Brows furrowed slightly as she watched him. Her hand moved half way towards him as her fingers twitched. Was he…suffering from a curse? Her hand returned to her side as she thought of her next words well. Remembering the days he was her student. How cold and cruel she could be. It made her regret it all the more. Valathaan would always hold a dear place in her heart. She wanted him to know that she too has changed. But like all things it would take time. She stood for moments longer before steeping forward. Pale fingers reached out to brush the skin of his cheek to make him look at her once more.
“He does not.” Did she say sadly. “I do not know if he truly recovered them all. What troubles you, Valathaan.” Soft were her words filled with worry. “Please, speak to me.”
Her answer filled the room like smoke, everywhere. Intangible. Valathaan gave little of himself away save for the faint shadows crawling over his eyes and the crease between his brows. The cursed one had already passed. She didn’t know if he’d recovered his memories. Valathaan’s mind, like drowning, sank deep in the depths of some unknown place when the cold brushed against his cheek. He lifted his head, and not so suddenly, he saw her eyes.
Centuries ago, she would have never spared a thought--
Odd, her reaching for him. Her hand on his face. Valathaan seemed to stiffen, unused to this, and for the moment as they stood there, the wave of his thoughts had subsided and all he could do was stare, caught. Expected to speak. Her gaze didn't burn like before, and still...
His eyes were elsewhere. Under his breath, a silent confession, almost to himself. “She had gazed upon me,” he said, “yet saw nothing.”
“The face of Elrond was ageless, neither old nor young, though in it was written the memory of many things both glad and sorrowful. His hair was dark as the shadows of twilight, and upon it was set a circlet of silver; his eyes were grey as a clear evening, and in them was a light like the light of stars. Venerable he seemed as a king crowned with many winters, and yet hale as a tried warrior in the fullness of his strength. He was Lord of Rivendell and mighty among both Elves and Men. “
Was this what troubled him so? It warmed her cold heart to know that Valathaan was still so caring. As she was not the only one that changed. No, there was more bitterness in him now. But the desire to knowledge was still there. It made her wonder if he hated the side of her that was human. She wouldn’t blame him.
“There are such curses. Very old ones, sweet Valathaan. One’s cure that does not oft rest in the spoken words. They are never simple nor can they be truly reversed. However, such evil words are not natural to this world. I have only known a few such were the victim of the curse has seen their suffering end. And only once I have witnessed such.”
Maybe there was a slip in his expression, a slight twinge of something like he’d hoped she wouldn’t have said that, confirm that curse. Valathaan looked away, breaking eye contact, and turned down to an open tome that had been left abandoned, cold, in front of him. His fingers curled softly around the edge of the desk.
“This one whom you have seen, do they yet live?” He asked, but the inflection was so dull, hardly a question at all. He continued to look at the book. But he read nothing. “That which from them was stolen, have they regained?” Or were those memories gone forever?
“All things end, all things burn to ash. But you, my friend, burn bright.” from ean'nislean
meaningful sentence starters // NOT ACCEPTING
Valathaan could only watch her. The light of the candle had begun to crawl over her face and its warm light, rose gold, poured over her until all the golds and the jewels draping her horns shined like stars against the black sky, or perhaps the flickering flames of hearths past faraway windows of a faraway village. Suddenly, the candle in his hand felt warmer. His face, a little brighter.
“You speak from kindness, but it is not so,” he said. “If ever were to burn so great a flame that would pity even that of the sun, I would think it you, Ean’nislean.” Valathaan raised a brow, something genuine but playful in his eyes, and brought the candle up, its gentle flame illuminating more of her face. No, he didn’t burn bright, but neither did he need to. “Forever am I at peace… to simply gaze upon you.”
“I have little interest in gods, dreaded or no.” He disguised his distaste with indifference, which is all the evanuris deserve. Hatred, even his, was too good for them. To pretend he did not care was freeing.
Solas props his chin up with his knuckles, considering the question, anyway. “What I know of the Dalish creators tells me no tale that ends with the girl at their side is a happy ending.” At least a bandit, or else a wolf, would have killed her quickly. To be among the gods was a crueler fate, for behind kind faces were people capable of unspeakable acts. “Hero or villain, the tale begs the question: where was Andruil? The village was loyal, no matter who tells the tale, and yet their prayers are answered with silence, always.”
Little interests in gods. Is that a surprise? No. He was not like the Dalish, those who believed so deeply in the pantheon... “Rare are those words in which you speak; many would find them so great a wound,” he says. The moon falls upon this elf, this Solas, like a curtain, and he can make out the depth and innumerable questions within those eyes. Valathaan is quiet.
“Never have I known a prayer heard. Should there be gods, content are they in silence when those here suffer.” Andruil and the gods, hungry for worship and followers, but little else. Little more than vain kings. But none of that shows in his voice. It is only an old, old dejection. “What concerns do the great have of the lesser.”
The truest answer would be yes. She was cursed. “Never for long, sweet Valathaan.” Her former student was a sweet lad. Clever even as in times past she was interested in his unique ability for one not gifted with magic or lacking of it. But she taught him other things before her departure.
“Does something trouble you?”
This side of her, he hadn’t always seen, but there was that one constant. By a blink of an eye or the curl of his fingers, she could read him, read him and his worries and his troubles, maybe even his past and his future. For now, he felt like an elfling again. And he could never hide from her.
"In years gone, I had known one whose memories were unmade.” Forgotten. Lost. He dared not to look away. “I am to wonder if there is so evil a curse.”
It was a clear night tonight, unseasonably warm. A breeze lifted the fragile page of his journal where the words had smeared but not the memory. He was almost afraid to touch it.
Lelianna’s ravens could be heard from here. Under the chandeliers, Gatt was a burning ghost. The candlewash of flames poured over him, burned his brown eyes red, and illuminated every scar and hard line and gash on his marred face until he seemed to be smoldering, burning a hole through the ground. Valathaan glanced upon that gash down his cheek… Then he stopped and peered back up. He stilled.
Why be kind in a life that isn’t? When no one else is?
“True, of ill hearts and darkness has this world its fill,” he said. The elf kept his head turned towards Gatt, but with a small smile, his eyes, gray and ever-clear, peered up out the window. “…Yet I should like the sun on every odd day.”
“There are no good choices here.” // the priestess!
meaningful sentence starters // ACCEPTING
There are no good choices here, she had once said. The Scoia'tael's cause or to die slowly in silence, snuffed out by dh'oine. No good choices.
It was a small village. Iorveth and his unit were already on their way out, their tattered shoes crunching over the charcoal and the cooling, cooling cinders. On their faces: nothing. No remorse. No regrets. Maybe a smile or a gleam of joy, perhaps, but he could not see their faces nor hear their steps nor feel their presence, the unwanted chill. He could only see the bodies. He could only hear the silence. He could only taste the ash, the burning earth stuck to his throat, and feel a swell lap against the walls of his hollow chest like a stirring, heavy wave.
Not that long ago he saw her grow life with her hands. Since then he wanted so badly to see her as the sun, this bright light...
“'Feainn,'” he echoed. Her name came with no warmth. “...I had been blind.”
A boy's hair tousled in the wind. Valathaan would not turn to face her.
Far behind them, most of the Dalish began turning in for the night, the small glow of their campfires the only proof left that they were still alive. Stars glinted, hanging high up above in the jet black, and the flowers surrounding them had closed up, sleeping with the sunlight now gone, but here, the two elders stood awake under the same moon as the one that shined two thousands years ago. It had not changed. The world has.
“Long ago has that war ended. From those Evanuris, no longer are we bound, yet it is here we stand under the mercy of Men.” His face twisted in worry, a need to know. He wanted to reach out. There was nothing to reach for. “Gone are your followers; your leader, a faded memory. You would lay your life for so noble a cause, but in my heart, I fear it needless.”
Based on the Color Wheel Theory of Love. Repost don’t reblog.
Bold the traits of each type of love that are most relevant to your muse.
All these types of love are valid with both benefits and pitfalls. People exhibit them in different ways with different people but tend to follow trends. Everyone experiences more than one.
PRIMARY LOVE
[EROS - ROMANTIC LOVE (Sensuality, Intensity, Passion)]
Feels strong physical and emotional connection through the relationship | Begins with a partner who is a stranger and evokes immediate excitement | May be exclusive but not possessive | Seeks early sexual adventure, variety and technique | Is ready for love and the risks.
[LUDUS - COMPETITIVE LOVE (Teasing, Attention, Fun Before Commitment)]
Is not ready to commit to anyone | Has no intention of falling in love | Is anxious about a partner who is too intimate | Allows early sexual activity only for fun, without emotional connections.
[STORGE - FAMILIAL LOVE (Loyalty, Siblings, and Friends, Commitment)]
Is not looking for love but is ready if encountered | Is quietly possessive but not overly jealous | Believes love comes from friendship but not a goal of life | Only has sexual desires after commitment is declared.
SECONDARY LOVE
[MANIA - OBSESSIVE LOVE (Obsessions, Possessiveness, Jealousy) - Ludus-Eros]
Is anxious about falling in love and has expectations of pain | Quickly becomes overwhelmed by thoughts of their partner | Forces partner into showing affection and emotion | Is easily frustrated and does not enjoy sexual intimacy | Is very possessive and jealous.
[AGAPE - ALTRUISTIC LOVE (Unbreakable, Forgiveness, Wholistic) - Eros-Storge]
Is attracted to several types of people | Meets people easily so most likely will begin with a stranger | Feels concern and care for each partner they have | Is neither jealous nor obsessive | Enjoys sex and is willing to improve it.
[PRAGMA - PRACTICAL LOVE (Rationality, Realism, Collaboration) - Storge-Ludus]
Is certain of their preferable “types” | Begins a relationship with an already familiar person | Believes a loving relationship is desirable for a happy life | Expects reciprocation with feelings | Believes sexual compatibility can be worked out.
"how do you decide when it's enough?" from silvhen
meaningful sentence starters // ACCEPTING
Valathaan held his hands behind his back and looked upon Silvhen, one so prone to folding in on himself like a statue, like a mistake to be tucked away, his eyes more comfortable on the pages of a worn book than another person, watchful. The elder had lent him the tome that sat in front of him right now. The mabari slumbered by his feet.
How do you decide when its enough?
Silvhen, always in his sister’s shadow, never thinking he’s what anyone expected–
“Live not for others, Silvhen,” Valathaan said. A heat came up beside him; a hand. The elder was leaning forward, his fingers edging the corner of a page. “As the sun, bright and with fury does she burn; indeed, the moon would appear so small a thing. But as night falls and all the world lost to shadow, what is to light our darkness?” He looked to the young warden, the moon. A ghost of a smile was on his lips. “Never will you be your sister. Yet that which burns in dark burns most brilliant.”
“Do you wish you could have done it differently?” :>
meaningful sentence starters // ACCEPTING
Candles laid in front of them. A stream of incense smoke, ashy thick, drifted back into their faces, and the breeze that slipped through the window leeched away whatever was left of this room’s fading warmth. Her gaze latched onto him, this soothsayer with her wild, black eyes. He thought back to a time four hundred years ago with a battle, a cry, Aedd Gynvael falling behind his back–
“For what purpose?” he asked, his voice deep but calm. A candle flickered and a shadow danced, hidden in the corner. The orange glow rippled over his face. “Neither I nor you, one who foresees, can undo what has past.”
It has occurred to me I never wrote about the impact Valathaan’s love for Gwendolen, a human, and indeed, his relationship with humans in all, had on him and how he is viewed and accepted. Given the less-than-amicable relationship between the two races--the Aen Seidhe (elves) and the dh’oine (Man)--I thought it important to note.
Valathaan is not always regarded in a positive light.
When he fell for Gwendolen, it was still when the two races were relatively unknown to each other--they knew of each other, but largely kept to themselves. The Aen Seidhe saw Men as barbaric and violent, even likened them to apes. When Valathaan fell for one? It was something of an outrage. When the elven massacre of Loc Muinne happened, though, and he ran off with her, that “frowned upon” turned into a barrel of salt to an open wound.
And who’s to blame them for that negative opinion when (1) the Aen Seidhe already had poor opinions of Man; (2) the elves of Loc Muinne were murdered even though, a few years back, the sorcerers/sorceresses among them had taken human children in as students; (3) their kind were being killed wholesale, to extinction, despite having educated Men and giving them technologies; and (4) as the centuries rolled on, more and more of their cities fell, taken by the greed of Men. Valathaan having chosen to run off with a human was seen as having turned his back on them. He was even aware of this, and it was for this reason he did not return to his home even after she’d passed.
But, sure, there was some saving grace. Valathaan did return to fight beside his people in the sacking of Aedd Gynvael. Valathaan ferried survivors to Dol Blathanna, one of the last free elven refuges, and even roamed the land leading non-humans to safe havens and warning them of nearby human settlements.
That wasn’t enough, however. And soon, those who forgot his past would be quickly reminded of it.
When the story of Lara Dorren spread, like a wildfire the hatred between man and elves erupted into an all-out war. In the story, it is said that Cregennan of Lod, a human mage, was murdered for having an elven lover, and when Lara pleaded for the life of their unborn child, she was cut down by humans and left to die, bleeding on a snowy hill. She reserved whatever strength she had to give birth. Then perished. Of course, the dh’oine tell a different tale that paint themselves in a more favorable light, but regardless, this point in history fueled a hostility between the two races that only reminded Valathaan’s people of his relationship with a human. In Dol Blathanna and the Blue Mountains, often times, he was ignored or openly spurned. He was insulted, and to some, an outcast. Others disregarded him enough that when he suggested they leave the mountains for more fertile lands, they thought never to follow a lover of humans. In fact, in contempt, they even suggested he be kicked out to live among the bloodthirsty race of Man. He was fortunate, though, because had he been ousted and his relationship exposed to the dh'oine, he would have been persecuted. Executed. The rejection, scorn and harassment from some of his own people, he could at least survive.
In the opinion of the Scoia’tael and young elves inclined to join the Scoia’tael, he’s not with them, but with Man. That fact that he still wears Gwendolen's hair comb every day is seen as a testament to that. The fact that he pleaded with them not to fight alongside Aelirenn was regarded as defending the dh’oine. The fact that he decided to live in Caed Myrkvid beside druids, many of them human, further cemented their belief, and the fact that he even aids lost or wounded humans and considers any of them “innocent” is blasphemous. Of course, his open disapproval of the Scoia’tael doesn’t earn him any of their good grace. Many even regard him as "just as bad."
To plenty of his kind, Valathaan is redeemed because of all he’s done for them. His human love was long, long in the past, and it seems inconsequential. To others, however, with an undeniable hate for Man, he is not. They spurn him for his relationship, detest that he “chose” a dh’oine over them, and hate that even after all these years, he still so visibly loves her and doesn’t find shame in it. Some even refuse to listen to any of his advice or teachings. However he is viewed, though, there is always the thought that he did sleep with a human...
To his credit? At least he never had a child with her.
Whatever one thinks of him, his reputation and history cannot be denied.
Aragorn, puttering about the spilling springs, was content to muse idly as was his wont. However, the ranger’s ears came elven-keen, and his sense, elven-wise, and so he stirred as a breeze at the flitting of grass. They swayed heavily with far dawn, sprinkling dew like jewels, and it paved Valathaan’s path like a kingly procession. The golden willows slanted for a curious peek. The splintered groans of bark so told their tells.
And brows pinched, Aragorn gazed at what gift laid in his palm. When at last cold moonlight revealed it, surprise felled his troubled air. “It cannot be,” he came to murmur, searching as though for a nestled lie. May he – dare he – touch it? Would it spurn him not? With care, the druid lord reached out to trace its silver chain, dainty yet still deceptively sturdy. Abreast clear jewels etched finely in the middle, flecks of emerald-stone adoringly crowned it. A script in ancient tongues ran faintly by the top. Aragorn whispered them to naught but the night.
“’Those hands of the healer shall forge the world anew…’ She offers me no trinket.” No, but a talisman of old! “Long ago had it been crafted in the halls of your fathers. I cannot.”
Silence befell them. The quadroon lifted his hand, the mud dried stiff underneath those nails, and hovered it over the talisman, grazing its chain. From his mouth, the words of the inscription. Valathaan closed his eyes once in a nod.
“Dana Méadbh. Upon that which she walks spring forth groves of summer’s day. Lyfia, Queen of the Fields, she who is eternal.” He came forward one step more, the pendant catching the river of silver moonlight, shimmering. The goddess’ fiery eyes, though carved, beamed, and the garlands, shrubs, and ears of corn adorned her head like an untainted crown. The elf’s gaze never left him. “For the life of her son,” he said. “You cannot deny it.”
An old talisman of healing and renewal, of the bountiful. His talisman. Valathaan would not move away until they were both taken, and in their silence came the rippling laps of water and the songs of crickets, melodious, drifting in from the sleeping forest. The cloak, sewn in the pattern of a tree, sat waiting, folded. Valathaan’s voice came quiet.
“She would ask only of one thing: the name of he who breathed into Elevul new life.”
Although Krem doesn’t say it, he does rather hope the Inquisition lives on as a safe haven for all ( well-intended ) people even once the threat of Corypheus is long gone. Granted, he can’t quite foresee the implications this nigh authoritative power’s persistence might have in the long run and he’s not too proud to admit to it.
All he can say with certainty, especially when looking on the bunch of oddities on the far end of the tavern in all its rambunctious glory, is that in the last few years, he hasn’t felt quite as at home anywhere as he does here. ❛ Oh, fate … don’t know how much that has to do with our peaceful conduct, ❜ Krem shrugs, crossing his arms loosely. An easy smile sits on his lips. ❛ My story, you mean? ❜
It’s clear it was not by force. They sing, drink, and bark out deep-bellied laughs together until their cheeks glow red and their throats croak. They aren’t under the Bull against their will. They can’t even be viddathari. They are a mere band of men, elves, dwarves and qunari, uprooted from wherever, and differences aside, here they are, here to stay. Even how the shemlen talks about it as though it could never be any other way...
Valathaan’s fingers curl softly over his page. He peers up, catching that smile. “Why is it you are drawn,” he confirms, referring to Krem and the Bull, “when in war your kind fight? One who hails from Tevinter would see him brought to doom.”
