, his hands froze and his eyes grew dark, losing focus.

He pulled away, as if he had been burned by the contents of the bag.

It would still be so easy to return to her side. He wanted to hold her and beg for forgiveness. He wanted to beg her to join him. He wanted-

This was the reason he could not even risk seeing her in the Fade. He was still too raw, too weak.

It took him another try to reach in and successfully get what he needed.

Solas took his quill and ink pot out, as well as a small roll of parchment. He laid them out on the desk.

He closed the bag and placed it gently on the floor.

She is the past. I must look forward, not back.

He could not dwell, not reminisce about the love of his eternal life. He could not let his heart lead him, when so much relied on him. The world was balanced on his back, and he felt how fragile his grasp was on it.

There were problems that he needed to deal with, and the sooner the better.

Without his foci, Solas was severely lacking in power for their requirements. His spell to destroy the veil needed to be precise, as it was complex and dangerous. The fallout, the mortals dying - it wasn’t preventable. If he tried to divert some of the power, change the spell enough to protect them, he just wouldn’t have enough remaining mana or power to successfully deal with the monsters that came after the veilfall.

The Evanuris.

He had plans for them.

Solas narrowed his eyes and a flicker of fire came to his fingertips.

He flicked his wrist and the hearth was lit aflame, roaring to life in a quiet room. The heat was immediate and the light illuminated his features in an orange hellish glow.

The Evanuris, they’d go from one prison to another.

A change of scenery.

He sneered. They deserved far worse. Not all of them were as guilty as the others, and he still had not determined who had dealt the killing blow to Mythal, the All-Mother, his friend. He paused, thinking of Mythal in his arms.

He had no idea of the betrayal he would face. He felt guilt at her death and it threatened to eat him up.

I should have been there … I should have seen-

Solas rubbed at the edges of his eyes, drawing away the moisture there with his fingertips and palm. He had slept for over four thousand years, but for him the events of her death were only a few years passed. In his rage, he had immediately retaliated. There was blood, so much blood. The veil went up shortly afterwards. There was no time to delay; There was no opportunity for him to stop, rest, and grieve.

Solas slept because he used so much of his power, gave so much of himself to create the veil and save his people. Then woke to a nightmare of a world and a friend urging him to act.

So he acted. The world needed him, his people needed a hero, a savior. He didn’t like to think of himself as such, but it was a role he had to fill, as no other could. He had to step up, after all the state of the world was his fault. Everything fell on his shoulders.

The weight of it all was mighty. It was nearly crushing him.

Solas was determined.

He would persevere.

Nothing would stop him.

He would destroy the veil and return magic to Thedas. He would save his people.

Unfortunately, all of this relied on the power that he was currently lacking. Even Mythal’s gift had not been enough, though it had helped. The loss of his foci, it was nearly damning.

The agents of Fen’Harel had been gathering the artifacts he required, but even with them he faced hurdles to realizing his plans.

He furrowed his brow at the problem before him. Solas needed more power, or else the spell needed to change. The artifacts had the potential to solve all of his problems, to make up the difference and give him the power he needed. Unfortunately, one of them was incredibly tainted with red lyrium. He grimaced.

Red lyrium sang with magic; It was attracted and bound with blood. It could be manipulated using blood magic, a magic he did not practice.

He had never had an interest in it, but he had seen its potential. It was just another tool at a mage’s disposal, especially one that might have less mana and a higher constitution for injury. He had witnessed the potential and danger of blood magic in person, elvhen wielding swords of blood, bursting limbs, and changing others into horrific monsters. Some masters of the craft could even manipulate the vallaslin to control others, which made him shudder at the thought.

Sylvae was a blood magic practitioner, but did not have experience with artifacts or the time or knowledge required to tackle such a project. Solas tapped his jaw, thinking of what or who might be of use to him. This world did not have many people of worth, let alone those he could use as an asset when it came to magical theory or-

A flash of pain hit him that nearly knocked him off his feet. His temple hurt, a pain like a migraine behind his eyes that felt like a burning hot poker shoved into his brain. His hand shot out and grasped the desk as he curled in on himself. He gasped.

A vision.

Mythal’s gift.

He had not expected it, nor that it would be so very painful. He blinked his eyes and saw something that was unseen.

The vision was crystal clear. He watched himself as he stood in his study, surrounded by artifacts and the calculations of a massively complex spell scrawled onto the wall in chalk. It was written from the ceiling to the floor, from one edge of the room to the other. Solas tried to focus on the writing, but the vision blurred until he was forced to focus on a girl before him.

He furrowed his brow, not recognizing her. She was tiny, a mousy elven girl with brown hair and green vallaslin on her face. She looked terrified. She pressed her body against the wall, grasping her staff with white knuckles. She was trapped, cornered. Solas noted the composition of the room, the artifacts were hazy and unfocused. It looked like he had all of them he had searched for, or almost all of them.

Enough of them.

Good.

The girl’s voice was barely more than a squeak as she cried out, “You - you really are the Dread Wolf! You would kill us all!”

She was in near hysterics.

He watched the other Solas tilt his head slightly and put his hands behind his back.

She trembled like a leaf in the wind.

 He stood within an arm’s reach of her. She was no threat and she knew it.

Solas was calm and cold as he spoke.

“You were wasted with Clan Sabrae, Merrill. Thanks to you we will be restoring the elvhen people. For that, you have my gratitude”, he said with a slight nod.

“You’re a monster!”, she yelled as her staff glowed.

Solas did not reply. He did not affirm or deny her statement.

A flash of magic and a scream.

He was blinded and drew his face away, as if shielding it from a vision would work.

He found himself looking out the window, the visions gone.

The pain fled as quickly as the visions did.

Her name was unfamiliar and Solas had never seen her before, but something nagged at his mind.

“Wait…”, he turned suddenly and plucked a well worn book from his bag.

Solas stood with it and flipped through the pages, page after page.

Finally he found it, finger stopping on the lines of text.

“Hawke stood before the keeper, an older woman with white hair and dark skin. I had expected the keeper to be critical and contemptuous of the humans, but she was wise enough to be calm and collected. Hawke had protected the amulet with her very life. The keeper handed the amulet that to a tiny elf girl with brown hair and luminous green eyes. This was Daisy. The amulet was needed for some elven ritual. We journeyed to the top of the mountain with Daisy. She was skilled in magic and had potential, but she was a bit much for Hawke at the time. Hawke was pissed. She wasn’t interested in babysitting. I could see where she was coming from. Daisy rambled and talked almost non-stop about this and that. This didn’t help with Hawke’s glorious mood. She was aggravated. I tried to temper a peace between the two, though the elf seemed oblivious. I was pretty sure she was going to chuck Daisy off the mountainside. Luckily, for everyone Hawke did not kill her. Daisy would prove to be a steadfast ally and friend. The girl had a rough start but was willing to put her trust in us, which was a surprise because Clan Sabrae had cast her out, to their own detriment.”

This girl, was she the one from Varric’s book?

Was this Daisy and Merrill one and the same?

Solas looked at the book and a sad smirk touched his lips. Master Varric Tethras, his friend, was helping him yet again. If he knew what this help would lead to, the dwarf would probably be sickened.

His book the Tale of the Champion had been an interesting read. Hawke had accomplished the impossible, and that she hadn’t even have magic at her disposal. The power of these mortals could not be downplayed, their resolve was fierce. Hawke was still out there, a danger to his plans. Not just her though. There were others.

He could not forget…Lavellan was a force to be reckoned with.

She would find out eventually, and then he would have to evade her or confront her.

But the book-

 Solas knew there were grains of truth in the outlandish tales. The book gave him considerable information, scattered amongst the lies and half-truths, about Marian Hawke, the Champion of Kirkwall as well as Varric’s network of friends, allies, and enemies.

Varric hadn’t provided him with a copy, and he would not have asked for it.

The copy he had, well, he had borrowed it from the Inquisitor.

He just had forgotten to return it.

Solas closed the book and sat back at the desk.

Solas pursed his lips. He knew what he needed to do next, or who he needed next. He would find the girl and use her for their needs, his purpose.

After unrolling the parchment, he opened the ink pot and dipped the quill in the ink. Solas wrote his next order for his spymaster.

If this Merrill was really as useful as this vision foretold…

It would be a pity to kill her.

Chapter Text

Songs for the beginning of the fic:

https://open.spotify.com/track/0cdt3nPrp3agCpXOIHpdMB?si=d2d408e4038545b3

Walk Through Fire by Zayde Wolf and Ruelle

https://open.spotify.com/track/76WfT9BocicW00D5SOJmvl?si=a7f02bb0440340e5

Dark Waters by Tones and I

Lavellan felt nervous and constantly on edge, even with her friends and advisors doing their best to help her. She felt very alone, even if she wasn’t. It bothered her, ate at her, that Solas didn’t know. He was going to be a father, and he didn’t know.

She should have gone to look for him herself. Another failure on her part. She’d made so many mistakes…

She felt lost, angry with herself that she hadn’t marched out into the world and just brought him home. Skyhold, it was home. It was their home. Wasn’t it?

He was out there somewhere; No matter how he felt about her and the damage she had done to their people, to the elves, he deserved to know.

Lavellan felt like she was concealing a dark secret. This was not a secret she wanted kept from him.

He deserved to know.

Even if he hated her.

She was betraying the trust he had in her, again. She’d made so many bad decisions. She’d already cost their people so much. She struggled with her anger at herself, her disappointment in herself.

And she thought she could be a parent?

It was laughable. Couldn’t everyone see how scared she was? Lavellan was worried they’d finally notice who she really was. They would all see the truth; She was a fraud just pretending to be the Inquisitor.

They thought she was a savior? They thought Lavellan was unbreakable and courageous.

They thought of her as a hero.

She was no hero.

She was afraid.

So utterly afraid.

She tossed and turned in bed. It was becoming harder to sleep, with painful kicks and the ache in her back that never seemed to quit. When she couldn’t sleep, her mind wandered. Her thoughts grew dark, swirling around in her mind like a seeping black miasma, infecting every part of her, plaguing her.

How can I do this? I must be insane …

Doubt plagued her.

Why did I think this was a good idea?

She chewed her lip, rubbing sleep from her eyes and rolling onto her other side. The pillow beside hers was pristine and pressed. Her bed was wide enough for two.

Make that three.

Technically.

It was empty, save for her and the freeloader taking up real estate inside her. She was afraid to feel for it, to feel any attachment to the child that was yet to be born. It wasn’t a child yet, but her heart yearned for someone to talk to, to confide in, to love. She feared the child was a place holder in her heart, when she needed Solas there instead. She couldn’t lose another, so she kept her heart tied down. She could not let herself love it, not yet.

He should be here.

Lavellan and Solas hadn’t shared her bed often. He had been tentative to do anything in Skyhold,  She had at first thought he was shy, but the way he loved her was not shy at all. She had been so wrong about him. She had been the predator and he had been the prey. He had evaded her so long that when she finally caught him, he turned the tables so to speak. She had been startled by the hunger in his eyes, the ravenous lips, the fingers that tore her clothes, the hands that grasped as if she might just vanish into thin air. She had thought he was prey, he was shy - only to see that he was a beast in a cage and she’d unlocked the door and opened it wide. She felt like he could consume her, swallow her whole, with the ferocity of his love.

It was shocking, almost terrifying, but it thrilled her.

She loved more and more of the man, the more he revealed to her.

She worried that he was ashamed of a part of himself. He kept something so deeply hidden away, but she saw glimpses of it behind his dark stormy eyes.

Solas was a complex soul.

The apostate was all wrapped up, made of layers and layers, like an onion.

Like an onion, he made her cry.

They would sneak away in the cover of night. Lavellan had been surprised at his stealth, he was practically sneaky and quiet enough that even she might not have noticed his movements. He felt more secure out in the field, hiding in a tent together in the rain, or disappearing into the forests. A hidden ruin, an abandoned cabin, a cave behind a waterfall… It had seemed romantic. It had seemed wild and hungry and completely natural. She was Dalish, and they were not picky where they could find privacy.

Lavellan missed him. She missed his kisses and his touch and his chuckles, his voice. She tried to remember the good times but her heart told her she’d ruined it all. She tried to chase away the bleak despair that clawed at her mind. 

Lavellan desperately wanted to think of a good memory.

Instead, she felt alone.

She felt the void, the void itself practically calling for her. It was as if a part of her was torn from her, as if she were bleeding out slowly and surely.

She couldn’t be alone anymore.

She grasped the second pillow and crushed it to her chest. Her tears came suddenly, a torrent. She shook and cried into the pillow. Why did everyone she loved have to leave her? Why was she destined to be alone?

Deep down, it was one of the biggest reasons she was keeping the child. With it, she wouldn’t be alone anymore. It was probably selfish, but she needed that void in her heart filled. She needed love, she needed to love and be loved.

She could not keep going without it.

She burrowed her face into the pillow in her arms, trying to remember his scent, his arms. She felt sick, felt hurt.

If she had only been a better elf.

She laughed in pain while she cried.

If she had done things differently, if she’d made different choices, Solas would have stayed.

He had said he loved her, but he left her. How could she lose him? Why was she so stupid, so careless to throw not only her own people into the fire, but him too? She tried to tell herself that she didn’t mean to, she didn’t do it on purpose.

But she had been careless.

Solas hated ignorance. He hated excuses.

Recklessness.

He had overlooked her being Dalish, but she had gone too far.

The orb.

The Well of Sorrows.

The Temple of Mythal.

So much had been thrown away in her quest for power.

So much had been lost that could never be recovered.

He left because she destroyed their culture, tore apart the legacy of their people.

The Inquisitor choked on her tears.

It was all her fault.

She had insisted it was to stop Corypheus, but Solas warned her of power and its corrupting influence. He had been patient with her, he had been thoughtful, he had tried to curtail her worst instincts and actions.

She tried to insist that she didn’t enjoy killing, she didn’t have blood lust, she didn’t kill except out of necessity. It was a lie.

She knew that her mind was not as strong as she pretended it was. She had cracks, crevices, fissures that dribbled with a darkness that she hid away from everyone.

Even Solas.

He had no idea what she was capable of. He had no idea to the darkness lurking inside her. The Inquisition, and Solas as well, kept her grounded. Her friends had kept her focused, kept her in line, helped her stay her hand. So many more lives would have come to an end…

Someone was always watching her these days, to make sure she made the right choices.

The darkness ate at her. This was who she was. She was a murderer that wore a smile, she destroyed everything she touched.

Did he finally see her for who she really was? She was a monster. She knew it was true. Had he finally seen the truth that she masked so carefully?

Of course he left. Anyone with half a mind would see her and see what she was. They would know she was sliding down into the void, into the depths, succumbing to something that twisted good men into monsters.

And Lavellan had never been good.

She had never been that pure white rabbit. She was born of dark omens and grey skies, she lived a lonely path lined with corpses. Her hands were soaked in blood and her soul was stained.

For as long as she could remember, there had been a dark cloud over her. Perhaps the clan had been right. They had whispered that she attracted demons, spirits, ghosts. Some said it was a curse.

They were superstitious fools.

Lavellan had grown up in her clan, but she was not a good Dalish elf. She had been an other, living among them but separate. She embraced who she was and boldly proclaimed that she controlled her own destiny. She mocked fate. She scoffed at prayers and spoke her mind. The gods were just stories to scare children into being good.

She had rejected their words.

Why would the gods give a damn about one little elf? It was laughable. So she laughed.

They warned her.

Fen’Harel had his eyes on her.

“Let him come!” she declared.

“I fear no man or god. He should fear me!” she said with a feral expression on her face. In her youth, she was bold and wild and had nothing left to lose. She had no one. She was alone. She had her life, but risked it often. Lavellan lived for the song of battle, for the singing of her blades as they cut through flesh. She killed because it was the only thing that filled the void, that pushed away her thoughts and her loneliness. It felt good. It felt right. She felt closer to her parents. Closer to something…

They called her mad. They called her blasphemer.

Her clan had kept their distance. Perhaps they were the smart ones, perhaps they saw what Lavellan always tried to ignore and dispel as superstition.

Falon’din had eyes for her mother. She died.

What would happen when the Dread Wolf caught her scent? What would happen when his jaws came for her?

Let him come.

She feared no man, no god. She feared no bogeymen of children’s stories.

The wolf of legend was just that, a legend. A story.

Gods? Please. She would watch the world kneel and she would stand. Lavellan would never bow, never kneel. She would worship no one.

She did not believe.

She was a terrible elf. She rejected everything they stood for. She turned her back on them. She romanticized the human world, the world beyond the forests, the world of cities.

There was something wrong with her; It wasn’t the anchor.

Lavellan, she was broken.

Maybe she had never been whole to begin with. Anyone who had lived her life would be a mess.

She was a mess.

She didn’t want to accept it.

Why did she keep lying to everyone? To herself?

Lavellan shut her eyes tightly.

So many of them looked at her with hope in their eyes, with smiles. Why couldn’t they see who she really was?

She was not a good person.

She smirked into the damp fabric, which stuck against her cheeks uncomfortably.

Thank the gods she was no mage.

Lavellan knew that if she had magic, there would have been little to stop her from pushing too hard, acting too rashly, disregarding the words of others, caring little for the lives before her. If she had that sort of power…

Solas wouldn’t have left.

She would have been interesting enough that he’d overlook her flaws. She’d be someone worthy of his attentions.

He loved the Fade. He loved magic.

He said he loved her, but he would have loved her more if she were a mage.

If she had been born with power, if she had been someone of value…

She didn’t deserve to be happy.

She didn’t deserve a family, a lover, a child, friends, nothing.

Nothing…

What would happen if she had nothing left to lose?

Her eyes fluttered shut.

If she could use magic, if she could walk the Fade with the power that flowed through mages, Solas would love her more.

He would teach her so much. He would be proud of her.

He would see past her Dalish heritage and see her as someone of worth, someone beautiful, someone powerful.

His eyes had always looked at her with a sadness that she could not put into words, but she always felt like he pitied her…

Did he pity her because of the anchor?

Or did he pity her because he was a mage and she was not? He spoke of the wonders of magic, and she could only imagine such things.

Her head nodded once, twice.

His stories were like fairy tales, like stories from the Keeper.

They never had happy endings.

She dozed off.

Elyssia dreamt of her childhood in Clan Lavellan, of her parents. The Dalish were dedicated, their beliefs were powerful. She had never seen the appeal, never believed that some magical otherworldly beings were giving their blessings. Why would they care? She never knew if her parents loved one another. Plenty of Dalish came together to have children because of the needs of their clans. Did her parents do the same?

Perhaps.

Every Dalish parent seemed to want a mage. Magic was supposed to run in their blood. She was no mage. There was not a lick of magic in her veins.

Were her parents disappointed in her?

Perhaps.

Her parents, she never really knew them.

She never knew much about her mother…

She remembered her hands. She remembered how she hurt her, fingernails biting into her skin, her grip was strong and her eyes were hard. It was terrifying to be glared at with such animosity by eyes that were the same as your own.

She stared up at her own eyes. They glared down at her. She had trembled.

Would she hate her own child? Would she become her mother? Would she hurt her child too?

Lavellan feared she might be the sort of mother she had…

She couldn’t even recall her mother’s face, her voice.

Her name was Shaena.

Elyssia always thought her mother was beautiful and graceful, like a strange goddess. When she was a little girl she wanted to look like her some day.

Shaena had been tall, graceful, and pale as snow. Her mother’s hair had been the same dark red as her own, with a bit of a wave or curl in it that got worse when the weather was warm and wet. Her pale skin revealed marks on her arms and wrists, scars that Elyssia asked about in childish innocence. She was never given answers. Her mother covered her skin to hide them. Shaena wore Falon’Din’s vallaslin, which were a faded red on her flesh. The woman had deep circles under her eyes and looked like a waif. Elyssia thought her mother was graceful, but others thought it was more haunting and ethereal as she seemed to glide from place to place.

Her mother had been sickly. Most of Elyssia’s young life she observed her mother in bed.  She was wrapped in blankets, curled up in a bedroll or in the aravel. The little girl had often tried to cuddle her mother, but was shoved handedly away. Her memories were so foggy, but all she could recall of her mother were painful visions of a reality that made her heart break. She viewed her child-self as if the girl were someone else, not herself. Like reading about someone else, it was surreal that she had experienced any of it.

It felt impersonal.

It felt unreal.

During her earliest years, her father was rarely there. He was always away. She was always desperate to climb into his arms as soon as he would return home. Little Elyssia was left with her mother and the clan.

Why didn’t someone comfort her? Why didn’t someone step in when they saw how sad she was?

Shaena was her mother, but she was not a mother.

Elyssia slept with her father’s clothes, smelling the scent of him when he was gone away. It was a small comfort. He would let her sleep in his arms sometimes, but when she had gotten bigger he had insisted she was old enough to sleep on her own. She hated being alone. Her mother was only a few feet away, but it might as well have been a chasm between them. Sleeping was hard when her father wasn’t there. She whimpered in her sleep, tossing and turning. The Fade, the world of the dreaming, was scary for a little girl. There were things in there, things that were slippery, creepy, crawly; Things with too many legs, too many eyes. It was cold, it dripped, rocks floated, monsters wore the faces of people. She felt something brush against her legs.

She heard a screech.

The little girl woke from the nightmare.

“Mamae!”

She stumbled in the dark, tripping as she raced to her mother’s side. Tears streamed down her face. Elyssia shook her mother to wake her. Shaena’s eyes shot open, dark as pitch. Her daughter sobbed and tried to climb into her bed. Her mother grabbed her little arms, digging her fingernails into Elyssia’s skin.

It hurt.

“No! Go to bed!” she spat. It made Elyssia pull away in shock, as if it were a curse word.

The little girl trembled and sucked in a sob, stifled her tears and whimpered.

“Mumma”, she said with a little whine.

Shaena shoved her back, rolling away from her daughter, wrapping herself in blankets.

She just wanted to be held. She just wanted to be safe.

She just wanted to be loved.

Elyssia stared at her mother’s shape in the dark, sucking in breaths and trying to calm herself. She sucked in another ragged breath and grabbed a loose blanket, wrapping herself up and curling up on the floor near her mother’s side. It was as close as she dared get to her mother. She whimpered and shut her eyes tightly, sobbing softly into her hands. Elyssia trembled and the floor under her was cold. The blanket only helped so much. She muffled her cries in the fabric, balling it in her little fists to push against her face.

She was afraid of sleeping, of dreaming.

The monsters were there. She heard their voices in the darkness. Every shadow wanted to sink claws into her.

The monsters would get her.

She cried until she succumbed to sleep. She slept just at the base of the wooden riser below the edge of her mother’s bed.

In the dim light of dawn, Shaena woke. The aravel was quiet, blankets strewn about. She stepped from her bed and instead of touching onto the wooden floors, she stepped down onto Elyssia’s legs. She yelled and stumbled, barely stopping herself from falling. The little girl woke with a cry of pain and fear.

Elyssia remembered her mother’s hands, grabbing her, digging into her skin like talons. She cried and cried. Her mother screamed at her.

She was stupid. She was horrible. She was worthless. She was a mistake.

She shook and sobbed in her mother’s horrible grasp, in shock.

It was the most she could remember her mother even talking to her.

Still, she loved her mother.

She was desperate for her mother’s smile.

She wanted her attention.

Anything.

Unfortunately, her mother often ignored her.

Elyssia would sometimes walk to her, ask her questions, try to get into her eye-line or hop to be seen. Shaena looked away from her, and seemed lost in her thoughts. The little girl learned to stop trying so hard. So she watched her mother and tried to be good. The others whispered, “She’s so difficult” and “What a shame”. She tried to be a good little girl. She didn’t want to bring her mother trouble. She didn’t want to bring her parents shame.

Maybe her mother would love her if she was the best child in the clan.

Elyssia wanted to be the best little Dalish elf she could be. So she tried very hard, trying to mimic the adults, to learn to sew, to learn to cook, to practice with her bow and a little knife, to climb and run and jump. She dreamt of being beautiful and worthy of her mother’s love.

Elyssia had hungered for her attention, for her love.

Instead, she was discarded and neglected, so she sought out affection from others. Most seemed to find her a nuisance, so she clung to her father when he was around.

Her father was a hunter. His name was Erol. Supposedly he’d been a good one, bringing much pride and honor to their clan. He had taught her how to wield a knife and bow when she was still barely walking. Some of the clan questioned the wisdom of teaching one so young. Her mother never said a thing, so he made the decision alone.

Erol was covered in silvery scars, with skin that was a deep red brown color and June’s vallaslin on his face. He was almost always with the other hunters; One in particular who he was very close with was Emith. The two went into the forest together all the time, but didn’t come back with any game. At the time, Elyssia was innocent enough to think the other man must not be a very good hunter. Emith was nice; he was kind, but she didn’t like how he looked at her mother. There was a dark expression on his face when he thought no one was looking.

Erol was off with the hunters again, seeking out prey for their winter stores.

How old was she? Elyssia couldn’t be sure, though she could not have been older than six years old as her second name day had just passed. She sat on the ground by the aravel, playing with a doll make of sticks and twine and a small halla figurine. She adored that figurine. Her father had made it. It was painted white.

She smiled as she marched her toys around in the dirt, kneeling on her hands and knees. She was filthy, with dirt caked onto her clothes and leaves in her hair. Other clan members looked at her with dark expressions, whispers she could not hear. They always looked like they were upset, or irritated, or ashamed of her. Elyssia, she tried not to look at the other adults. Their eyes were upsetting. She didn’t want to see anything but smiles.

Everything was fine. Everything was good. The little girl lived for her fantasy. Her halla was beautiful and the doll was graceful and lithe and everything an elf should be.

Her doll was loved.

Elyssia was a good girl.

She looked up from her toys to her mother.

Her mother had flitted from job to job in clan Lavellan; The last task she was given was tailoring and mending clothes. She sat with her back to her daughter at a stack of fabrics, clothes to mend, and leathers to repair. Her work area was a simple bench and stool, scattered with supplies and tools.

Elyssia watched as her mother rose to her feet and walked away from the bench.

The little girl’s head rose at the movement.

“Mamae, where are you going? Can I come?”

Shaena walked toward the forest away from their camp, unresponsive to her daughter’s questions. The little girl looked around for other adults. Her mother did things like this all the time so no one seemed to care or notice her walk away from her work. How many other jobs had she walked away from? Countless…

“Mamae?” Elyssia asked again, her little bushy eyebrows drawing down with her frown. Shaena did not hesitate or stop at the sound of her daughter’s questioning voice. She walked away. The little girl gnawed at her lip before she hopped to her feet. She grasped her toys and quickly made to follow her mother. She had small little legs and feet, she was so small. Elyssia didn’t even rise to her mother’s hips yet. She could still cling to her legs, if her mother would ever let her.

She couldn’t recall her mother ever hugging her.

The forest loomed overhead, looking dark and menacing.

“Wait for me!”, the little girl called out as she scurried into the woods, a little nervous, a little scared.

Elyssia was told to never go into the forest alone, because there were all sorts of beasts and spirits that might snatch her up and make a meal of her. She chewed her lip as she walked, trying to keep up with her mother’s long legs and fast strides.

The forest was dangerous. Her mother shouldn’t be in there alone either. Shaena didn’t even have a weapon. Elyssia picked up the pace and looked around nervously. She wished her father was there.

Every shadow moved as if it were alive. Tree branches looked like claws and fangs. Elyssia trembled and her head swung around with any little sound or movement.

A shriek.

The girl spun on her heels, her eyes wide and her limbs trembling.

An owl flapped its wings and flew off with a dead rabbit in its talons.

Her heart beat fast. She turned back in the direction she had been walking.

She was alone.

Her mother. Where had her mother gone?

She lost sight of her.

Elyssia stood in the forest, her eyes big and fearful. The little girl started to sniffle, fear eating at her.

She called out for her mother, her tiny voice barely loud enough to hear from feet away. “Mamae?”

Elyssia ran, ran deeper into the woods in a desperate attempt to find her mother, to find camp, to find anyone. She was scared. It was getting darker. She dashed past trees, over logs, down hills. She dropped her toys as she grabbed onto a tree trunk for balance before stumbling down another slope.

“Mamae! Baba!” She yelled as her voice cracked with her panic.

The little girl tripped over an upturned root and crashed into the dirt. She cried.

She cried and sobbed until no more tears would come. Her knee hurt and had a big scrape on it. Blood. She hiccuped in fear, her adrenaline making her heart race like a rabbit’s. Her toys were forgotten in her terror, left behind in the dirt.

Hours seemed to pass but it felt like years. The little girl trembled with fear, remembering her father’s warnings of demons, gods, monsters, and the things that went bump in the night. The stories scared her.

A wolf howled.

She covered her mouth to stop herself from screaming. No, no the wolf couldn’t find her if she hid. If she was quiet. She had to be invisible.

Terror gripped her little heart. She looked around for a hiding place. Elyssia whimpered and crawled into a giant hollowed out log. Her knee bled. The bark scratched her skin. She sucked in ragged breaths and laid as still as she could. She had to be invisible. She had to be. She hid and stayed quiet. So, so quiet.

She wanted her father. She wanted her mother. She wanted to be safe, to be rescued.

The wolf would eat her alive if he could find her. She had to be smarter than the wolf. Her adrenaline wore off as she laid as still as she could. Time trickled by. She tried not to make a noise, not even her breaths. Her head slumped against the wood.

Elyssia fell into a restless sleep.

In the dead of night, she woke to footsteps.

“Elyssia!” yelled a voice that sounded like her father. She wanted to yell for him but she was scared - there were spirits and demons that would prey on her and wear the faces of her loved ones. Baba had told her as much. So she stayed quiet.

Torchlight illuminated two figures. She could only faintly make out the shapes from cracks in the log, her secret hiding place.

“Elyssia!”

Another hunter yelled her name. It was the voice of the man that was always with her father, Emith, the hunter that was terrible at hunting.

“Do you think she took her?”, said Emith’s voice.

“Shaena wouldn’t. She can barely look at her. She hasn’t been the same since-“

“What’s that?” The man said, his voice sounding strange. The two ran away from Elyssia and her hiding place. She squirmed in the log, trying to see.

The torchlight bounced in the dark like a giant wisp. The fire was so pretty. Little sparks and embers fluttered from it. She thought they looked like fireflies. She peeked out from the log, struggling to see in the pitch black of darkness.

The two men came to stop. Above them was something big hanging from a tree. Elyssia blinked in the darkness. The torch light illuminated what looked like a person floating in the air. Erol took a few steps back.

“No..no..”, her father’s voice broke.

“Erol she’s-”

“No! Help me get her down!”, he yelled at the friend.

“But she’s-“

“I said help me!”, he yelled, his voice cracked with a sob.

Elyssia didn’t want to wait anymore. Her father, he was so sad.

This had to be her father. No demon would cry, right? But she’d never seen her father cry either. Why would he cry? He was so brave. He was the bravest elf in the whole wide world.

The little girl climbed out from the log and yelled for her father, “Baba!”

Erol froze and looked to the other man, something flickering in his eyes. He was torn in two, before he turned and ran to his girl.

Elyssia felt her father’s arms scoop her up from the ground. He spun her around, cradling her head as if she were a baby again.

“Elyssia…” He said as he choked on a sob. Elyssia started to cry as soon as his strong arms encircled her. Big wet tears full of fear and relief streamed down her face. She nuzzled her head into his neck, sucking in big gasps of air.

“I didn’t mean to Baba!”, she cried. He held her and walked at the edges of the torchlight, always keeping her turned away from his friend, from the tree, from the thing hanging in the air.

He choked on words, unable to speak. There was a thud and the friend crouched over something, something big. A rope hung from a tree limb, swaying, cut. Elyssia knew they used rope to catch prey, sometimes setting traps where the animals were snatched up and hung from the trees.  Maybe Emith had finally caught something. Whatever had hung there didn’t have an animal’s shape.

Emith pulled off their cloak and rested it over the fallen thing that was suspiciously shaped like a person. He stood beside it for a time, before he took a dagger to scratch a mark into the tree, and each tree on their path back to Erol’s side. The light grew brighter the closer he came to them. Elyssia sniffled and saw Emith’s face, sorrow stricken and soft. His eyes were wet and shiny in the firelight. He held the torch close to Erol, blocking Elyssia’s view of the area behind him.

“We can return later…”, the man said before he reached out and put a hand on Erol’s back. Her father shook and squeezed his eyes shut. He did not move for what felt like forever. Erol took a deep breath and looked at Elyssia. His eyes shined with a wetness.

“I should have-“, her father said with a tiny raw voice.

“No, don’t say things like that. Don’t even think it. You know there was nothing you could have done.”

Elyssia whimpered and her father held her. He felt strong and warm and good. She smelled the scent of leather and wood in his embrace. She was so tired.

Her father stammered over his words, “She-she is-was- I tried-”

“I know…”, Emith said softly.

Erol cradled her and they walked through the forest. The little girl felt like she was being rocked along in a quiet journey, a caravan across the skies like in the old stories. She wondered what it was like to fly.

Elyssia started to drift to sleep, comforted by his smell, his warmth, his arms.

The following day, there was a quiet gathering. The adults went, the few children stayed with one of the elders who had volunteered to watch them. Elyssia was unsure of what was going on, but she was worried. Some of the teenagers whispered to one another, sometimes casting strange glances in her direction or towards the elder. She sat near an older boy that was eager to get his vallaslin in the next few years. He puffed up his chest and put on a brave face, “… I heard it was the Dread Wolf.”

An older girl, one that was learning to hunt and had outgrown her limbs, spoke up. “That’s not true. She was sick. Sick people die. That’s just how it is.” The girl acted wise and sagely. She was pale with big dark eyes. Elyssia thought she looked like a long necked halla.

“I heard that she worshipped Falon’Din so much she had to join him…”, the boy replied.

Elyssia stood up and looked at them, then looked at the empty camp. “Where’d they all go?”

The boy almost said something but one of the others elbowed him hard enough to make him hiss in pain.

The halla girl spoke, “They’re seeing someone off on a journey to the beyond.”

Elyssia furrowed her brow, “The beyond?”

“It’s where people go when they leave this world”, the halla girl said softly.

“Who left?”, Elyssia said as her hands scrunched the fabric of her shirt to her chest. Her big eyes swam with tears.

She didn’t want to know.

Not really.

The other children looked at her with pity, with sadness, and then they looked to the halla girl. The halla girl shook her head.

“You still have your baba”, said the boy with a sympathetic look on his face.

Elyssia’s lips quivered.

Tears spilled from her eyes.

She wanted her mother.

The following weeks were somber for Erol and his daughter. The little girl didn’t ask many questions, she didn’t want to play with the others; She usually would hide in the aravel to avoid the painful expressions of others when they looked at her. Only Erol’s voice could coax her from the furs and blankets, or elicit a smile. Her father held her often, as if she were a baby again.

Erol did not join the others when they went out to hunt. He did not spend much time with his friend either. He stayed close to his daughter’s side, ever watchful in case she might wander into the forest again.

Years seemed to fly by in the blink of an eye. As Elyssia grew older, she and her father were near inseparable. Their bond strengthened from the loss they shared. More than just a father and daughter, they were the best of friends.

“Da’len, raise your arm…”, her father said with a smirk as he watched the twelve year old aim her bow. The girl was proud and always quick to argue, quick to educate her father on how wrong he was about everything.

“I know what I’m doing!”, she said with a dramatic huff, blowing hair from her face only for it to land back in her eyes.

She knew everything.

She was twelve.

They all thought they knew everything there was to know at twelve.

“Uh-huh, like with the sword the other day?”

“You cheated!”, she groused. Elyssia lost her concentration and turned her head to him.

Erol grinned as he poked his daughter’s stomach. She squealed and let go of the bowstring. The arrow flew and pinged off the edge of a tree trunk. She missed her target by more than just a few feet.

“I told you to raise your arm”, he chided with a wide toothy grin.

“You made me mess up!”, she blurted and spun on him, her face turning red.

“No, you set yourself up to fail when you looked away. Do you think the shems will be so kind as to let you get into the proper stance when in a fight?”, he said as his expression was suddenly not so warm. Her father did not like the humans, not at all. She never knew why, she didn’t ask.

“Well, I mean I wouldn’t be using a bow anyway!”

“Oh? And what would you use? You do not have magic. Bows are a necessity for range. You keep your distance from the shems. You shoot, you run. Do not stick around to see what fate befalls you at their hands, da’len.” He said, with an expression that was dour and harsh.

She puffed up, “I won’t run! I can fight!”

He grabbed her then, hugging her to him tightly. She sucked in a breath, stunned at his suddenly hold on her.

“Do not be brave”, he begged her. 

“Run, da’len. It’s better to be a living rabbit than a dead wolf.”

Elyssia squirmed against her father, groaning at his sudden show of affection and his heartfelt words of wisdom. He looked misty eyed and so she didn’t complain or argue, but she wanted to. He was being stupid. Stupid and mushy.

Erol relaxed his hold.

“I’d be sneaky. They’d never see me.”

“You’re as sneaky as a bronto”, her father mused.

“I’ve been practicing!”, she insisted with a stomp of her feet.

Erol almost laughed.

“Oh? This is news. My daughter, practicing something? Be-still my heart. The Keeper will be thrilled. Perhaps she will have a statue made in your honor”, he said with dripping sarcasm and a wry smile.

Elyssia wrinkled her nose and huffed, crossing her arms. He was being an ass. Her father was always such an ass. And he wondered where her sarcasm came from? Jerk.

He did not relent in his commentary.

 “See, I had heard otherwise. The Keeper says that you haven’t been practicing much in the way of our people; Is this a new side of you I’m seeing? Are you suddenly going to become devout?”

“Ugh, not this again!”, she groaned.

“Then will you forsake all of our people’s legacy? You don’t even go to your lessons. How many elvhen words do you even know? We are taught more than just stories, da’len. But you live in ignorance when you turn your back on our history. I do not expect you to bow and worship them, but to know of them. This is your story as much as it is mine.”

Erol was not terribly insistent that she practice their people’s ways, but he did tell her to at least play along and pretend, for her own sake. She had always dismissed his words.

She snorted loudly, “I’m not going to kneel and say prayers to someone I’ve never even met”, she said with a stubbornness in her voice.

Her father chuckled. “Oh really? How would you know if you had met a god?”

Her eye roll was so dramatic and severe that her eyes could have rolled away, bouncing out of her head and across the very ground. Elyssia scoffed loudly, “I’d know! They’d be- they’d be nothing like us. They’d be different! Bright like stars and-”

Erol quirked a brow at his daughter’s imagination. “Bright like stars?”, he said questioningly. He circled her, his hands going behind his back. His daughter needed a proper education, and since she failed to heed the Keeper’s lessons, perhaps he would have to teach her himself.

“Da’len, there is so much you don’t know yet. There are things out there, things you cannot even fathom, cannot even imagine. You think that you could outwit them all, but you are not that cunning. There are those out there who would deceive you. You may not know of or believe in the gods, but there are things out there that are unexplained. You think that you could stand atop the highest mountains above it all, but you have not plumbed the depths yet.”

“I’m not stupid! I’d know if someone was lying to me. I’m not afraid of monsters! I am smart and-”

Her father interrupted her, “You think I speak of just monsters? And what of the darkness in men? The Dread Wolf would trick you and make you think the darkest night is the brightest day.”

“Nuh-uh!” she glared up at her father and stuck her chin out stubbornly. He shook his head.

“Is that so?”, he asked with a strange expression on his face. He seemed both proud and worried, amused and dismayed.

She nodded firmly.

Erol mussed up her hair with a smirk, and then planted a big wet kiss on her forehead. 

She whined. He grinned at her and walked to the loosed arrow, picking it up and twirling it between his fingers.

“Do you know why it is a curse when we say ‘Dirthara-ma’?”

“May you learn?” she asked, scrunching up her face. Then she shook her head no. Her wild hair tumbled into her eyes.

“It is a curse, because sometimes one must learn things the hard way, and such knowledge is a painful burden.”

She looked lost and stared up at her father, her eyes scrutinizing his expression.

“I don’t understand…”, she said finally, unsure of what words she should reply with. It felt like a test, but she didn’t know the right answer.

“Da’len, I pray you never need to learn hard lessons in life, but I know that such prayers are rarely answered.” He rubbed her cheek with his worn and callused thumb.

“I will be your shield as long as I can”, he said softly. She let a sigh escape her lips and felt her shoulders drop. He was the strongest person she knew, and she knew that she would be strong with him by her side, forever.

“Please understand that this world is a dangerous one and you are only mortal. You have limits. You will not live forever. Do not be foolhardy and reckless. Do not rush off because of passion or rage. Use that mind of yours”, he tapped her temple.

“Pride is a dangerous thing, Elyssia. Do not be so blinded by it that you would not see the world around you for what it is. You are clever, yes, but you are still a child. You are no match for a shem or the Dread Wolf himself. Do not try to take on more than you can handle”, he smiled softly but his eyes looked sad.

“I’m not afraid!” she said plaintively. He smiled but his eyebrows sank. Erol tucked the arrow behind his ear and knelt, hugging her again. She did not wriggle away or fight him, but she was stiff in his arms. She was so much like himself, it was almost frightening.

“Fear can be a good thing. Sometimes the best course of action is to run away. Do not pit yourself against a force that you cannot hope to conquer.”

“But I could-“

“Elyssia, do not try to be a hero. Heroes die tragic deaths. You never hear tales of heroes that live to an old age.”

“But you’re old…”, she said.

He laughed loudly at that and held her at arm’s length. His eyes sparkled with mirth. He had more white hair lately and she had been giddy to point it out. The brat.

“I am not old!”

She giggled and leapt away from him, her eyes lighting up with fire and mischief. She was beautiful. He hoped she would never stop smiling.

“Yes you are. You’re older than-“

“Don’t you say it”, he said with a twisted wry grin and a waggle of his index finger. Her eyes crinkled with her mischievous grin.

She shouted as she ran from him, laughing.

“You’re as old as dirt!”

“That’s it. It’s time for my revenge, you’ve lived long enough I suppose…” He said with a fierce fox-like grin.

Erol ran at her.

She screamed in delight and ran from him, dodging between trees and over rocks.

Her father chased her with a smile.

“Old!”, she taunted as she jumped down a small ledge to a riverbed.

“Watch out, da’len!”, he chortled as he quickly followed. Her face was red with her exertions. Elyssia had yet to grow into the body of a woman, and her legs weren’t long enough to escape his strides. She still tried her hardest. He may have held back and let her get some distance between them, to prolong the hunt. Maybe.

 “And you’re fat!”, she barked back at him, glancing and squealing when she saw he was only a few steps behind her. Elyssia dashed, skipping over the riverbed and across and up the next hill. Erol kept close on her trail, never too slow to lose her or too fast to overtake her.

His daughter laughed boisterously. “And slow! And you snore!”

Erol swiped for her and missed her by a hand’s length.

“See! Slow old man!”, she cackled and leapt onto an giant old worn statue covered in moss. She spun towards him to show off, to revel in her speed, her mastery of escape.

To gloat.

He was gone.

Elyssia froze, her joyful haughty expression dashed into shock as she saw nothing in his direction. He had just been there.

“Baba?”, she said in a voice that feigned bravery. She wasn’t afraid. He was just playing around.

Her eyes scanned the forest, her heart-rate still high and the blood pounding in her head. She didn’t hear him, she didn’t see him.

Where?

Suddenly a net crashed down on top of her and she screamed.

“Gotcha!”, Erol yelled from a tree limb overhead. She yelled and roared like a little angry bear, swiping and clawing at the heavy ropes that kept her smushed into the dirt. Her father cackled before climbing down from the tree.

“So, Da’len. Have you learned something today?”

Elyssia stuck her arms out around the edges of the weighted net and pulled it off herself with difficulty.

She stuck her tongue out at him and he grinned, “Well?”

“That you’re a cheater!”

“No, Elyssia. Being cunning isn’t cheating.”

“What?”, she furrowed her brow and kicked the remainder of the netting off herself with some effort. The ropes were heavy and they scratched at her bare skin.

“You were quick, too quick for me to catch to-“

“I told you that you were slow”, she said with a proud grin.

He swatted her head, “Since I was too slow to catch you, what were my options?”

“You did something else”

He nodded and bunched up the ropes and netting, before swinging it over his shoulder.

“Since I couldn’t outrun you, I used a trap I had nearby. You will never equal your opponents, you will either surpass them or be weaker. So you use that clever mind of yours to outwit them.”

She gave a little nod.

“In the game of life, you need to control the board itself. Should you find yourself in a bind, you need to either change the rules of the game or the game itself.”

Elyssia rolled her eyes and let out a groan at his words of wisdom. Again, another lesson? She grinned. No, she’d show him.

“Or throw the board away completely!”, Elyssia said with a big confident grin.

Erol chuckled and gave his daughter a wry grin. He grabbed her by her shoulders and hugged her to his side. “Or throw the board away”, he relented with a smirk.

His daughter was a clever one. Too clever for her own good. 

They had been training and hunting for hours into the night, ‘good practice’ her father had said. Elyssia had scoffed and rolled her eyes.

Suddenly, he grabbed her by her wrist and whipped her into his arms before pulling her silently to the ground, a hand wrapping around her mouth. She almost yelled, but his reactions halted her instincts.

A bear trap lay a foot’s length from where Elyssia had been, carefully hidden in the brush and fallen leaves. Erol held her tightly to his body, his long hair draping over them both like a cloak. Elyssia looked to her father and he ignored her, his eyes searching in the darkness. These were not traps set by him or the other hunters. These were not elven traps. No, they belonged to humans.

Some of their clan were more open to meeting, trading, and conversing with the humans. He knew what they were capable of, more than most. He hated them.

Barely visible, there was another trap not far past the first. He furrowed his brow and his nostrils flared, a sneer showing on his face. He released her to his side and pushed her behind him, as if she were an object he could reposition easily enough and not a person. She was precious, and he could not risk her. She would normally have argued about this treatment, but her father looked more worried than she could ever recall seeing him.

Elyssia wanted to speak, but her father’s body language was stiff and his ears twitched at every sound. Her father tapped her leg and motioned to his lips. She nodded in understanding. Talking would be a mistake. She waited for him, motionless and hyper aware of the scent of smoke and the lack of birdsong and bugs, nature itself seemed to die away into an uncomfortable silence.

Firelight in the distance. Smoke rose gently. The breeze carried scents with it.

There were humans. Erol’s eyes focused on each he could spy from their relatively safe distance.

Four?

No.

Five.

A few hundred paces away was a group of humans sitting around a camp fire. They had no tents, but bedrolls.

“Stay low”, Erol mouthed to his daughter in silence. Elyssia obeyed, her eyes focusing in the darkness.

The humans, the shemlens, shared a flask and talked loudly. Their accents were thick, thick enough that she was sure they weren’t from the area. She could barely understand what they were saying. Some of the words weren’t common, sounding so strange to her ears. Her father looked deadly serious, his furrowed brow and rapt attention on the men. He was almost scaring her with how he looked, how he acted. She had never seen him like this. A trickle of fear crawled down her spine.

“We should get some of those wild ones to make up for the lost cargo. Too many have been dying below deck, fragile fucking things”, said one man before he took a swig of the flask.

His head was bald and he had a short dark beard. Even in the darkness, it was obvious that most of them had dark hair. They had dark skin and their facial hair was strangely styled. Elyssia hadn’t seen men like these, then again her father kept her far from the humans. He’d taken her to Kirkwall once, so she wouldn’t run there on her own out of curiosity. It had worked, she didn’t want to see the city again after that. It was disgusting, especially the smell.

These men did not look like Free Marchers. Their clothes looked like they’d rolled around in a pile of random fabrics and called them outfits. The clothes had also seen better days, with slices and holes here and there from wear and tear. They wore sashes, boots, leathers, chains, belts, rings, all sorts of things. They did not have armor like the soldiers or the templars, and no staves like mages.

A giant bulky man that looked like he could pick up a mountain growled out, “Well, I say we keep one or two for ourselves for our trouble. Bad enough we keep havin’ to run this fuckin’ route. If the magister wants ‘em healthy he should have paid us more.”

The others nodded in agreement.

There were dark red stains on their clothes that Elyssia suspected were not wine stains. Dried salt coated their boots.

She tried to focus on their words, their voices. What were they saying?

“We got enough crates we could take the whole lot of ‘em”, said a fat one.

“Scouted a group just south of here. We go in while they sleep, it’ll be easy. Only two or three mages in those clans, kill them and we’ve got the bunch”, a tall one said as he walked the perimeter of their camp, his eyes staring out into the dark. Elyssia felt like he was staring at them. She shivered.

“Yeah, an’ tho’ mages are worth more, fire fuckin’ hurts”, said the mountain man. His skin had old burn scars that puckered and twisted like vines up his arm.

Her father looked alarmed. He knew what these men were; Slavers. He was ready to either do something stupid, or run. They had limited time, so stupid it was.

Erol glanced to her, then looked back toward the forest and gestured that way with his chin.

He mouthed, “Get the clan to move, pack up and go right now! Get as far from the coast as you can!”

He knew what they meant for his clan, for his daughter. They needed to run. His clan would be rabbits. He would be a wolf.

He would not watch her be violated by these men. He would not watch his people be shipped like merchandise across the sea, dying in droves to disease and starvation. He would not watch as his life was torn apart for some monster to play god in Tevinter. Elves were sacrificed there for blood magic rituals. He lived and knew much that he did not tell his daughter. He did not need to worry her.

Someday, she would understand. Someday, she would be thankful.

She needed to warn their clan.

She needed to run.

Elyssia glared at him and shook her head.

He almost laughed at the pain in his heart. She was stubborn, just like him. She was so much like him. She was cocky and brash and about as sophisticated and cultured as a toad. He loved her more than life itself. He did not want her to live the life he had lived. He would not see her broken and torn apart. To live in servitude…

He wished to see his daughter grow up into a strong woman. He would not see her die this day, or any time soon. No, she had to run.

She had to do this.

He stared at his daughter intensely with vivid green eyes. Elyssia had eyes like her mother, dark purple and almost black in the darkness. Under his gaze, she finally ducked her head down and relented.

He let a breath escape his lips when she squeezed his arm.

She would save them. She would save all of them.

He would only need to buy them time.

Erol swallowed hard as she turned to leave. He grabbed her wrist and put his hand on hers.

His hand was over hers for a moment, a firm squeeze. Their eyes met.

He knew his daughter was smart, fast, and strong. She had a big heart.

Someday he hoped she would have the life she deserved.

Erol had lived a long life. He felt fortunate, lucky to have had her in his life. She was the best thing he’d ever done, ever made. He hoped she’d live a life with people worthy of her. She was the world to him.

He squeezed her hand, so tiny in his. His hands were big and callused and warm. His fingernails were perpetually dirty. He always picked underneath them with his daggers. It was a bad habit that he tried to break, time and time again. He would never pick them again, he swore it, if only he made it until the dawn’s light.

She looked at him, a flicker of fear crossing her face.

Erol’s hand squeezed hers tighter.

He had to do this.

She thought she saw tears in his eyes, but it was dark. Her father didn’t cry.

He turned back to watch the humans, his hands on his daggers.

It was time to go.

It was time to say good bye to his world.

Elyssia slipped off into the woods, slow and quiet and careful until she knew she could run. Then she ran.

Run little rabbit, run.

She needed to tell their clan. They had to run to safety.

Shems had hunted them before for sport and they’d done worse. The shems would kill them, hurt them, rape them. Her father was terrified she’d be caught alone in the woods. Shems were not gentle with women, and the ones they left alive usually ended their lives rather than keep living. Elyssia knew that she could fight back, but her father insisted she know her limits. She had learned that physically, while she was strong, she wasn’t as strong as a grown man. Shems were even bigger than elves.

Elyssia’s feet leapt across the ground in great bounds, soaring over rocks and bushes and overturned logs. She would not let the shems get to her clan.

They would save them all.

Her father was a hero.

He was a hero.

Within a half hour, she’d made it back to the clan. Their current camp was not far from the coast. She could smell the salt and the sea air from the forest. The scent of brine and marshland sometimes was overpowering.

She ran to their First and Keeper, gasping in gulps of air between her words of warning. The two were lounging against an aravel, sharing a pipe. Smoke curled up from their lips as they turned to look at her.

She was shaking with her adrenaline, gasping as she blurted out loudly, “F-father sent me! There are shems in the forest and-and we need to go, now!”

“Calm down and take a breath”, said the Keeper.

She glared at them, her face red from her exertions. She panted in between big gulps of air. Why couldn’t they see this was an emergency? Why weren’t they running into the woods to save him? Everyone needed to move. She needed to get back. They needed to help fight the shems-

“No! He said to move! Right now! They’re coming! Away from the coast before they-“

“We will move.” Said the Keeper as she looked to the First, who nodded and quickly barked orders to other elves. The camp was woken up, lamps soon blazing as tired elves were shaken and pulled from aravels and bedrolls. There were less than twenty of them. The hunters were the quickest, pulling on clothes in a hurry.

“Where is he?”, asked the First.

“We were northwest, by the tall rocks”, she said as she nervously looked back toward the forest.

“Pack what you can carry”, they bade her. Elyssia turned to them, alarmed.

“What? What about my father? We have to go back for him!”

They looked at her as if she’d grown a second head. She stared at them incredulously. He was their best hunter. He was her father. He was a hero. She would not let his story end now. He warned her about heroes.

They couldn’t leave him to die.

Elyssia yelled at the Keeper, shaking in her outrage, “He’s out there! We can’t just leave him!”

“Elyssia, your father knows the risks and our clan’s safety is paramount at this-“

“I don’t give a shit!” Elyssia snarled.

The adults were startled by the fury in her words, her venom and anger. They were on edge enough, but one of them in particular looked harried, panicked. It was Emith, her father’s friend and terrible hunting partner. His silver hair was tied into a lopsided knot and his clothes and armor were hastily donned.

Emith marched forward with fear in his eyes, “We can spare a hunter or two. I’ll go.”

“See?”, Elyssia snapped. Emith wasn’t a very good hunter, but he was better than no one. He cared about her father; At least someone did.

“No, we cannot spare anyone. We must move. Now.” The Keeper turned away from her. Elyssia stared at her, quaking with fury. Emith looked torn, trapped. At the Keeper’s stony glare, he grit his teeth and dropped his eyes.

No!

“You’re cowards!”, she spat as her eyes welled with tears. She would not cry. She would not.

“Think what you like child…”

“I’m not waiting!”, she spat and stormed away, grabbing her bag of belongings and her weapons.

The Keeper turned, alarmed.

“Restrain her!”, she commanded the hunters.

Elyssia turned to see the hunters converging on her. They looked upset, angry, sad. She saw pity and fear and they were all cowards.

She bolted for the forest.

She was fast. She’d outrun her father, she could outrun them too. She knew they’d break off, they’d give up quickly - she wasn’t their concern, the clan was. They were selfish cowards. Her father mattered!

He mattered.

She’d sacrifice all of them for him. She’d sacrifice the whole world for him.

They got their warning. It was good enough. It had to be.

Now she needed to save him. She had to be the hero, the savior. She would not let him fall.

She nearly flew. She wound through the forest with a speed borne of fear and anxiety. She came back to their hiding spot to find it empty. Elyssia crouched, looking around carefully. It was quiet. She didn’t hear the men, she didn’t hear anything.

When a minute or two passed, she stepped out from behind the tree line and looked around the trail. There was blood, a pool of it, and a body.

She froze.

No …

Her father lay not a few hundred feet from the trail, lying face down in a pile of fall leaves.

“No..!”, she ran to him, her heart tearing apart in her chest.

She grabbed him and turned him toward her. His head lolled to the side, a giant gaping wound in his neck. Elyssia stared at the dark blood that coated his chest. His eyes were open still.

They were green, green like grass, like the Fade itself. Green like emeralds. Green like her nightmares.

Her hands shook and a sob escaped her lips. He couldn’t be dead. He couldn’t be.

“No no no…!”

She couldn’t be alone. They were supposed to be together forever.

Elyssia had no one but her father. There wasn’t a soul in this world that she felt anything for. She had no friends, no family. Her clan had always been uncomfortable around her; They thought a dark spirit yet lingered, perhaps her mother floating around in the ether. They were so superstitious. Her mother, even if she were a damn ghost still ignored her.

The neglect spanned from life to death. It was tragically funny.

Elyssia choked on her tears, sucking in ragged breaths as if she were drowning.

The blood was tacky and thick, but she ignored it. She hugged him tightly to her, her smaller body shaking with heaving sobs. She gasped in breaths, the scent of him on his leathers flooding her mind.

He couldn’t be gone.

She couldn’t be alone.

She held him, crushing him to her chest. Elyssia burrowed her face into his hair, keening cries tearing from her throat.

He was smarter than them. He was faster than them. The shems, he should have been able to fight them all.

Why was he dead? Why were they allowed to walk away? How were they alive? They deserved to die!

“Baba!”, she howled in grief.

She pawed at his back, his arms. He was still limp, still felt like a person, the coldness of death having not fully set in yet. The little elf sucked in gasps, cried until her throat was raw, her eyes overflowing with tears, and her nostrils dripping snot down her face. She cried until she felt like she might break in two. Elyssia took her father’s arms and wrapped them around herself, sobbing until she felt numb.

The hours felt like days, felt like years. She laid against him in the dirt.

His body chilled. His limbs became stiffer.

Elyssia stayed in the dirt, her chin tucked in against her chest, her eyes screwed so tightly shut against the reality, against vision itself. She could not see him, could not face the truth. She shook and shivered.

She slept when exhaustion overtook her, when her grief released her to the world of the Dreaming.

She did not dream that night, a blessing or a reprieve from the agony that tore her heart in two.

It was almost dawn when she woke. The dim light made the terrifying reality softer, coated in a hazy glow. Elyssia sniffled and crawled out from her father’s dead embrace. She could not look at his face, his eyes. She kept her head down.

He was gone. He was dead.

She choked on a sob as she pulled herself to her feet, shaking slightly.

She was alone.

Elyssia had a clan that would not risk a thing for their best hunter. They had tried to stop her from saving her father.

Her father was dead.

Her mother was dead.

She had no one.

No one but herself.

And her anger, her grief, her misery, her hate.

The humans, they did this.

The hate and fury in her heart bubbled into something so visceral that a demon could have easily latched onto her if she had been a mage. The world would have shaken at her feet if she had magic. She would have split it in two.

Her father had trained her to kill and to fight, to defend, to hunt - but never had she hurt a person.

She was just a little twig of a girl with a few knives and a bow. She shouldn’t be considered a threat to anyone.

She would kill them. She would kill them all.

Elyssia sneered. She bent and grabbed her father’s daggers.

She was just a little girl.

She shouldn’t be a threat.

Elyssia’s heart called for blood, her veins thrummed with the pounding of her heart.

They had to pay.

The shems.

“Those fucking shems won’t get away with this.”

Elves were often called rabbits; It was a derogatory term the humans used because they were seen as long eared and flighty creatures and lesser than humans. Elyssia was quite aware of how the shems saw her kind. Erol had told her much of the shemlen world, the cities in the Free Marches like Kirkwall, and the northern nations like Tevinter. She knew elves were penned in like livestock, living out horrible existences in nasty ghettos in the south, and sacrificed and enslaved in the north.

She had no thoughts on and no sympathy for these elves. They might as well not even be the same people as her, or be inanimate objects.

No one mattered.

Just revenge.

The girl focused on the task at hand. She had to find the shems and put an end to them.

She was a little rabbit, young and innocent.

Elyssia glared at the tracks on the ground, her eyes trailing them to the road in the distance. The humans would be traveling in the direction of Kirkwall. She stuffed the blades in her bag and set off in a slow jog.

Elyssia would track them like any prey. She would take her time. She would heed her father’s lessons. She would be the hunter, not the prey.

She was going to quench her father’s blades in the blood of his enemies.

She would show them. She would show them all what this little rabbit would do.

Skyhold was cold. Lavellan shifted in her bed. Hours passed and Lavellan woke to find the pillow on the floor and her sheets discarded. Her legs were bare to the open air. She pulled her duvet and blankets back onto her body with a shiver.

A cold chill seeped into her through the layers of sheets and blankets. Lavellan grimaced and tugged the blankets higher all the way up to her chin, cocooning herself in their safety and warmth.

She was awake, yet again.

The Inquisitor held the blankets around her chin, rubbing her legs together to warm them.

Doubt returned. Despair seemed to hover on the precipice of her mind.

I ’m going to be a terrible mother. I don’t know the first thing about being a parent…

She tried to remember something from her past, something that might make her feel a little better. She was desperate for guidance, for confidence facing this new chapter of her life.

Her mother?

Gone.

Her father?

Gone.

Lavellan had no one to turn to with this fear, no one of her blood, no kin to call her own. Her makeshift family in the Inquisition was better than nothing, but she desperately wanted to fall into her parents’ arms and cry.

The Inquisitor wanted to be wrapped up in warm arms and held. She wanted someone to tell her it would be okay.

She wanted her parents.

She wanted Solas.

Where is he?

Gods, I need him …

She wanted what she could not have.

Songs for the end of the fic:

https://open.spotify.com/track/3ECh9S9MgoL9SrpZFh0Y5Z?si=01ab8f2cebe2481b

When You Lose Someone by Nina Nesbitt

https://open.spotify.com/track/3CqMuOh8kuc4hrHZrvuDBc?si=cfbc500f45294305

Antidote by Faith Marie

Chapter Text

The shrine was quiet, as always. The narrow corridor clean and pristine despite its age. The veilfire torches flames flickered and the lighting was low enough, soft enough, to make everything look dreamy, hazy. He was tired, so very tired. Ivun felt his head nod, his eyelids fluttering shut every so briefly.

It had been so long…

Another nod and he jolted his head upright, a flicker of panic in his heart.

“Wake up”, he hissed at himself as he stood guard by the sealed door. He shook his head, but the haze of sleep was stifling and he wavered on his feet.

No, he had to keep watch. He was the only thing between the world and the resting chamber of Fen’Harel, their savior and leader of the rebellion. Ivun could not let anything happen to him. If Fen’Harel was woken early, or disturbed, it could kill him. Ivun blinked. He had to wake up. He had to stay sharp.

Ivun hurriedly fumbled, feeling his pockets and pouches until he found a vial. The guardian flicked it open, swallowing the contents. He grimaced at the taste and winced at the burning sensation as it traveled down his throat. It was almost instant, but he shook slightly as its power flooded his senses. The restorative was enough to keep him going another few days, but by the Creators did it taste horrible. He shook his head. It cleared the tiredness from his mind and body, but not his spirit. The ages took their toll on him, the job was taxing and monotonous. Sometimes he wished for something to happen, anything really. He needed some excitement, but no.

The year?

He was a little unsure. What was the passage of time when you spent it alone? What was time when you were immortal? He got his news from his friend, his brother.

According to Felassan, it was 9:40 Dragon.

The purple-eyed elf was Fen’Harel’s caretaker and visited often enough to update him. Ivun sighed and his shoulders felt heavy. There was only so much to do when you had to stand guard for thousands of years.

He was thankful that even his own duties had some rest, in which Commander Haleira would swap with him and let him escape the shrine for some fresh air or an actual few days of rest. The sky still unnerved him. He kept to the old paths hidden in sand or jungle, traveled through the eluvians that were still whole and untarnished. He knew of the mortals in the world only from word of mouth, from Felassan’s stories. The impact these mortals had on the world was unknown to him, but he worried. Felassan had a way of putting him at ease, but when Ivun was alone for long his mind wandered and his nerves grew taut.

Still, the world was frightening. Ivun did not encounter any mortals in his quick outings, luckily. He did not want to draw attention to them, to the shrine, to Fen’Harel. Ivun drew attention no matter what he did when others were near, as he was the biggest among all he’d ever met. It frustrated him to stand out so much, embarrassed him. He tried to be brave, to appear jovial and unworried. He tried to be the big strong man everyone saw, but he felt the eyes burn on him and felt he was lacking, he was less than.

Everyone else he’d ever known had suffered together, had a sort of shared bond because of their plight of slavery. He hadn’t. Ivun had been born free. When he was younger, he was endlessly happy and coddled. As he grew older, he heard the whispers, he saw the expressions. He was more observant than the others realized. He knew that the special feeling he had was not necessarily a good one, the looks from others were not necessarily benign.

Being born free had its consequences. He was unable to join elven society, barefaced and massive as he was. Ivun was alone with freedom being its own barrier; He was trapped in a gilded cage. He could not walk the city streets, he could not come and go, could not assimilate into a marketplace or even hold a conversation in a town square. He lived through the stories of others, their tales, their pasts. He hungered and craved his own stories, his own life. If not for their stories and his books, he would have fallen apart ages ago. In the ages of elves, in Elvhenan, Ivun had to stare at a twisted world, a society of slaves, and know that he was utterly alone.

There were those in the rebellion that lived with him, serving Fen’Harel. Some even helped raise him, helped train him, educate him. Haleira had been there for him, always. Ivun owed her, owed them everything, but they were not enough for him, for his heart and his eager spirit. He hungered for friends, for companions, for his life to truly begin. He had never loved and it brought him shame and a burning heat to his cheeks. He felt like a child even though he was not. He felt like he would live forever as a boy and never a man.

Ivun was curious about this new world. Scared, but curious. He wanted to explore, but he was also terrified at the idea. Everything was wrong, though it had been wrong before the veil too. He tried not to want more, tried not to feel robbed of a life. Ivun tried to tell himself that he was doing a job that no one else could, that he was needed, that he was important. He was never gone long. He had his job, his role in life.

He owed Fen’Harel his life, his freedom. He knew as much as he maligned being lonely, that suffering would not be better. He heard the stories, saw the scars on the others, and only knew bits and pieces of their tales - the stuff of nightmares. Freedom was preferable. He was forever thankful and loyal to the Wolf. He admired him, loved him. He had no father, no mother, but Fen’Harel, Haleira, Felassan, they were his family. He would never walk away from his family, never abandon them when they needed him.

Keeping Fen’Harel safe was a joint effort, but Ivun knew that he was the key to it all.

The Dread Wolf needed him.

He had been guarding the temple for thousands of years. It was largely undisturbed and the only visitors were their people, those who were the most trusted in the rebellion. Ivun was days from their closest outpost, days from the next person who might give him a brief reprieve. He sighed. When would Felassan visit next?

Felassan was his closest friend, his brother in his heart, but he was also his teacher, his mentor, and technically his elder. Ivun snorted at that. Felassan was a tiny silly man, but he was talented and brilliant. Some thought he was Fen’Harel’s secret weapon, the purple-eyed and quick-witted Slow Arrow. Ivun still didn’t know why anyone would name their child that.

Then again, why was Fen’Harel named the Dread Wolf? Did his mother name him that?

He grinned slightly. It was strange.

His mind turned to his studies, his efforts to learn more about this world that he hadn’t really walked in or explored. He’d never even spoken to a modern person. Haleira insisted that they would soon have to make contact, and some of them had already. He would ask ‘who’, but he knew. Felassan was endlessly curious. Of course he would have gone to meet with the modern peoples. Of course he would know all the languages.

He probably spent more time with those people than with their own. Ivun frowned and felt heartsick. He missed people.

Oh how he missed the celebrations of the rebellion, the parties.

He missed chatting and laughing and dancing and singing.

And ale.

He smiled fondly at the memories.

He lived for those brief joyous moments, celebrating victories and freedoms along with the others. What was better than that? So much of the lives of those around him were miserable, but those bright times of celebration lifted everyone high.

Did the modern people have parties? He sighed. He would love to escape and blend in, to stand among people once again, to watch them like a fly on the wall. It was laughable, as he was the size of - well he was the wall. His size made him feel awkward and foolish, which he hid behind a friendly smile.

Someday, he would live. The world would be set right. In the meantime, he had to learn. Ivun knew it was best to be prepared. Everyone had drilled that into him, to prepare and be smart. Not every fight could be won with strength alone.

Haleira had told him the primary language was called Common, but their homeland now spoke something called Tevene. There were all sorts of strange things going on in the world.

Ivun frowned. He had hardly known the world before the veil, but the one after was even more foreign to him. Out of everyone in Fen’Harel’s rebellion, Ivun was the youngest.

Ivun was the first child of freedom, of the rebellion.

Some called him Fen’Harel’s success.

He didn’t feel like a success.

He felt like wasted potential.

Ivun wanted to feel pride, not shame.

So he learned and read and studied, desperate to prove himself. He’d had nothing but time while guarding Fen’Harel. It was tiring and he often wished he could play a game, or spar with someone. He was eager to do something other than work. His life had been one lesson after another, one job after another. He applied himself, but wished for an escape. His escapes were mild; they were books and stories. He lived for others lives, their experiences, their tales. Experiencing another’s life was how he escaped his own.

Ivun’s mind wandered to the tales he knew by heart, to adventures of love and war. His passion for reading was known to his family, to his sister. Haleira had brought him a book  during her last visit. He’d been practicing the modern languages but they had felt clunky on his tongue, but reading them was easier. His beloved sister of spirit had presented him with a book that made him laugh.

“What is this?” he’d asked her with delight.

“Ivun. This is called a book”, she teased.

“Did you really just make a joke? You? Are you dying? We should get you to a healer.”, he chuckled.

Haleira was as strict and rigid as they could get. She was a brutal warrior, trainer, and very closed off emotionally. She was like a wall to feelings. Ivun knew of the warmth within her heart though. The love between them was strong, but subtle.

She was not a hugging and kissing type.

He was!

He leapt and swept her up in his arms. Haleira’s eyes widened and she could not escape him.

“No, Ivun!”, she scolded him as he hugged her mightily, picking her up and spinning her. His bear hugs could probably break a person, but he was still gentle with her. Haleira hung like a dead weight and Ivun laughed, then placed her down onto her feet.

“That was unnecessary”, she said chidingly.

He smirked.

“You liked it.”

“Did not.”

“Liar.”

Ivun’s grin was wide and utterly charming. Haleira rolled her eyes, but he saw her crack a smile.

“Shut up and look at the book”, she snorted.

“Fine. Fine.”

He took the book from her and eyed it, looking at the title and then opening it. He flipped through the thick hardcover.

“Aw. No pictures?”

“Seriously?”, Haleira clicked her tongue.

Ivun stuck his tongue out.

“Keep it up and see what happens”, she threatened.

He pulled his tongue back in and grinned innocently. “Okay, I appreciate the book. Uh, what’s it this time? Is it another history book?”

It would be better than the book with diagrams on magical theory. That one made him desperate for sleep.

“No, it’s fiction”, she stated.

He stared at her blankly.

Haleira almost laughed.

“It’s made-up, make-believe, fake. It’s fictitious.”

“I know what it means”, it was his turn to roll his eyes.

“Uh-huh.” She was not convinced.

“Felassan said you’d like it”, she insisted. If that was true, then he would probably like it. He smiled to his sister and then gazed at the book.

The language was so strange, especially the writing system. It was both fun to learn and frustrating. He looked at the cover again, furrowed his brow, and tried his best to speak in the common tongue.

“Haahd en Aye-tun?”

She did laugh, a sudden guffaw. Ivun turned beet red. He switched back to elvhen, flustered at his efforts and her laughter

“You’re so mean Haleira!”, he huffed but he had a tiny grin that he tried to suppress. He had made her laugh. He loved her laugh.

“Try again”, she said in Common. He furrowed his brow.

The way the words came out was so, so strange. Her use of this new language seemed excellent. Felassan must be teaching her, or someone else. Ivun was irritable, he didn’t even have a rest in the Fade to brush up or practice. He hated that he was locked away and having to teach himself, alone.

“Ahrd ahn Eye-tonne?”

“Hard in Hightown”, she said slowly for him.

He quirked a brow, “Haahd en Haitun.”

She snickered at his efforts.

Ivun shoved her shoulder, pouting.

She covered her face and tried not to laugh or smile.

“Go ahead, try again”, she said as her shoulders shook. Ivun was pretty sure she was laughing into her hands. He concentrated and tried again. Why was it so hard to get his tongue to form the sounds? He felt like it would be easier to literally tie his tongue with string than sound out these strange words.

“ARD IN EIGHTON”, he said, almost shouting it.

Haleira spun away from him, laughing so hardily that her whole frame shook.

“How are you getting worse? You’re doing this on purpose!”

“I’m trying!”, he said, his cheeks burning red. “You’re not supposed to laugh!”

“You’re supposed to be practicing!”, she laughed so hard she could barely breathe.

“I have been!”

“That’s you having practiced? Oh gods, we’re doomed!” Haleira held her sides as she bent over, gasping and laughing with every other breath.

It was all fun and games until…

Ivun swatted her in the head with the book.

Immediately he froze, knowing that he’d made a likely fatal error.

“Oh you did not just do that”, he saw her eyes flick up to his, her brows drawing down.

“Uh oh-“

Haleira shoved him hard. Her cheeks were stained with tears as she grappled him into the wall.

“No no no! Wait!”

He wailed and begged for mercy.

Most would think that Ivun would win this fight, based on size alone. No, Haleira was always the bigger sister even if he outgrew her in leaps and bounds. She shoved him against the wall, pinning him with her body as her hands moved with a shocking speed.

How in the world she could get to his exposed sides despite the armor, he’d never know. Ivun’s eyes flew open as she began her assault.

Haleira tickled him.

He cried out and crumpled to his knees and she chased him to the floor, tickling the whole time.

Sure, he could throw her across the room like she was a paperweight, but he would never. She was family. And sometimes you let family tickle you until you cried and couldn’t breathe.

“No, please no!”, he begged her when he could gulp down enough air to breathe and force words out of his mouth.

“Say: Hard in Hightown”, she threatened as he felt her fingertips dance across the surface of his tickly sides. He squirmed and gasped.

Her fingers were poised to renew the attack.

“Hahd in Haaitowne!” he said immediately as his heart pounded in his ears.

He held his breath, a tremble in his limbs.

“Close enough” she smiled and released him.

Ivun let out a relieved gasp and slid against the wall, huffing and staring at her wide-eyed. He grasped the book against his chest, face bright red and eyes wet.

“You, you’re the worst teacher ever.”

“Then you better improve quickly”, she said with a dastardly smile.

She helped him stand with a firm grip and strong arms. Haleira helped him up without much effort on her part. He saw her as a tiny thing, but he saw everyone as tiny. She was a big woman and strong, stronger than most. She was proud of who she was and what she’d achieved. He was proud of her too. He admired her more than she would ever know. She was his hero, but he’d never tell her that. It would probably go to her head. And he knew she was cocky enough, though she didn’t show it; She didn’t need more ego even if she hid it under all the armor in the world.

Ivun stood and grumbled under his breath, trying to catch his breath still. He shot her a disgruntled look but recoiled at her intense stare.

His cheeks burned slightly and he dropped his gaze.

“So next time then, you don’t want any gifts?” She teased.

His head shot up.

“I never said that!”, he whined.

Ivun spent weeks reading that book, and rereading it. And reading it again. He was careful with the book, nervous to even bend the pages. He treated them as precious things, a learned behavior. As a child when he was still small, he had borrowed a book from Fen’Harel. He read the book voraciously and then replaced it.

The Wolf had found the book with the spine broken.

Then, he had found Ivun.

No, he sought him out.

Ivun remembered the look in his eyes.

He remembered the scolding.

He was terrified. Ivun cried, quivering in fear and crying big wet messy tears. Felassan had to come to his aid, soothing him, and placating the Wolf. 

His big brother promised to repair the book.

Ivun was banned from Fen’Harel’s private library, a small punishment that still stung. The look on the Wolf’s face, the anger…

That was the only time in Ivun’s life that he had ever felt fear. He knew it was foolish, it was unfounded. Fen’Harel loved them, they were his family. He would never hurt any of them. “You are safe, da’len”, Felassan would croon to him. His brother had a way with words, and a magic that could draw away his fears.

Ivun sniffled, rubbing at his red and puffy eyes, his cheeks stained with tears.

That had been thousands of years ago, but he still sometimes had nightmares about broken books and a furious wolf, snapping him in half like a twig. The mind was funny and the Fade made emotions and thoughts feel real.

Despite it all, he still loved books but Ivun had a healthy respect for keeping them in pristine condition.

He couldn’t wait to talk to Felassan about the new book when he next visited. He hoped it would be soon. He was due, any time now, but the journey there was tiresome and exhausting.

Fen’Harel’s temple was not easily accessible, even when the eluvian network was working fully. Its location was not a secret, but no one would have checked it for his body.  The Evanuris would never use their own publicly known shrine as their resting place. It would be idiotic.  It would be ludicrous. The Evanuris had them somewhere secretive and hard to imagine. Nothing was more out of character and unimaginable than placing one’s resting place in the open. Fen’Harel knew this. It was the least likely place anyone would look for him. Therefore, it was clever that he put his actual resting place only a few scant meters from his shrine of worship.

His temple had been visited, but no one had breached the doors within, and never did anyone think that the small servant’s wing would hold the shrine of a god, the resting place of the infamous Fen’Harel.

Of course, Fen’Harel was no god. He so often was humble. Having a room in a servant’s wing was perfectly suitable for him. It was unheard of for the Evanuris. Another way he outsmarted them, even in the end.

Ivun smiled. He was brilliant, clever, and was the only one of the Evanuris to still live on Thedas. Not that Fen’Harel liked to be associated with the Evanuris…

Footsteps.

Ivun’s bright blue eyes turned to the sound. A figure rounded the corner of the narrow corridor. He knew immediately based on their silhouette who it was.

Ivun grinned.

“Hello, hello! How do you fare this evening?”, said Felassan with a big grin. He wore simple modern clothes, something he said were Dalish and had his staff slung over his back that often was disguised to look like a walking stick. Felassan’s hair was tied into a ponytail, his smile bright and youthful but his eyes showed his age. Ivun was only a little younger than him but still felt the distance in time between them. He also felt overdressed in his bright golden armor, compared with Felassan’s cotton tunic and leggings. He looked comfortable. Ivun felt envious, just a little bit.

Ivun smiled brightly at his dearest friend.

“Is it evening? I couldn’t tell… the view is dreadful”, Ivun smirked. Felassan laughed loudly with a cackle, his expression one of honest delight.

“Look at you! Puns? Now I know you’ve been guarding our benefactor much too long. Gods, he’s rubbing off on you…”

Ivun flushed. That was a compliment, even if Felassan joked. He could never compare to Fen’Harel.

“I do not believe he has ever told terrible jokes.”

“No? Then you do not know him as well as I. Don’t worry, some day you will be subjected to such horrors and you will wish your virginal ears were restored”, Felassan teased.

Ivun turned an even deeper, darker red. He felt so childish. Felassan clicked his tongue and laughed at Ivun’s boyish demeanor.

The dark skinned elf grabbed Ivun by his shoulders and embraced him tightly. Ivun smiled softly, smelling the leather and wilderness on his skin. Their auras buzzed together and for a moment, it felt like everything would be okay.

It was just a moment though, and moments passed. Felassan drew away and his jovial appearance waned, as the tiredness in his eyes and the melancholy of his soul slipped out. Ivun knew that the world was wrong, and he knew that things were dire. He knew it in his very being.

“It is time”, Felassan said with a serious look. Ivun frowned, “He has not stirred. He told us that-“

Felassan shook his head, his hair tumbling against his shoulders. “I know, but the veil will not hold. This world needs him now, and if we wait much longer we will not have the opportunity to wake him. If the veil falls, they will come for him, for all of us…”

Ivun looked nervous, standing up to his full height. Felassan was small in comparison. He stared at his friend, his mouth a line and his brows furrowed, “Fel, if you wake him now, he may not have the strength to-“

“I know. It’s a risk we must take”, said Felassan as he held his brother’s arm and looked to the massive stone doors that would lead to Fen’Harel’s resting place, the antechamber with his private dais.

“I’m a betting man; I would put all of my money on him.”

“Fel, you’ve lost many a’ game”, Ivun said, looking perturbed.

“Ah, but I just let you think you’ve won”, Felassan teased, looking up at him. Ivun smiled in return, but his brows sank and his expression was sad.

Felassan moved for the door. Ivun stopped him. He caught his arm in a massive hand, but held him gently.

“Can you not give him a few more decades?”, Ivun asked, his eyes imploring the older elf. Felassan paused and turned back to him, his frown deep and his eyes, they looked so utterly dark. Ivun swallowed and looked at him, feeling the sudden gravity of all of this. He released his arm.

It was that bad?

“No. The veil has years left, a decade or two, if that. We are down to the wire.”

“Down to the- what?”

“It means we’re out of time. I must do this.”

“Can you even wake him?”, Ivun asked nervously. He knew there were risks to try, and if he failed…

Ivun did not want to think of the consequences.

Felassan snorted, “You know my skills, Fen’Harel trained me himself.”

“Yes, but have of them been woken early?”, he asked, squirming under the intense look from Felassan. He felt self-conscious, guilty even, knowing Fen’Harel would hate that Ivun would associate him with the Evanuris…

But what other comparison could he make? Would he be healthy? Would he be whole? Would he be fully restored? Ivun realized that he would suddenly be useless. He felt like he was knocked down. Breathless.

What would he do if or when Fen’Harel woke? He would not need Ivun guarding him anymore. He felt a sudden panic, a fear at being without a purpose, without a job. What could he possibly do? He only knew service to Fen’Harel, and everyone else had their own tasks to do. He was not as skilled as Felassan, sneaky and secretive as Sylvae, or commanding and tactical as Haleira. What would he do? What could he do?

As if sensing Ivun’s sudden fears, Felassan turned back to him. The smaller elf tugged on Ivun’s loose tendrils of hair hanging in front of his ears, pulling them like the reins of a horse. Ivun felt the tug, and his eyes darted to Felassan. He bowed his head down as he had hundreds of times in the past and Felassan pressed his forehead to his. The older elf breathed out his words, a calming magic sliding around the large younger elf.

“Listen here, all will be fine. You are essential; You are loved.” Ivun shut his eyes, wincing at his own doubts being drawn out so easily. Felassan knew him so well, better than he knew himself. The magic was strong, but so was Ivun’s resistance and doubts. The smaller man put his hands against Ivun’s cheeks and looked to him with intensity. Felassan’s purple eyes swirled; His aura rippled with his magic, swelled and wrapped around Ivun like a security blanket.

“But- what about-”

“Ivun”, he spoke firmly.

Felassan’s magic smelled like cinnamon and baked apples, very comforting. He felt almost lulled into believing it, believing everything would be fine.

Almost.

Ivun blinked slowly.

“But- Couldn’t we-”

“Ivun. It will be fine.” Felassan said once more. Another pulse of magic, this time it sank into Ivun’s very aura. The giant guardian shivered slightly and his eyes blinked in a slow and lazy way.

“He would no sooner dismiss you as he would kill me; Breathe. Relax.”

His words seemed larger than life itself, the magic reassuring and insisted that he was right. Felassan was always right.

Ivun had nothing to worry about.

He felt his shoulders sink and his anxiety start to slide away, dripping like rain off his skin.

He blinked and his doubts fled. Felassan knew better, he was smarter, older, and much more clever than he was.

Ivun breathed out a heavy sigh.

“Okay”, he said softly and nodded. He felt like he had been tucked into bed, as if he was wrapped up in the warmest blankets and surrounded by his best memories.

 Felassan smiled softly, the swirl in his eyes dissipating. He drew away from Ivun, a smile on his lips to mask the pain. Ivun had needed more and more reassurance over the past centuries. It was a little bit painful that he had to push this magic on his dearest friend, but Ivun could not fall to panic when so much relied on him.

The giant stepped back to guard the doorway.

He looked peaceful and unbothered.

Good.

Felassan hid his discomfort and put his hand against the stone door. Magic swirled from his palm and fingertips, lighting up sigils, runes, and glyphs until the stone slab slid away. The scent and power of Fen’Harel’s magic buffeted Felassan’s senses as soon as he walked within, as if breaching a bubble to another realm that was the very essence of the Dread Wolf. The floor was cold as ice and made his toes squish together in protest. The air in the antechamber was chilled and Felassan’s breath came out in puffs. The room was pitch black, save for the path that glowed as he walked forward. The tiles under his feet sang of magic, a subtle hymn that moved his heart. The walls were lined with essentials, clothing, armor, water, and preserved foodstuffs. He passed through the room and on to the resting chamber, the next room over. Here, the lighting was low. Four veilfire torches  lit the space, one on each wall. The blue green flames flickered, casting soft muted lights and dancing shadows across the stone floor and walls.

In the very center of the room lay a stone dais and on it was the sleeping figure of Fen’Harel. He was pale and wrapped in thin linen fabric with his hands crossed on his chest. Fen’Harel’s skin was covered in a fine layer of frost. To modern elves, they would think he was dead as he did not breathe. Modern elves did not rest, not like this. Their lives were finite, sad and small. Felassan shook his head at the state of the world, the state of the elves.

Uthenera, was a state of magical rest, a restorative sleep, a sleep that could not be disturbed - except Felassan would be doing just that.

For some, Uthenera was the sleep of death, when living became too tiresome or burdensome. During this deep sleep the immortal would access the Fade, the Dreaming, to regain their strength of body, mind, and spirit. Some would waken refreshed and ready to live anew, but many others would not.

Fen’Harel loved the Fade even when he lived amongst them, the people. Would he awaken at all, when he had the essence of himself in the Fade? When he could stay forever in the land of dreams?

Felassan had doubts, fears.

It didn’t matter.

Fen’Harel had to wake.

He had to.

Waking one who slept was dangerous, practically unheard of. It cut at the very tether they had to the Fade, it could shatter their spirit, it could corrupt them, it could drain them of their magic, break the mind…

There were so many risks.

He knew that waking Fen’Harel could kill him; It could kill them both, if he was not careful.

If he was not lucky.

He needed some of his famous luck.

They both needed his luck.

Felassan tried to calm his beating heart, his racing thoughts.

Across from the dais was a pedestal. On it was a stone orb with a swirling pattern, glowing faintly. The orb was Fen’Harel’s magic focus, sealed for safekeeping. Each of the Evanuris had foci to store their excess power. The living body could only store so much power and even the gods had limits. Felassan knew it was one of the differences between them and the Forgotton Ones; They had rid themselves of physical bodies because they limited their power. The orb thrummed with magic, the song of it humming through the air and just barely noticeable.

If the Dread Wolf, the God of Rebellion, had not put his excess power into that focus… well, it would not have been good for any of them. The orb was the key to saving them, to restoring the veil. None of them had his power, none of them in the rebellion could even come close. And they had not recovered in the thousands of years he slept.

He was their hope, their savior once again, the one that stood between them and the so called gods, and the wrath of their hands on the world.

Fen’Harel had used almost every part of his being to create the Veil, sealing away the Evanuris and the Forgotten Ones in a great act of sacrifice.

He had plans, but the plans changed.

The veil, the order in which he acted, all of it was a mess.

It was a desperate act after she died.

After she was murdered.

Tears, fury, pain, heartache.

Fen’Harel had been wild-eyed and full of fury, full of emotion, his aura flaring and lashing out. He had never, ever, ever seen him like that.

He spoke of betrayal.

He spoke of murder.

His mentor was unrecognizable.

He was mad, nearly crazed, like a wild beast.

Felassan had been terrified, shocked.

Fen’Harel’s solution was radical. It was untested.

He insisted it was necessary.

He did not wait, he did not delay.

He set it all into motion immediately.

He acted.

They reacted.

It would save them, but at what cost?

His life.

Felassan had found Fen’Harel, his magic being ripped from his very spirit. He could not let his mentor die.

His friend, he could not let him fall.

He would not.

Fen’Harel was too important.

The memories for him were old, but it still hurt. He had almost lost his dear friend. Felassan had given some of his power to guide him to the Fade and to his rest. Ivun, Syvlae, and Haleira had acted immediately, each sacrificing some of their own power to keep him stable and get him to his shrine. They all had their jobs to do; Fen’Harel had commanded them before he slipped away. Felassan had struggled and forced him to the Dreaming.

Did Fen’Harel even know what happened? Did he know he was alive still?

It had been a struggle to escape the chaos, the world suddenly in flames and Arlathan crumbling apart and falling from the sky. So many people died as they ran through eluvians that shattered, crumbled, cracked, and were darkened with the taint. Very few survived.

It took days, but they got to the safety of his shrine. Only then, when he finally rested in the safety there, were they able to formulate the next steps. Felassan and Ivun would see to it he would rest and recover. Haleira took over search and rescue operations for their forces and their people, and Sylvae would coordinate with their network and discover what was happening, find out what they could. They had thought it was an attack on Arlathan, they had thought it was the Forgotten Ones or the Evanuris. Felassan knelt at the dais, his eyes wet. They had been so wrong.

The veil saved them.

The veil destroyed them.

Felassan swallowed a hard lump in his throat.

His recovery had been ongoing… it had been four thousand years, and still he slept.  

Fen ’Harel’s recovery must end. He must rise.

The fate of the world depended on him.

Fen’Harel would either save them or destroy them.

Felassan put his hands on those of his sleeping friend, gently squeezing them. It was time to wake him.  Whatever came next, they could not predict it. Time was of the essence, and for once it mattered.

It was time to reveal to him the destruction from his efforts, to break his heart and possibly his spirit.

Felassan’s eyes shut to the world of the living, to the world of the Waking.

He spoke words that carried weight, that carried magic.

“I am sorry my friend, but you cannot tarry any longer in the world of dreams”, he said as his voice rumbled, growing louder as a shimmer of magic swirled around the room.

He breathed slowly, his magic building and his aura spreading over Fen’Harel’s like a blanket. He felt his spirit sinking into the man’s body before he found his tether to the Fade. It was bold and bright, like a massive tapestry of gold and bright blue, shimmering like diamonds. Elves, their spirits were connected to the Fade, and that is where he followed it. Up, up, up to the Dreaming. Thedas was far behind, far below.

Everything was bright suddenly and Felassan sucked in a breath, his purple eyes opening to the bright green light of the Fade. He found himself alone and had a moment of panic before he saw himself standing in Tarasyl'an Te'las, the fortress that held back the sky. It was the birthplace of the veil, Fen’Harel’s home, and had stood at the very border of the Dreaming and the Waking world. His heart hurt to see it in the Fade, especially as it stood how Fen’Harel remembered it, glorious and whole.

It stood that way no longer.

Felassan stood in the main hall. The stone walls were standing, the wood floors polished and bright. Murals and mosiacs lined the walls, glistening with gold. Felassan turned his head, knowing where to find his friend.

The Wolf was a creature of habit.

He was quick on his feet, not knowing how much time might pass in the Waking while he slid into Fen’Harel’s sleep, his Uthenera. He could be here minutes, hours, days, weeks - they didn’t have the time to waste.

Felassan pushed open the heavy door and stepped into the rotunda. The walls were covered in gylphs, runes, and sigils. Fen’Harel came here to think, to plan, to write, and draw. He had an office, but he preferred the high round walls for his scrawl, his magical theories, his ideas. Height did not impact him, as many a time Felassan had found him floating dozens of feet above the floor, scribbling away. This was where he planned it all. This was where he perfected his formulas, his spell.

This is where it all came to an end.

Felassan felt a heaviness in his heart.

Grief.

This place was supposed to bring them all freedom and joy, but instead it had been a horrible curse. The veil kept them safe, but killed them in droves. Gods, Fen’Harel had no idea what had happened. How much had he seen in the Fade?

Felassan could cry at the ache in his heart. It would kill him. Fen’Harel felt, and felt strongly. He hid it well, but Felassan had grown up as his shadow; He knew him.

The Wolf was there, standing in simple robes, barefoot. He was bent, painting with a spirit by his side. Wisdom? Yes, it was she.

The woman turned her head and Felasan saw her nod with understanding. She knew time was up. She knew it was time to go, time to wake. Wisdom was wise, after all. Felassan did not need to announce himself, the Wolf stood upright and straightened his back.

“My friend”, Fen’Harel said in greeting. He did not turn. Felassan could hear the tiredness in his voice.

“You need to wake up”, Felassan said, getting straight to the point.

Fen’Harel turned, his stormy blue eyes flashing white for a brief second, “Why? What has happened?”

The Wolf’s voice was a rumble, a growl, a flicker of something dark and hurting. Felassan winced at his voice. Ages had passed, but for Fen’Harel, the betrayal and the veil were hours or days previous. That raw hurt was still very much there, still fresh. During his recovery, Felassan had not spoken with him, had not asked for details on her murder. He had left him undisturbed. The people who lived still knew she died… but the details? Only Fen’Harel knew.

His delay was met with a snap of teeth.

“Speak!”, Fen’Harel’s anger flashed.

Felassan furrowed his brow, pain flittering across his features. He could not tell him here. It would kill him. He could not hurt his friend, could not pain him so much when he was already so raw, so wounded.

“I’m sorry, but we cannot stay for me to explain here. I will have to show you. It is dire.”

Fen’Harel wavered on his feet, looking angry and conflicted. Felassan knew the man had sacrificed for them, strived for an ideal…

How far they were from that mark, it would crush him.

“I am too weak. I need more time”, the immortal said, his eyes again the usual stormy blue-grey. He looked small, too small.

They had to risk it. He had to rise. He had to.

“You are not too weak to help, Fen’Harel, trust me.”

He looked irritated, tired, confused, frustrated, angry.

The Wolf was bitter.

Wisdom put her hand on Fen’Harel’s shoulder and he looked to her; His expression softened.

Fen’Harel furrowed his brow and soon his paints, paint brush, everything within the rotunda vanished, save for the three of them. Green enveloped them, rocks floating past in a hazy and sickly green light. The walls around them seemed to loom overhead, trembling with power, the exertion of Fen’Harel’s will. Felassan watched as his friend and mentor shook with effort.

“I will need your help”, Fen’Harel said with a growl as he stumbled. Felassan was by his side immediately, supporting him.

“Always.”

Fen’Harel grimaced as the Fade shuddered around them. Felassan held his shoulders and channeled some of his magic into the man. He hoped it would be enough, because he himself was much weaker than he should be. He had given a lot to keep Fen’Harel alive, and he had not had any rest to recover his strength.

Felassan had been awake and aware of the world since the fall of their people. He had been young then. Now, he was a grown man, grown to the age Fen’Harel had been when he put the veil up. Felassan knew now that none of them were wise.

They were desperate, not wise.

Fen’Harel was a man and made mistakes. They were paying for that. The alternatives though? Probably much worse. Felassan still believed in the dream, in their goals. They all did. The leaders of the rebellion had all been weakened to keep him alive, to stand watch over him, praying he would have answers.

They prayed he would deliver them from this world into the next. He was no god, but he inspired hope.

He had to save them.

What was left of them.

The Fade shook and rumbled. The walls of the rotunda started to fall, crumbling as so many walls had when they had fled to his shrine. Fen’Harel groaned in pain, his hands grabbing onto Felassan’s and squeezing them tightly.

Another pulse of magic. Felassan grit his teeth as he let Fen’Harel siphon power from him. His own feet became unsteady and he had to lean against the rotunda wall to hold them both upright. Wisdom seemed to float around them, her face etched with concern.

Felassan looked to her, his eyes glowing purple. He saw fear in Wisdom, and she saw fear in him. Fear and pain and guilt.

He should have woken him sooner, but he hadn’t the power to even attempt it. This was their one chance.

Fen’Harel shook and his magic seemed insignificant.

No. He still didn’t have enough power. If he couldn’t wake-

Felassan gasped. He wanted to cry.

He had to waken.

Fen’Harel held onto him, his limbs trembling.

His grip on Felassan was vice-like. The Wolf shook and sank to his knees.

“Felassan, I am sorry I cannot-“

“No! You must!” the younger elf demanded as his eyes grew wet.

“I do not have-“

“The people are dying!”

“What?”

“If you do not waken, we all die”, Felassan said as he held his friend. Tears slid down his cheeks. Fen’Harel stared at him, bewildered and confused and afraid. Fen’Harel was not guarded here. He was afraid.

Felassan didn’t mean to cry, didn’t mean to tell him yet - but he needed him to find a way to push through. The Wolf needed to be pushed to act.

“Please. We need you”, Felassan cried. Fen’Harel hissed in pain and somehow pushed himself to stand, his fingers digging so sharply into Felassan’s arms that they felt like they were puncturing his very spirit.

Well, they were.

“What has happened”, Fen’Harel growled out. It was not a question, it was a demand for answers.

Felassan had some answers, but not all. Only Fen’Harel could repair the veil. Only he could fix what he created. He was weak, so weak - but no one else could keep them safe. Felassan would not tell him why their people were dying. He would not tell him of the world being broken asunder. He would not tell Fen’Harel that he was the cause of the chaos. Not here, not now.

Felassan shook as he felt Fen’Harel draw more magic from him. It made his head spin and his body quiver. The younger man sucked in a breath, his eyes blinking as he tried to focus on the face of his friend. Fen’Harel’s eyes bore into his, fear and fury.

“Our people are dead and dying. In a few years time, all of your efforts will be for naught. The veil is falling.”

The Wolf’s eyes turned red. Fen’Harel stared at him, or through him. His eyes were bright, blindingly bright. Felassan cried in pain as Fen’Harel’s fingers turned into claws. He felt a burning, a tearing as his magic was leeched from him. Fen’Harel was like a ravenous beast.

 Felassan’s magic was being forcibly pulled from him. The youth gasped.

“Please”, Felassan begged. He begged for help but also to be released; he could take no more. With every moment, Felassan grew weaker and weaker, and Fen’Harel stronger. The younger elf whimpered and his head dipped against his mentor’s shoulder. He was faintly aware of the Wolf, of fur instead of flesh. Fen’Harel seemed to grow, to spread out like a big black shadow. Felassan flinched at the eyes, the red, the black, the mouth that was full of rows of fangs.

The Wolf was angry. The Wolf was driven.

More magic was stolen.

Felassan slid against the Wolf, taking ragged breaths.

“Fen…”

Fen’Harel had taken enough. He had to have taken enough.

He could not give anymore, he could not take from him anymore.

The Wolf would swallow him whole.

Felassan stared at the jaws, the fangs. He had never feared his friend, but this hunger, this rage…

“Fen”, he whimpered.

A flash of light and then darkness. The Waking world came back and his head hit stone.

He hissed at the sharp pain in his forehead. Felassan’s eyes shot open and focused on the form before him.

“Fen-“, the elf gasped out.

“I am here”, he heard the Wolf’s voice rasp, dry and raw and unused in millennia. Felassan shuddered, his fingers still wrapped around his friend’s hands. Fen’Harel lay prostrate, his eyes cracked open a sliver. He turned his head to Felassan, his expression dour and dark.

The next few minutes were a flurry of movement on Felassan’s part. He grabbed clothes, water, and Fen’Harel’s staff. The Dread Wolf barely moved, but he did sit up slowly and slid his legs off the edge of the dais. He said nothing as he could barely swallow, but was quite accepting and thankful for the water and clothes. Felassan helped him when he needed it, but he managed to get dressed on his own.

The younger elf watched him struggle, his eyes looking unfocused often as he seemed lost in thought. He knew that not every elf that slept would awaken. Some faded away forever, lost in the jumble of the Dreaming. The Wolf was only a man.

Fen’Harel’s head swam with memories, Fade dreams and experiences that made no sense. Languages, words, people that were elves and yet were not. So much of the Fade was a confusing mess. Felassan did not envy him, as the Wolf would be faced with a world that he did not know. Felassan had lived it, had lived among the modern people long enough to know that Fen’Harel would be shocked and enraged, brokenhearted, and feel guilty. So, so guilty.

“What do you know of the world?”, Felassan asked nervously.

“I- I do not know. Please, tell me everything…”, he begged his friend. His fingers shook as he put the now empty cup down on the dais.

“Elvhenan is no more”, Felassan said grimly as he faced him.

Emotions danced across Fen’Harel’s face. The man was a master of masks, but he was so raw and vulnerable from his sudden waking that he had yet to have time to compose himself.

Horror. Fear. Heartache. Shock. Pain. Anger. Doubt. Regret.

Guilt.

So many things flickered across his usually stoic features.

How could one react to finding out their nation was gone? Their people snuffed out? Felassan hurt for his friend, but he also hurt for all of them.

“Help me rise”, Fen’Harel said as he grabbed his staff. Felassan stood beside him and held his arm out, helping him to his feet. The power he’d sacrificed in the Fade made him feel sick to his stomach, but he would gladly give to save them all. He took after his mentor in that way. Sacrifice was life. The people were important, paramount even.

Felassan’s power was a small sacrifice in comparison to Fen’Harel’s, his sacrifice was far greater. The Dread Wolf, a god among elves, was as weak as a mortal. It was terrifying.

Worse, he could imagine Fen’Harel himself was scared. Had he ever been this weak? It was hard to imagine him as such.

They left the antechamber in a slow shuffle. Ivun nearly jumped out of his skin, out of his armor, at the sight of the two of them.

“My lord”, he said and bowed. Fen’Harel wavered on his feet, staring at the giant armored elf. He looked confused, as if he didn’t recognize him. Felassan blinked and then realized of course he would be confused. Ivun had been a young man, a smaller man, the last he had seen him. Fen’Harel looked from the giant to Felassan. Their eyes met and he understood immediately. Felassan gave his shoulder a reassuring squeeze.

“Ivun. Thank you…”, the god said with a raspy voice.

Ivun flushed a hot red, all the way to the tips of his ears. “You’re welcome…”, he stammered as he struggled for words. Fen’Harel smiled a little at the man’s bashfulness.

“Let me help you”, Ivun said as he gently moved Felassan aside and hooked his much larger arm under Fen’Harel’s. The Wolf and Felassan both were relieved, because they were tired and weak. The difference between the slender and fit Felassan and the man who looked like he was a living golem was stark. It was frightening but also somewhat amusing, because Felassan was the one that was far more dangerous, and Ivun was soft-hearted and gentle.

 That very large elf could probably lift mountains if he wanted to.

“It will take some time to get to the others”, Ivun said with a little frown. They nodded grimly. The trip would take time, even in the best of circumstances.

Felassan would have to fill in Fen’Harel, but he would not hurt his brother with such awful truths. His heart clenched.

This world was all wrong.

Ivun was kept in the dark about much. He was too bright of a light to darken with such news, such dire straights. It was bad enough that he knew the world was wrong.

He and Fen’Harel would find time to talk, even if their conversations were saved for the Dreaming.

Felassan did not look forward to updating the Wolf about the state of the world.

He pitied the Wolf as much as he loved him.

Fen’Harel cared more than he showed. He had his world torn apart just as he put up the veil. His heart broke and he hadn’t a chance to grieve.

Felassan frowned.

The Wolf had a wall around him usually, a mask he wore, but he knew him.

 …And he could only handle so much hurt.

And to learn he caused the death of their people? That he destroyed their world?

Felassan worried that would be the death of him.

Fen’Harel would lead them, he would try; He would do all that was within his power.

But he was still just a man.

How much could one man take before he broke?

Chapter Text

https://open.spotify.com/track/0AfIsqZ4gTUg9CwwW2jLeK?si=b81bdbdabcef40f1 Bother by Stone Sour

In Modern Thedas, an ancient elvhen woke from his long sleep.

The elf had slept for ages in his damaged armor, dreaming. Unlike some, he was not very observant in the Dreaming, the Fade. He was unaware of the happenings after his near-death experience.

He slept to survive, not knowing he would sleep through the end of their civilization.

His chest still pained him, making him sweat with the recollections, the memories of his folly. He groaned as he rose from his dais. His back was stiff – sleeping for thousands of years on a slab of rock was not exactly comfortable. His golden hair hung loosely, tendrils tumbling down his back. He had survived off of his magic and the few times he woke, his stores of restoratives. Before the end, before his sudden departure to sleep, before his betrayal he had prepared his own resting place. He was bitter. He was angry. The hurt and the pain still tore at him, despite the passage of time. It felt like only hours previous.

His mind went to the face of the one who caused it all, the one he’d given so much to. He sneered. The man winced at an intense flash of pain; His chest ached. This was no heartache, but a grievous injury, it was fatal…or would have been. He had been abandoned to his fate. He was hardly a healer, but he’d picked up enough skill in it to save himself, but just barely.

He had to crawl, bleeding, to the closest eluvian. He was unsure what saved him. Was it fate? Was it the promise of revenge? Justice? It was laughable. He wanted blood for blood, pain for pain, heartache for heartache.

He hissed and held his chest. How long had it been? The elf sat up and felt a lightheadedness that made him grasp the dais and grit his teeth. The air felt strange. He felt a tremble pass through him and felt out with his magic, his aura sending out tendrils into the air. Everything felt thick, slow, and muted.

The elf unknowingly was saved from annihilation. He was lucky. Not everyone was. He knew nothing of the calamity that befell the world after he fled Arlathan. His life had been life ebbing away, so he hadn’t the time to see the chaos or the cause.

It took him time to rise to his feet, unsteady and trembling still. He laughed and sobbed at the reality he was living. He was alone, and he could sense no one. The air, the very Dreaming seemed to evade him. He shook and pulled mana to his fingers, but it was like trying to grasp a slippery fish in a raging river.

Why could he not touch the sky?

The warrior slid himself up against the wall, his chest burning where the scar from his last battle spanned his flesh. It was healed over, but still red as if it had only closed over recently. He grimaced, sharpened canines bared as his aura flickered. This would not do. He felt as weak as a kitten.

After rising, he found a restorative and drank it. The bitter taste made him gag, but he managed to swallow it. He knew why so many chose to cross over rather than awaken from their Uthenera. This was torturous to drink. His scowl was deep on his face as he dressed slowly. He found his weapon and an undamaged suit of armor, though it was not the heavy mail he preferred. Hours felt like days, but he eventually made his way to the eluvian. It was one of many, and when he approached it he felt a wash of something dark grasp at his very spirit. The elf took a step back, his eyes flashing brightly.

Had the mirrors been tampered with? Changed in some way? He was thankful this one obeyed his commands and let him pass. Stepping into the crossroads, he was met with a scene that was like nothing he could have ever imagined.

He gasped. The bustling pathways of the crossroads were in ruins. They stank of death. Bodies, skeletons really, littered the floating paths every few feet. Scattered belongings, weapons, and scraps of cloth lay on the ground or floated in the ether. The crumbled brick and fallen pillars were all that remained of the beautiful roads used to cross the world. A few spirits wandered across the broken paths as if they were whole.

He approached one spirit that hung in the air, its head down and its grief palpable.

“What happened here?”, he asked it with a raspy dry voice. He had yet to speak since waking, since he fell in battle. The sound of it grated his ears and made him wince slightly.

The spirit turned to him, its faceless face wavering as if it could barely hold its form. He felt further unnerved. It could not emote with facial features as it had no eyes, no mouth, but its barely visible body trembled and slumped. He felt the hairs on the back of his neck rise.

“The end of all things. The sky is beyond our reach, close but far. He tricked them and sealed them away, but we paid the price”, said the spirit. The man stared, feeling more and more fearful. No, that wasn’t right.

He felt dread.

“The sky is beyond our reach? What do you mean? Explain!”, anxiety cracked in his voice. None of this made sense. None of it. The spirits nearby lingered closer and he felt them turn toward him, more faceless faces staring. He had never feared spirits, but these felt tainted by something…