We all know the dancing scene at the Winter palace, don't we?
BUT, did you know there is an even better option to choose from (despite the clipping, yeah, I know this shit's unfortunate)?
spoiler: you'll get another smooch from him
So this time I played her "more realistic" and after a long day at Halamshiral, walking through this massive place, snooping around and talking to people while playing their game (by insulting them discreetly ... or not, ahem), you're worn out (you can't convince me otherwise).
And instead of dancing, she just wished for his company - and this decision pays off IMMEDIATELY.
HE EVEN KISSES HER AT THE VERY END OF THE SCENE, almost not recognisable because the scene fades out, BUT IT IS THERE. Even if it's just a small smooch.
hey guys does anyone have any really gut wrenching and heartbreaking solavellan fic recs. ideally mage lavellan or x reader or something something but actually nvm im not that picky i just need that good hurt
I am always excited to share recs!! A lot of these are one-shots because that's mostly what I read, hope that's okay!
If you've been in solavellan fandom for any amount of time you've probably heard of Looking Glass by Feynite, but I have to add it here because it is heartwrenching and beautiful and I still haven't finished reading it because every time I read it I have to take breaks because of how much it makes me cry (affectionate). If you haven't heard of it, the gist is: Solas’s plan to tear down the Veil goes horribly wrong, Lavellan is sent thousands of years back in time where she meets a younger Solas. Unfinished but absolutely worth reading.
If you've read Looking Glass and want to Hurt even more, Feynite also wrote an au version where Lavellan and Solas *both* go back in time, called Make it Together.
Purpose by Swiftysmoon - Solas tears down the Veil, and Lavellan finds him in the chaos. Made me cry, highly recommend
I'll Still Destroy You by Yours_Truly_Commander_Shepard - a very dark fic with a dark take on Solas (heed the tags, this is a dead dove situation), Solas and Lavellan try to kill each other (and also have manipulative sex about it). Gut-wrenching in a different way than the other fics on this list.
A Sanctuary for Flowers by Missjlh - A dying, red-lyrium infected Solas creates a sanctuary in the Fade for Lavellan in hopes that she'll survive his plans to tear down the Veil
I don't usually include my own fics on rec lists, but I do have *one* sad solavellan fic that fits your brief, featuring a mage Lavellan, called The Woman in the Woods - Solas is long-dead, and an elderly Lavellan reunites with him in dreams before she eventually dies, too
I *know* there are more heartbreaking solavellan fics I've read and loved, but I'm struggling a bit here to remember them all. I hope that these recs give you some of the gut-wrenching solavellan vibes you've been looking for! 💛
I have always loved this scene. Their body language is a tome of history - every touch, every look, a record of what has passed between them that we did not see in the game.
Walking hand in hand, their bodies leaning into, brushing against each other, in sync - not just walking together, but drawn toward one another. This is not the tentative, careful touch of new lovers, nor is it driven by hunger. It is intuitive, grounding. A connection they settle into, a rhythm as natural as breath. Their touch does not seek, it is already there, it is familiar.
Each glance is a quiet recognition, a moment of shared awareness. His hand lifts slightly with hers, a subtle motion, his gaze shifting to where their fingers intertwine. It is as though he is drawn, not by desire, but by the quiet certainty of her presence. There is no urgency, no need to hold tighter. She is here, beside him - real.
Bringing her to this place, where the Veil is thin, an act of offering. Solas shares a part of himself here, letting her step into a world few have touched. And she, bearing the weight of duty, does not have to hold anything in this moment. She simply exists beside him, while Solas allows himself to do the same - physically affectionate, indulging in love.
Their scene speaks of times passed. How many times have they walked like this, fingers intertwined, drifting away from prying eyes? How often have they stolen moments like this - quiet, unhurried, lost in the pleasure of simply being together? This scene is why I believe they have been intimate. Their bodies move with the quiet confidence of lovers who have already learned each other’s rhythms, already traced the paths of hands and mouths.
And I wonder - what came before this moment? Did they emerge from tangled bedding and slow kisses, reluctant to part? Did they linger by the fire, speaking in low voices of dreams and future paths? Did he take her into the Fade, guiding her through dreamscapes only he could show her? We do not know. But the way they move with each other tells us everything.
And that is the brilliance of this scene. It speaks of time stolen and savored, of love that has unfolded in the spaces between moments unseen in the game.
The game never needed to show us everything. We felt it in this moment alone. And so when the tearing comes - when their hands slip apart, when their bodies, once so entwined, are severed - it is shattering. Beautiful. And devastating.
Newest chapter is up. I went back and did some formatting changes for chapter names (burnt myself out at the previous naming convention), and the chapters themselves. Cleanup of some grammar or spelling primarily. Some fun images to make everything pretty (very important, you know). And I did a big re-write of the sex scene in chapter 21 "Bound to Another".
Hi yall - new to Tumblr as I just finished DATV. Waited 10 years for this Solavellan reunion and though I was ok with how it all ended - I just need their story to continue !
Please recommend some of your favorite post -veilguard fanfics . I just want these 2 to be happy !!! They truly truly deserved it!
I remember one comment on YouTube under the original track. There was a theory that 'The Lost Elf' summarizes the love of Lavellan and Solas, how they “speak” through the melody: she is the violin, and he is the cello.
Yet now it’s slightly different; if you listen closely, you’ll hear that the violin sounds strong, happy and melodic, while in the original, it was broken, miserable, and thin.
The cello solo sets up the narrative, but at the climax, you can finally hear the violin. They 'sing' together in perfect harmony, almost indistinguishable from one another.
I love how music deepens our understanding of the storyline, guiding us further and revealing delicate nuances that add richness and depth to their story.
It’s canon now, it’s their theme.
Also I love how in the beggining Lavellan knew only a few words in Ancient Elven, at the end of the Tresspasser she can form full sentences, and now she speaks Elven fluently. It's a unique thing only for them. She speaks his language, because she knows how important it's to him. Elgar'nan speaks in Common language, yes, because of the Blight, but still. Even Mythal and Solas, in their final conversation, do not speak in Elven.
Lavellan is the only one who accepts him unconditionally. She forgives him when he cannot forgive himself, holds him when he needs it most, and ultimately, she is the one who saves him.
This is the extraordinary journey we’ve been fortunate enough to witness.
Ten years is a long time, but their love will last forever.
summary: Lavellan visits the Lighthouse for the first time and finds, upon its walls, something she did not expect.
notes: I'm just obsessed with the idea of the frescoes in the Lighthouse being Solas' venerations to Lavellan. And her having to process that. I cannot stop thinking about it
***
The Inquisitor's boot connects with smooth, flat stone as she steps through the eluvian.
“Home, sweet, home,” Rook says as they step through the mirror behind her.
“Is it sweet?” Inquisitor Lenore Lavellan asks, tilting her head thoughtfully at Rook. The idea of Solas having a place, comfortable and safe, to return to after leaving his bloody trail through Thedas stirs her emotions into a muddled brew. Not quite rage, not quite relief. Bitter on her tongue. Telling in the warmth it spreads down her throat, through her stomach.
Rook shrugs their shoulders. “Eh, it grows on you. Strange to be in a place that keeps expanding and changing as more of us arrive.”
Strange indeed, Lavellan thinks. That Solas would choose to live in a place capable of transformation when he himself has refused to evolve. She’s heard all about this Fade-touched place from her various reports and letters from Varric. The Lighthouse- where rooms appear to accommodate Rook’s growing team. A place that seems to be made for community, to provide for its occupants. Yes, strange that Solas, who’s chosen to walk his lonely path, would take his rest here. Then again, did the Dread Wolf ever rest? The last decade spent always a step too far behind him would suggest otherwise. Her own restless nights would demand it.
“So, a tour first? Or,” Rook pauses, “Would you like to see Varric? He's resting in the infirmary.”
Lavellan smiles at Rook’s kindness. It's been many moons since she's seen her dear friend, yet, “Thank you, Rook. But a tour first, I think.”
Rook nods, sweeping their arm forward. “Right this way.”
She climbs the steps from the eluvian’s chamber into a wide, circular space. Her gaze is immediately drawn upwards. Her lips part in awe at the beautiful, mysterious contraption spinning in the center of the room.
Rook is watching her, something of pride in the curve of their mouth. “Yeah, it's breathtaking.”
“Mmm,” Lavellan hums, rotating in a slow circle, as her gaze hunts hungrily across the low tables and chairs, prowling for signs that Solas was ever here.
Rook’s voice breaks through her focus. “This is the main entrance hall. We take a lot of our meetings gathered here. The fireplace has a nice ambience for discussing the downfall of ancient elven gods.” Rook shrugs their shoulders playfully. “Since we're already downstairs, let's see the music room first.”
“Music room?” Lavellan asks sharply, a memory glinting like the edge of a knife before it plunges through her.
***
“Yes, vhenan, I've been known to dabble in piano.”
Lavellan stares at him doubtfully. “You? Play piano?”
Solas gives the tiniest shake of his head and his lips pull at the edges, like he's fighting back a smile. “I've dabbled over the years, yes. Is that hard for you to believe?”
She leans an elbow atop her balcony, resting her chin in her hand. “It's hard to imagine you dabbling in anything. You seem more of an, ah…” She taps a finger against her bottom lip as she searches for the right word. “A deliberate pursuer of things.” She looks back at Solas. His eyes are fixed on her lips.
“Ah, yes. I suppose I can be rather decisive in my drives.” His gaze finally lifts to her eyes. “Most of the time.”
A warmth spreads through her at his words, and she thinks, not for the first time, that perhaps Solas had rather meant to dabble with her. Had stumbled into something far more definitive than he intended.
“Maybe it’s just surprising that you would have a more idle hobby.”
“I paint, do I not? It is not so far reaching that I might enjoy leisure time with other arts.”
Lavellan laughs, wide and open-mouthed. “Solas!” She gasps between mirthful breaths. “You don’t dabble in painting. You create-” She shakes her head, picturing the beautiful murals adorning the walls of his room. “Masterpieces,” she says softly.
Solas stares at her like she’s the sun. Warm and bright, but difficult to look at for too long. He’s always watching her like this. With a reverence and longing that makes her ache. He’s just as likely to reach for her in those moments as he is to turn away, as though afraid she might scorch his skin.
“Perhaps I can hear you play, when this is all over,” she gestures vaguely at where the sky is torn open, bleeding Fade and demons.
Solas’ answering smile is brittle and breaking. Like bark peeling off a tree, revealing the growth of something new and harder underneath. Many of Solas’ smiles were like this. It maddened her not to know what they meant.
“Maybe, vhenan,” he replies, his fingertips reaching to brush gently against her temple, trailing the shape of her vallaslin. It did not feel like the potential of a promise though. More the doleful caress of a decision already made.
***
“Yep, a music room, complete with a piano!” Rook is saying, striding across the room to reveal a round door in the wall. Lavellan follows them down a long hall, drawing a deep steadying breath through her nose- that she immediately exhales sharply in a quiet gasp as she steps fully into the music room.
Paint is splashed across every wall. Perilously parallel to the frescoes Solas created in Skyhold. As if sensing the lurking danger, her heartbeat increases its pace. She half expects Solas to look up from one of the armchairs, a book open on his lap, old elven endearments on his lips.
Rook is saying something, but Lavellan cannot hear over the rushing in her ears. For across the walls, is the story of the Inquisition. Just as Solas once painted it in a tower room that smelled of earth and spice. If she could force her lungs to draw breath, would she be able to smell his scent lingering here?
“Inquisitor? Inquisitor?” Rook's concern is etched across their brows when Lavellan looks at them. “Are you okay?”
Lavellan nods slowly. “Yes, sorry. I'm just… taking it all in.”
“Right,” Rook says with the undercurrent of knowing there's something more to it but being tactful enough not to ask. Lavellan's fondness of Rook grows by the moment.
Rook leads them from the music room, re-entering the central chamber. “I'll show you the upstairs rooms next. It's amazing- everyone has their own chambers, curated specifically to meet their needs. Somehow, the Lighthouse knows what we'll require.”
Lavellan's footsteps are heavy on the stairs, her mind tumbling through time. She watches her feet lift from step to step in a detached sort of way. She feels weighed down by the past. A past she didn't expect to encounter here. A past someone did not warn her was gaping open here, hemorrhaging from the walls.
Color at the corner of her vision catches her attention. She turns her head, footsteps faltering as she crests the landing to the second floor.
Now she's not just weighed down, she is falling. Plummeting to the bottom of a well where she floats, weightless, at the edge of drowning. One mouthful of broken heart away from going under.
She spins to look out at the other walls on the second floor landing. Every single one of them is a brutal punch to the gut, a glorious blade to the bone. Like a gift wrapped in rose thorns, beautiful and promising but horribly confounding.
Solas has painted frescoes here too. But these she has never seen. Suspects they were not made to be seen. Solas filled his empty lighthouse with the ghosts of a person still amongst the living. She swallows hard, forces tears not to fall. Would they be from grief or gratitude? She does not know.
Every painting depicts wolves, an homage to Fen'Harel, one might think. But amongst the wolves, too prominent to be mistaken as anything but a focal point, is her. Bathed in golds and reds, fiery like the rising sun. Hair flowing long around her, like she used to wear it in moments of refuge at Skyhold. A Dalish charm dangling from her neck in the painting closest to her. Her own vallaslin depicted on the charm’s surface. As if Solas plucked it from her brow all those years ago and enshrined it here.
Rook’s tour is forgotten. Lavellan makes her own way from painting to painting nestled between doorways, gaping at her likeness. Why? Why has Solas painted her here? All these years he has refused to stand before her- or so she thought. How many times has he stood before her portraits? Are they here for his pleasure or his penance?
She traces a finger down her face in one of the murals. Her hair is flowing around her in this one too. Her hands clasped around the hilt of a sword at her chest, its blade pointed to the ground. A large wolf, his head tilted back in a howl, sits at her feet. She lays her palm against the wolf and a single, strangled sob chokes out of her.
“Uh, Inquisitor?” She remembers Rook is with her. They are looking back and forth between her and the mural. “Is that you?” Rook asks, bewilderment permeating their question.
“Yes,” Lavellan states plainly.
“Oh,” Rook’s head bobs up and down. The upward slant of their eyebrows indicative of how baffling they find this development. “Varric never said-”
“I’d like to see Varric now.” Lavellan cuts them off, offering a gentle smile to soften her bluntness.
“Of course, sure, yes.” Rook’s head is still nodding. “Over here.”
Lavellan exchanges pleasant greetings with Varric, waiting until Rook shuts the door behind them as they exit. Then she turns to Varric and demands, “Why didn't you tell me?”
“Ah, I take it you saw our very own little museum to the Inquisition.” Merriment dances in Varric’s eyes.
“Varric,” Lavellan says, exasperated with his response. “There are paintings of me everywhere. Maker’s breath, why didn’t you tell me they were here?”
Varric sighs. “I thought it was best for you to see it for yourself, Lenny.”
She softens at the nickname. “I suppose I might not have believed you if you’d written to me about it.”
“I do love a good joke,” Varric smiles dimly. “Although, I’m not sure that would have been a very amusing lie.”
Lavellan sits on the edge of his bed, taking care not to disturb his injuries. “Then why are you so amused?”
“Because, Lenny, don’t you see? He can be saved.” Varric says it with a conviction that presses on her heart painfully.
“Varric, I don’t think-”
He interrupts her with a raised palm, before she can begin the same argument they've had for the last decade. It's not that she doesn't want to save Solas from himself- that had been her own steadfast conviction ten years ago. But with every body he dropped behind him, every instance he avoided a confrontation with her, Lavellan felt him slip further away. He didn't want to be saved. The Dread Wolf had chosen, and his choice had not been her. She had to choose too. If she could not save him, she would stop him.
“I trust my gut on this one. I’m right. Chuckles can be pulled back from the ledge, whether he knows it or not.”
“He stabbed you!” Levallen exclaims.
Varric sighs again. “And I’ll be pissed at him about that when I see him next. But first, you need to knock some sense into him.”
“Me?” She huffs an incredulous laugh. “Varric, he didn’t listen to me eight years ago. What makes you think he’ll listen now?”
“Those are veritable venerations to you out there,” Varric implores, pointing at the door, the faintest tinge of vexation in his tone. “That’s not the work of a man who’s given up on what he really wants.”
“Or perhaps it’s the graveyard where he’s laid to rest the wants he refuses to have,” she says darkly. “Besides, he is trapped in the Fade now. It hardly matters.”
Varric studies her intently. “Doesn’t it? Do you really think he'll stay quietly locked up there forever?” Varric pauses. “Is that where you really want to leave him?”
“Damn you.”
“All the way to the Deep Roads if you like, but I’ll still be right.”
She smiles at her oldest friend. “You really think I can reach him this time?”
“I think,” Varric says slowly. “He’s spent his last lonely decade painting your portrait to fill the emptiness around him.” Varric softens, voice dropping to a low murmur. “Those paintings aren't a cemetery, Lenny. They're his salvation.”
Lavellan sinks. Slips beneath the cold, calm surface of her hope. Chokes on a lungful of potential. Varric takes her hand gently in his and squeezes as she weeps for a painting and what it might promise.
Post veilguard solavellan time travel au fic (Solas' POV)
As they walk into the rift, they are thrown back in time, the moment when Solas took Ariana's hand and closed the first rift.
"What did you do?" she asks him, eyes wide and bright.
He doesn't understand what had happened after he went blind for a moment by the bright flash light of the rift. One moment he was at the Archon's palace, Ariana's hand on his shoulder, guiding him. Next, he's in this familiar valley where everything started, same hand holding his for balance.
The chill of air is real on his cheeks. Her hand solid. He remembers everything but does she? Is she the same Ariana, his vhenan, from the future? or is she of this world, the one who hasn't done the grave mistake of falling in love with the dreadwolf. She's not doomed, not yet.
He freezes when he sees Varric but quickly hides his shock behind the mask. But how can be hide his shame from himself?
"Are you with the chantry or...?"
He remembers this moment but still chuckles in fondness of her.
"Was that a serious question?"
An Archive of Our Own, a project of the
Organization for Transformative Works
(ashara lavellan x solas. 2250 words. post-solavellan ending. hurt/comfort. major veilguard spoilers. read on ao3)
The nature of her own regrets become apparent soon enough. Mostly, as they appear to her in the fade, they relate to her regretting so very little.
There are exceptions, of course. She and Solas pass them sometimes on long, silent walks together; small, ugly things carved into barren rock, almost impossible to catch in the shadow of Solas's own towering monuments of despair. But they are there, and Ashara can always sense them before she sees them. Her least favorite recurrence pertains to a rock she threw at some shemlen farmers when she was a girl. They had returned later in the day, but they could not distinguish the difference between Dalish vallaslin , and so chose to take out their vengeance on the whole of her clan, instead.
They had never truly forgiven her. Of all the statues of contrition this place has manifested over the months they've been here, this is the one she can't yet bring herself to face.
But there are, unexpectedly, great works of beauty here, too. Oftentimes she sees herself and Solas carved into the cliff faces, or jutting out of canyons. Old echoes of embraces, stolen kisses, intertwined fingers. She suspects their prison doesn't quite know what to do with these complicated memories, but it does its best to use them against her even so. She had regretted those moments once, after all. Or at least she thought she had. Her time in this place offers an alternative school of thought; that she had never truly regretted the choices leading her down this dinan'shiral of theirs, but rather the heart of her shame is more that she could never truly bring herself to regret them at all.
Once the fade understood this, it course-corrected. Now if she sees those statues at all, it is because she wants to.
Solas has made little progress. It is harder for him, with his regrets so numerous and so at odds with his ego. On a good day he makes her worst mistakes look infinitesimal by comparison. Sometimes he disappears for days on end, wandering aimlessly, pulled one way or another by the compass of his guilt alone. When he returns, as he always does, he says nothing, only holds her very tightly and does not let go.
In all the months (or perhaps even longer) that they've been here, they have spoken very little. More time is needed before either one of them is ready to face that looming conversation. For now, quiet comfort takes priority. For now, sex suffices. For now they sit on the edge of yawning chasms for hours on end, watching the shifting rocks, the starless skies, the shadows in mournful, flittering dance at the edge of their vision, and find solace through a tender silence in which no words are yet necessary. And when he begins to get it in his head that perhaps they are necessary, she stops him with a long, languid kiss until she feels those worries melt away between them.
It is a terrible place he's built, but it is not so terrible facing it together.
And it gets easier still. The nature of the Evanuris' prison was always to contain the regrets of beings who thought themselves gods, but she is not a god, and neither is he. Her regrets are not so insurmountable to overcome, given time, and soon, slowly, she finds the world around her starts to mirror the world inside her. At first, a singular star in the sky. Then, below it, a wisp of elfroot growing between the crack of a barren rock. The fade cannot be mapped by mere cartography or magic, but a learned mage can always find their way with enough discipline. And Ashara was, before stepping through that final rift, a very learned mage.
When Solas departs on his lonely journeys, she cultivates the place in secret. She was never one for dishonesty, and so it's the only real secret she has. She shapes the space sporadically over many months in the image of her late mother's patch of camp among their clan. With some . . . creative liberties here and there. The tent is warm and green like her mother's was, but with all the ample space and utility (and — admittedly — luxury) she had grown accustomed to over her many years as the Inquisitor. Some ugly shemlen cottage wouldn't do, and she never had a full night sleep in her Skyhold quarters, anyway.
She dreams up the smell of incense, and many multicolored rugs, and a bed that's warm but not too soft. Books; a table with two chairs; a big bathtub to share. The small fire pit in the centre might have burned the whole tent down around her were it abiding by the laws of the physical world, but it does not. It abides her.
The hardest part was the damned trees. Several times she nearly lost everything, locked in a seemingly endless standoff against the will of the very prison itself. But Solas made this place to contain monsters, and Ashara need only remind herself that she is not one. She never was. Whether the magic of this place recognises that — or if she truly did best the fade by sheer audacity alone — she couldn't really say. All she knows is that one day the trees stood tall — leafless but very much alive — as if they'd been there all along, and her impossible little clearing was all but complete.
"I've found a place I think you ought to see," she tells Solas soon after, reunited in their usual spot after several long days apart.
He seems especially exhausted this time around. He buries his face in the crook of her neck and breathes deeply. "Then I am yours to guide, as you see fit."
He clings tightly to her hand as she leads them on, aided by the lonely light of her beloved star. Samahl , as she's come to calling it — named after her nephew. Solas would see Samahl too if he ever looked up, but he keeps his eyes defiantly low, avoiding the overhead statues of a handsome, crumbling man with Mythal's vallaslin , whose wounded gaze seem to follow Solas wherever he goes.
He will find it in himself to meet those eyes one day, a long time from now. In the meantime she lifts her head to the sky for both of them, and presses onward through the gloom.
He stops short when he sees the clearing of trees in the distance, bordered by infinite wasteland. Ashara squeezes his fingers with her own and urges him forward. "Come."
"That . . . cannot be."
"It is. Come."
Soon the cracked earth beneath their feet sprouts small, unassuming blades of grass. The riverbed they pass remains as dry as bone, but carries the unmistakable smell of wet earth after recent rain. Closest to the centre of the clearing, Ashara herself notes leaves on trees that were not there the day before.
Solas's brow furrows, and he makes a strange noise when they reach the point where the grass is most concentrated. As it exists now, the grass is too patchy to be called a meadow, and yet it grows strongest and greenest in a perfect circle around her little tent as if it were the sun itself, nourishing by proximity.
The tent glows faintly, lit up by the hearth and candlelight within. But it is a strange glow, which seems to extend to the whole of the outer clearing, cutting through the endless mist and shadow. For months her world has been a haze of muted gray and monochromes. This space, by comparison, bears a subtle vibrancy she might've missed if she hadn't grown so used to its absence.
The violets of his eyes are clearly visible for the first time since they arrived, shining as they scan about the clearing. "How can it be that I feel you so vividly in this place?" he finally whispers, incredulous.
"I made it," she says. "It's mine. Will you come with me a little further? I didn't bring us here to watch grass grow."
She had hoped he might at last be baited into a smile, or a sultry retort, but he only frowns at her with those same sad, uncertain eyes, and takes her hand once more.
"It's much larger inside," she says. "Come."
"As you say."
He has to duck his head to slip inside the tarp, but the interior is as large and spacious as promised. Her fire bathes the walls in bright flickering hues of yellow and orange, and Ashara watches him give an involuntary shiver of pleasure as its warmth passes over and through him. It's a nice sight. Her pyromancy has inspired no shortage of pain and terror over the years, but in truth, it was always watching the relief of her companions faces when she warmed their soup in midwinter that had made her feel the most accomplished.
Maybe she could dream up soup next? There are several potted plants next to her little bed. Elfroot and crystal grace, and some others even she doesn't recognise. Not quite right for soup, and yet . . . Had she put those there? Or has this dream of hers now taken a life of its own? She ponders as much, settling in amid her thick fur blankets, waiting for Solas to compose himself.
"I made this place for you as well," she tells him when he makes no move to join her.
He shakes his head despairingly. "No."
"What?" Ashara scowls. " Yes ."
"No."
" Yes ."
"This cannot be, Ashara," he snaps. "The very will of this domain is such that —"
"I don't know what to tell you. I outwilled it."
He scoffs. "The greatest tyrants of the Evanuris could not outwill it."
"I am not the Evanuris. Neither was your little bird friend, and she flew free."
"That is different. Rook had —"
He stops himself. For a moment he looks briefly shocked, as if struck. And then his features settle. Lips pressed tight, eyes down. He seems impossibly small inside this place, and not just because it's bigger on the inside. The light doesn't touch him quite so eagerly as it touches everything else. His very presence in her room casts a long, misshapen shadow which seems to crawl unnaturally across the floor, cutting through the glow of her fire until it's very nearly pooled at her feet.
A chill follows.
" Varric ." Ashara holds his gaze in silence until he looks at her. "Deiadre had Varric ."
Beside her, a candle flickers. "Yes."
Ashara reminds herself: his regrets made this place. They unmade Skyhold, and nearly the world itself. They will do worse to them both now, if she allows it.
"She had Varric, Solas."
Even in the rapidly dimming light, she can make out the unsteady rise of his chest. "She had Varric," he echoes.
"And you have me."
Solas's face falls. But then the room brighten. A little.
He lets out a long, unsteady breath and closes the distance between them. Her little wooden bed creaks under his weight. She shifts the blankets to better drape over his broad shoulders, and he reaches out in turn, hesitating before resting his hand on her thigh. He leans down to press a kiss to the gooseflesh raised on her clavicle, courtesy of the lingering chill.
"That you would offer such a thing at all is more a testament to you than any clemency I've not earned," he murmurs against her collar. He tilts his head up as if to look upon the room, though his gaze remains soft and steadily focused on her. "This is a gift, asha'era. I did not mean to undermine your efforts, or the feat of having made this. It is perfect, just as you are. But it may not survive my presence."
"Why not? I did."
Now Solas looks away. She cringes; inhabiting the fade has done nothing to improve her eloquence. Quickly she continues, "But even so; if it does not, we'll just have to get over it and bring it back come morning."
"And do you think you'll feel the same a dozen centuries from now? Perpetually warring with my regret?"
"I know which side I'd place my bets in a fight between regret and love."
If he has a retort for that, he's wise enough to keep it to himself.
Time in the fade passes imperceptibly. Surely their kiss lasts days, and what comes after even longer. The candles are less a gauge for the passing minutes but instead the strength of her resolve when his own doubts creep in. When the light flickers, when the incense sours, when the wind outside picks up to a roaring howl; then she focuses her efforts. Her fingers scraping down his chest, a well timed roll of the hips, a kiss with enough tongue to remind him how much he used to enjoy using his own. And still does, apparently.
In the morning — or what, at least, finally feels like morning — the trees have dried up and grass outside their tent is dead. But the tent itself is warm as ever and the air outside feels crisp and fresh and, above her, if she squints, she can make out the faint but ever-present glint of her Samahl in the sky.
The grass will grow back. She will see to it . . .
. . . Tomorrow. This morning, she would sooner crawl back into bed and see to other things.
when Cole says “He wants when he has never wanted before” and then you remember this letter exists. Solas is thousands of years old and never wanted anything for himself until he meets Lavellan…a mortal who’s a product of one of his biggest regrets. And one that he cherishes more than any of his victories.
no I will never be over Solavellan
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