Is there a snack you like to eat while writing?
Yes. Skittles usually but I have been poor lately so that is a no go. Also, it’s terrible for my teeth <_<. So...coffee I suppose :D. Coffee and cheddar goldfish.
what time of day do you usually write?
Ah, usually whenever the mood strikes me. I am not very good at keeping to a schedule. Do a little better at night, though.
where do you write?
Wherever. Used to be in my room, but I like to write at the kitchen table, too. Need to be sitting upright and in work mode.
how often do you write a new novel fic?
AHAHAHA...all the time I am terrible I never finish anything. It’s been harder since my dad died, though. I haven’t really been able to get back into longfic.
do you listen to music while you write?
Yes! Though more when I am plotting then actually writing as if I try and fiddle with getting the right song I inevitably get distracted and lose my mojo. Generally, I prefer instrumental stuff to get me through. I suggest trolling through 8tracks to find new music :D
what’s your writing utensil? Paper or laptop?
Laptop and notebook. Notebook helps a lot to jot down things and sometimes to write them first drafty wise and get them down before typing them up. I am notorious for losing pieces of handwritten writing then finding them again months later like an overenthusiastic archaeologist unearthing what she thought was the rosetta stone and really it’s just a grocery list quality wise :P.
do you have a special pre-writing ritual?
Coffee. And usually a walk? Sometimes.*
what do you do to get into the writing mood?
Walks and music. Sometimes* I’ll watch a show I haven’t seen in ages or something new and exciting to get the creative thoughts flowing.
*You’ll notice both of these answers say ‘sometimes’. This is because I am a talentless hack who resists schedules even though my life would be twenty times better with them. I like to believe I thrive on chaos but in truth I am probably just chaos’ butler. That and if you don’t have a set schedule I am told it makes it much harder for your assassins to track you.
what do you always have near the place you write?
Empty coffee cup and a bunch of pens. I don’t know why since I don’t usually handwrite but the pens help. Sometimes I doodle with them while I’m supposed to be editing. The circle of pens helps remind me what I SHOULD be doing, it’s only mildly less effective than the circle of salt that currently keeps me trapped in this chair.
do you have a reward system for word counts?
If you write some words, more coffee. No words, no coffee.
is there anything else about your writing process your readers don’t know?
They probably don’t know about the dancing naked under the full moon part? Though, I am sure they could have guessed that was part of my process. But ah, seriously, my process really does involve going out for a walk or a run or-back when I was at home- going out horseback riding or shooting my bow. Usually while listening to some kind of music. Exercising first helps me a lot.
I think all the writer’s I know have already been tagged in this but by all means :D Do this and tag me in it :D I want to seeeeeee
So this was supposed to be for a prompt but that is never going to happen. So have some unrelated Ly’s First Kiss drabble. Short, sweet, horrendously fluffy.
"It is more shameful to distrust our friends than to be deceived by them."
— Confucius
The small orchard was ringed by a high fence, the grass growing long and uncut in the wake of it’s abandonment. The trees within had once been shaped into neat rows now grew into strange shapes, their twisted branches heavy with fruit nonetheless. Lycanae slipped through the bars of the wrought iron fence easily, her slender frame clad in the supple leather armour that was standard for most thieves. She tried to get the measure of her surroundings as she walked through the orchard with silent steps, reaching out and seizing hold of a particularly large and unblemished apple where it hung from a branch just above her head.
One twist of her wrist and the stem gave way with a gentle snapping sound, it’s comforting weight falling into her palm. She smiled and turned it over in her hands, giving it an experimental toss and then catching it in her other hand. Back and forth she tossed it, admiring the moonlight’s sheen on it’s green skin.
“I knew you’d like it here.” Nicolan’s voice startled her, even though she’d been expecting to find him here. She reflexively pitched the apple as hard as she could in the direction of his greeting. A bit of shadow seemed to detach itself from behind one of the trees and caught the apple, stepping into a pool of silver light. His hood was up, casting most of his face in shadow, eyeshine gleaming as bright as a cat’s as he held the apple triumphantly in one fist. Lycanae smiled despite herself, relaxing a fraction. Nicolan’s teeth flashed a brilliant white as he grinned at her, leaning back against a tree with casual grace and crossing his legs at the ankle, taking a swift, crunching bite of the apple. She approached, blades of grass swishing gently aside as she passed.
“You didn’t think I could catch it, did you?” He spoke again, laughter in the smug superiority of his softly accented voice. Lycanae made a face and shrugged her shoulders.
“Can you blame me? You’re a bit incompetent at times, Nicolan.” She muttered, rolling her eyes and trying not to fall for his teasing.
“Ye of little faith.” He took another bite of the apple, an obnoxiously large bite. He crossed his arms and even under the black fabric of his tunic and the leather of his vambraces, she fancied she could see the linen stretch tight over the lean muscle beneath.
“What did you call me up here for, anyway?” She sighed and took a few careful steps closer, smiling bemusedly at him despite herself. Why was he opposite the orchard from her, anyway? Slipping her notes like they were little da’len...I suppose we are da’len.
“Apples.” She caught the one he threw and bit into the sweet fruit, savouring the delicious crunch and the mellow crispness of it’s flavour on her tongue. She looked away for a moment and took a cool breath of night air, a smile playing unbidden around the corners of her mouth.
“You just invited me up here for apples?” Apples weren’t disappointing, but they weren’t exciting. Not what she’d been hoping for, anyway. What am I hoping for?
“Do you remember when we met? You hit me with an apple-” He tossed another and she caught it, dropping the first. It was a waste, but they weren’t her apples. There was something exhilarating in apples being so plentiful they could be wasted. “-right in the face.”
“I was ten years old, Nicolan.”
“Only four years ago...and you had excellent aim even at that young age.” She was closer now, barely a few feet from him. In one long stride from either of them, they’d be close enough to touch. He smirked at her and finished the apple she’d thrown, chucking the core carelessly over his shoulder and leaning back against the tree behind him with lazy grace.
Lycanae’s heart pounded a bit unsteadily in her chest to see him so relaxed and so confident. Even knowing he was one misstep from certain fantastic failure, from losing his cool and saying something foolish; she could still admire him. Nicolan always appeared to best advantage when he was silent, relaxed and in his element. The lean strength of his jaw, the casual repose and negligent grace with which he stood. Grey eyes watching her intently and yet somehow lazily, glinting with elven nightshine even in the dimness. She stepped close, boldly close. They’d grown up together, being close was nothing new. But this felt different somehow, closer and warmer and thrilling in a way it had never felt before. Nicolan’s nimble fingers closed around the apple she held, wrapping around hers with a delicacy she knew existed but hadn’t expected.
“Are you going to throw another apple at me, petit chanson?” He spoke softly into the stillness, the words silken in a way that made her tremble. She met his eyes and smiled, heart beating as fast as if she were running across the rooftops and not simply standing close enough to smell the leather of his armour and his faint metallic scent of orichalcum coins mingled with almond soap.
“Non.” The denial came out throatier than she had intended, soft orlesian accent joining with the scant Dalish one she still possessed, taking the one step and closing the distance between them. “You are too close for me to get a good shot.”
“Oh? Is that the only reason you-”
She leaned forward then, stood on her tiptoes at the exact right moment to catch him midsentence. The apple hit the ground with a thump she barely heard over the slight and sharp surprise of his swallowed gasp. His fingers threaded themselves through her hair, knocking her hood aside in his haste to cradle her close to him. His lips were sweet against hers with the taste of stolen apples, holding her within the circle of his arms as he tilted his head and smiled against her mouth. The kiss simultaneously seemed to last for forever and no time at all and it left her dizzy with a wanting for more kisses, even as she felt Nicolan run one calloused thumb over her sensitive bottom lip, studying her expression, gauging her reaction.
“You hit me with an apple, then you steal a kiss. Tsk tsk, am I never to be free of your villainy?” It had happened too fast for her to truly analyze it, a dangerous thing for a bard...she’d have to get better at this, at not allowing the sensation to run away with her. She gathered her wits and leaned forward again, looking up at him through her lashes.
“You think I stole a kiss? Steal it back.” His mouth on her’s was softer than she had expected, not as quick or as forceful as her kiss had been. He took his time, with the latent patience that he put into even his thieving. His teeth nipped lightly at her bottom lip and then soothed it with a sweep of his tongue that made her gasp slightly, his huff of amused breath soft against her chin as he exhaled..
“That’s even nicer than I thought it would be.” He murmured, mouth still only a hairsbreadth from hers. She was reeling, dizzy; even less sure of what or how the kiss had gone than she was of the last. He held her chin and kissed her again, his mouth soft and intoxicatingly warm...she tipped her head forward to catch her breath, breaking the contact for a moment.
“Oh? How is it?” She asked breathlessly, resting her forehead at the base of his throat. His fingers stroked along her cheek, brushing a lock of hair back from her face. He ran one finger down the length of her ear, tapping it’s point ever so lightly and making her bite her lip against a sigh. His touch tickled and sent a sweet thrill of delight and something stronger shooting through her belly
“It’s too early to tell, honestly. I’m going to have to keep kissing you to figure it out. Unless you object, of course-” He moved to pull away and she clutched at his waist, his chuckle swallowed up in another kiss from her. He turned them suddenly and she yelped as he swept her legs out from under her and threw her arms around her neck. “-oh fuck-”
“NicoLAN!” He caught her before she hit the ground...barely. She clung to him and cast him a scandalised look and he smiled sheepishly.
“I was trying to dip you and then kiss you... I heard it was romantic!” Lycanae sighed and felt them lurch as he went to his knee and set her gently down on the ground, kneeling beside her. “I’m sorry.”
“Lie down in the wet grass with me and we’ll call it even.”
“Wet? But-” She yanked him down beside her and he let out a gasp of dismay. Now that he was back to his normal self, he wasn’t nearly as intimidating. And still just as lovely to her as he had been when he was suave. Is that what kissing does? Lycanae chewed at her bottom lip in uncertainty and rested her hands on her stomach, threading her fingers with Nicolan’s as he scooted up next to her, pressing his lips to the pulse at her neck.
“Watch your tells, Ly...what are you so worried about?”
“Nothing.” She turned her head and lifted it to rest it on his arm, smiling at him. “Nothing at all.”
Oh, this was a long time coming. First part can be found here it’s not necessary to read it to get this one, though. Part of a prompt for Patch about Lavellan and Solas with heavy Rapunzel-y overtones and cute elves in love. Fluffiest thing I’ve ever written and I’m a little shocked I can write it, tbh. Enjoy!
"With freedom, books, flowers, and the moon, who could not be happy?"
— Oscar Wilde
“Are you really the Inquisitor?” A tiny, reedy child’s voice sang out and was answered by Lavellan’s warm laughter and a chorus of nervous giggles from yet more childish throats. Solas paused and took a few stray steps towards where the voices emanated from around the corner, his curiosity getting the better of him. Last he’d seen his vhenan, she had been on her way to seek out Cole and ask him something. Clearly, she’d gotten sidetracked.
“I am, yes. Are you really from Halamshiral?” Ah, that made more sense, then.
“Yes!”
“Well, would you like to know a secret?” Her conspiratorial tone lowered slightly, a chorus of excited childish intakes of breath greeting the suspense before a great reveal.
“Mhmm!”
“So was I for a while.” Solas found himself smiling despite his reservations. He’d rarely heard Lycanae so unguarded as she was in front of these da’len. Nearly no one knew of her relatively brief time spent as a city elf in Orlais after her family was ousted from her birth clan and before she and her brother had sought the succour with Clan Lavellan.
“I miss it sometimes, though it was different when I was a girl. Did you live along...let me guess...le Chemin D’Arbres?”
After the ball and Celene’s assassination, Gaspard had been installed as the puppet emperor. In a clever feat of machination, Lycanae had placed the true rulership of Orlais in Ambassador Briala’s capable hands. Wise despite a coup that would have made any elf foolishly prideful, Lycanae had anticipated that some subtle violence might befall the elves of Halamshiral and had discreetly volunteered Skyhold as a haven for those who wished it and were able bodied enough to serve in some manner. Many had brought their children with them and now there were at least a score of them racing around together at any given time.
“Yes! My mamae says we’re safer here, though.” Solas sighed and stepped into the garden, determined not to disturb Lavellan and her following of children
“Your Mamae is right. One day, I hope to make Halamshiral your’s again, da’len.” An ambitious and beautiful dream to offer them...at least it was not a promise. Solas knelt beside the beds set aside for the apothecary use, hoping Elan Ve’mal was indeed gone on a rare herb finding expedition and not preparing to ambush him from the shadows. It had happened more than once and arguing over the last feeble shreds of embrium was not a fight he particularly relished having.
If only his vhenan were as talented a gardener as she was a diplomat and huntress...she’d resisted Mother Giselle’s attempts to create a Chantry themed place of rest and relaxation and instead fostered the fertile ground growing a wild but useful collection of herbs. The only flaw in Lavellan’s ‘plan’ was that given free reign, the plants were nearly as unruly as her hair tended to be. It made slipping through the undergrowth to actually take cuttings of the useful herbs a process. What has been cannabalising the crystal grace...
“Here, I’m going to get more flowers! Wait here, hahren!” The rustling of a young figure fighting their way through the weeds made Solas turn. A young elvhen girl bounced into view with three compatriots, dark red hair tumbling around her pointed ears in disorderly curls. She was dressed in typical city elf style, though a crude Inquisition symbol had been stitched into the rough blue green fabric of her dress in copper thread. She stared up at him in embarrassed awe for a moment before darting by him to snatch one of the last remaining blue, trumpet like flowers and dashing away again with thorns and briars tearing at her dress.
“Da’len, wait-!” He stood and ventured after her, branches clinging to his clothes as he extricated himself from the disorderly briar patch in pursuit. The Lady Morrigan turned at the child’s approach, brilliant golden eyes fierce even in the light of day, striking a stark and incongruous figure as she leaned against the gazebo amid a gaggle of children. She registered his presence with the strict attention of a protective parent, deemed him no threat and turned her gaze back to the woman who she’d been speaking to; reaching out to brush her son’s hair back from his face in an absent gesture of self assurance. Kieran, was for once as carefree as any of the other children, welcoming the three elvhen children that had fled from Solas with a delighted laugh. But then where was Lavellan if...the woman who had been standing with Morrigan in an elegant dress said something that startled a bark of quick, sweet laughter from the Witch of the Wild’s throat and shifted her stance slightly to glance at the newly arrived children...it couldn’t be…
So used to seeing her in armour or her taupe casual wear and with her hair tucked into a bun, the sight of her in anything else was arresting. His breath caught in his throat and any chastisement he had been about to utter slipped from his mind. Maybe it had just been so many centuries since he saw an elf who had the freedom or reason to dress in finery but then, it was not as though the memories of the glittering palaces and their beautiful elven occupants had faded. Maybe it was just that in a heart stoppingly pure moment in the afternoon sunlight, Lavellan looked like one of them. Like she had stepped through the ages and the distant and bittersweet fabric of time immemorial to be present in this moment. The powerful pulse of recognition and the memories it stirred stopped him in his tracks.
Lavellan swooped down on the little girl who’d stolen the last viable sprig of crystal grace, lifting the tiny form with ease and spinning her around, skirts flaring and their laughter echoing around the garden. Dressed in shades of green and gold and cream, she was a vision of loveliness. And her hair...the gaggle of children surrounding her had outdone themselves.
It was an old tradition amongst the elves that brides wear flowers in their hair. He’d seen it transcend the test of time, surviving in some form amongst the city elves at least. The Dalish, who had little time for ceremonies outside of religious observance and Arlathvhen’s, did not generally practice such a frivolous art. Lavellan was a vision: Crystal grace threaded through the long braid down her back, white tea roses arranged delicately in the braids at her crown, small yellow flowers and a twining, leafy vine tucked and curled in amongst the arrangement and framing her pointed ears. As she held the girl on her hip, the da’len leaned forward and started threading the stolen crystal grace through the coils of gold at her nape, dew touched petals glistening in the afternoon sunlight. Solas covered his mouth to hide the foolish, happy grin that was starting at the corners of his lips.
Lycanae laughed and set down the giggling elven girl, feeling the sun warm her arms and the back of her neck. The dress was something Josie had insisted on, saying that there would soon be more balls and soirees for the Inquisition to attend and that the communal burning of the red pantsuits(She’d rarely seen Dorian so happy to be rid of an outfit...Solas’, on the other hand, had to be wrested from him by an overexcited Sera.) in addition to the release of several new plays in Val Royeaux (entitled things like ‘What Not to Wear to a Ball’ which depicted quite clearly the very same outfit they’d all worn being burned in effigy), had prompted a drastic change in wardrobe.
“I have heard, and correct me if I am wrong, Lady Lavellan-that ball gowns are not common amongst the Dalish. Perhaps just...wear this around and get used to it?”
As soon as Lycanae had set eyes on the dress it had been very clear that it was not some mere practice gown. It had been tailored for her, the fabric and weave and pattern surely extortionate. Gold taffeta and emerald green silk, artfully detailed with just hints and nods to elven fashion. The cream stitching and panels in the subdued skirt matched her skin, complementing each other in a design that while grand, would not draw so much attention as to make her self conscious. The skirt itself could be swept back into a more practical train, gold and green breeches sheathing her slim legs, calfskin boots fine enough to be dressy yet sturdy enough for some light archery maneuvers and sneaking came up to her knees. She’d had a suspicion where it came from and sought out Morrigan, inadvertently acquiring a tiny following of children who’d heard fanciful tales of the Dalish Inquisitor.
That she was Dalish had wowed them anyway, that she apparently strode about a castle of her own in finery yet with a bow and quiver slung over her shoulders was something out of a fairy tale. Frankly, having children idolize her was more flattering and rewarding than all the compliments all the nobility could offer her and she cherished their regard. She answered all their questions as she walked, let one of the youngest take her hand in there’s and walk with her to the garden. The moments of banality were so strange and yet so welcome. It made her feel a part of something again, like a person, to walk with da’len hand in hand and be asked innocent questions and be able to give truthful, innocent answers in return. She was so at ease among them it was probably why she’d acquiesed when a few of the young girls had requested to play with her hair, passing her bow to a few of the young boys to allow them to marvel over it but keeping the arrows for herself.
Thus she’d wiled away the lazy afternoon, thanking Morrigan for the tailor she had suggested. The former Empress’ arcane advisor had hid her surprise at being discovered well and with a graceful smile. You needed something that suited you, Inquisitor...as did I when I first arrived at court. It was a small thing...I would caution you not to tell Leliana but I am certain she already knows. Most unfortunate. Lycanae found herself becoming fonder and fonder of the woman the longer they talked. Morrigan spoke of the Hero of Ferelden, cited their friendship and claimed that she had Mahariel to thank for the birth of her son. The fondness in Morrigan’s eyes when they turned on Kieran was as clear as it was heartwarming to see. It was simple, pleasant, safe as few things had been since she’d woken up in Haven. She was so relaxed she didn’t realise anything was amiss at all, even when Morrigan shifted to a less relaxed stance and glanced over her shoulder.
Turning, Lycanae saw Solas standing across the garden. Not far...certainly no more than a hundred yards, watching her with one hand covering his mouth. His brows were knit together and his stance was rigid and she felt a sliver of anxiety strike at her. Here she was, basking in the sunlight and having let her guard down enough that she was making aimless small talk with Morrigan. She had reports to file, an assault to plan. Important Inquisitorial duties and Creator’s she was wearing a dress with flowers in her hair and looking the picture of foolishness, no doubt.
She felt more than saw Morrigan’s eyes on her as she swept through the pack of suddenly attentive children, approaching Solas briskly. As she did she reached up to start plucking the blossoms free, belatedly realising what an abundance of potion and tonic ingredients the da’len had been decorating her with with dismay. I’ll fix it. It was just an act. I’m the people’s Inquisitor after all I was just playing the part I...the flowers are tangled, aren’t they? Fenhedis-She was so focused on singlemindedly ridding herself of her floral decorations that it took her a moment to realise Solas was smiling.
Smiling? She didn’t know what to do with smiling...was it approval? Mockery? Was there something on the dress that made him smile? Oh Mythal had Morrigan’s tailor butchered some elven dress code and she looked all the more ridiculous for it? This was just-
“Don’t you like the flowers, hahren?” She froze with one hand still at her nape, casting a guilty glance at one of the young elven girls who’d slaved over the arrangement.
“I...of course I do, da’len I just-” Solas gently gripped her wrist, drawing her had down from where it hovered in preparation to dismantle the artful arrangement and she trailed off. Stormy grey blue eyes warmed with fondness for her, his lips quirking into a softer smile as he stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers and she let out a huff of nervous breath she wasn’t aware she’d been holding.
“You look lovely, ma vhenan’ara.” His voice took her breath away and his gaze stole coherent thought from her mind. She was so used to presenting a self assured veneer of confidence and fearlessness in front of everyone but with Solas it just...she truly felt it. Sometimes foolish, sometimes flawed but somehow his approval sent her heart to soaring. Oh, Ghilan’nain’s grace I am a fool… Solas tilted his head slightly, still smiling as he plucked a few blooms of Crystal Grace from her hair. “However, as aesthetically pleasing as these are, I do need them as ingredients.And perhaps, vhenan, you can take some time from your adoring populace to take a walk with me? I would not like to be here when Elan discovers that her plants have been tampered with.” Lavellan smiled as she intertwined their fingers.
Ahhh thanks! Yeah...apparently Weekes says about 33-34 ish. I was looking because I have an interesting little headcanonical backstory nod I wanted to do to her with my early thirties/late twenties Lavellan(so the timelines sink up hell yeah) that I’m proud of.
Writing prompt? Solas and Lavellan. Turns out Lavellan is a super picky eater. Either she's refusing to eat non-dalish meals (cause human food? Gross), or she's missing simply "home food" and a little home sick?
Ahhhh, I’m sorry this is so late! I wrote a bunch on it(and then I was researching stuff) and then I finally just winged it! Also I got a little worn out in the fluff department so this somewhat cracky disaster was the result. My apologies if it isn’t quite up to par <3 I just wanted to post something of the desperate attempt <3 Might actually elaborate on it at a later date when I’m in the zone…
“Humor keeps us alive. Humor and food. Don’t forget food. You can go a week without laughing.” ~ Joss Whedon
“Do you ever eat?”
“Never. Elves don’t actually eat, you know. We’re like plants. We just absorb sunlight directly through our ears and live on that.” Ly cupped her ears and pushed them forward slightly, wiggling her fingers to simulate rays of sunlight. The table roared with laughter, the comment even earning a ‘you’re full of it, yeah?’ from a snickering Sera. Cullen coloured with a slight blush, his rich chuckle offset slightly by his embarrassment at posing the query in the first place.
“I’ve always said elven women took after flowers. I’ve got a Daisy, a Buttercup and…hmm, what flower would you be, Lucky?”
“Oh? I’m getting a floral nickname now?” Lycanae laughed, chasing a few carrots around with her fork in a disinterested, casual gesture as she grinned at the dwarf across from her.
“Oh come now, Varric. I don’t think there’s a way to pretty up ‘the mortal incarnation of rash vine’-” Dorian snorted and thumped down his flagon with slightly more force than necessary.
“Dorian!”
The banter continued uninterrupted, Lycanae charming her way through several topics, her food untouched on her plate. Solas watched carefully, toying with his fork and trying to reacquaint himself with the custom of dining with a group rather than alone as he preferred. Some odd mixture of politeness(never truly his strength) and curiosity had him attending this particular meal. It was a chance to observe dynamics as much as it was an excuse to watch the woman who had been endowed with his mark and upon whose shoulders the hopes and dreams of the Inquisition rested interact with both her companions and the common rabble.
She was polite to the servers and, he sensed, not just because many of them were elven. She had a self-imposed limit of one goblet of wine which she sometimes pretended to sip, giving the impression that she was drinking more than she actually was. She picked at her food but ate only a token amount, merely rearranging the meal on the plate to appear as though it had been consumed. She sat between Blackwall and Cullen this evening and-when the former was preoccupied reaching across the table and making Vivienne’s nose wrinkle with distaste or pouring himself more ale-slipping bits of her food quickly and deftly onto his plate. One would have had to have been utterly focused and free of distractions to notice her discreet meal reshuffling and Blackwall was neither of those things in his continuously voracious and mildly inebriated state. It made him the perfect venue for her subterfuge.
The only question was why? He’d seen her eat, nibble really, at travel rations. Sometimes she’d wander Skyhold, discussing improvements or troops or agents with whomever had decided to dog her steps, all the while snatching bites of a heel of fresh Orlesian bread. If Josephine had noticed the habit(and Solas had no doubt the astute ambassador had) she was remaining neutral on the subject and allowing Lavellan the eccentricity. Solas wondered, as he found himself doing more and more lately, about the true motivations behind the seemingly guileless Inquisitor’s actions.
“Ah. You’re seeing it, too.” The Qunari’s deep rumble wakened Solas from his contemplative reverie and he glanced up at Bull, watching the man take a huge bite out of a turkey leg and wash down the mouthful with a swallow of ale before he spoke again. “I noticed that back in Haven. Boss doesn’t like to eat with the rest of us yet.”
“Yet?”
“Yeah, almost asked you about it before I figured it out. I thought she and Dalish had a thing for each other when I caught them eating together in Herald’s Rest. Dalish told me it was just that Boss was relieved as hell to have a choice about sharing meals with people. Apparently the Dalish have trust issues when it comes to food…like, only eat with your clan and stuff. Says that it’s a good thing Clan Lavellan teaches it’s people to be so polite and used to human customs cause anyone else would have openly complained. Still, guess some old habits die hard.” Iron Bull shrugged his immense shoulders, keeping his voice low so anyone else at the table would have to strain to hear them. Still, Lavellan glanced up from her conversation with Cullen, a brief but appraising look in their direction.
“The Dalish can be an incredibly stubborn and reticent people.” Solas murmured, resisting the urge to roll his eyes a little at ‘Dalish’ custom. Bull let out a loud, booming belly laugh that reverberated across the table, shocking a few people and nearly causing Varric to knock over a pitcher.
“Is something amusing?”
“Oh hell yeah, Solas. I’m going to start calling you two Pot and Kettle. You can be Pot on account of that bald head of yours and she can be Kettle cause of that whistling noise she makes every time you express surprise that the Dalish aren’t complete savages.”
“Yes, well, they’re hardly as bad as your people.” The elven apostate muttered, prickling at the unassailable truth in Bull’s words. Bull did not take offense, merely wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and shook his head, smiling wryly.
“All I’m saying is that at least Boss is making the attempt. Can’t be easy for her stuck leading the Inquisition without anything familiar to cling to. Also, don’t know about you, but Dalish says the fare they serve here is not the ideal elf diet. Overcooked, she says. Could be you and Boss could try and bond over something.”
“We have bonded.” He snapped defensively, shooting the massive Qunari a quelling look. Frustratingly, the man’s grin widened and he bumped Solas’ shoulder lightly with one of his massive fists.
“Oh? Well, maybe boss isn’t hungry for food-”
“Oh! How can you-!? No, not-! We are close friends…” Bull snorted into his ale and Solas scowled. “I’m not explaining myself to you.”
“Suit yourself.”
This is a bit later on, obviously. Post Faded for Her.
“What’s this?” Solas looked up from the map he’d been examining as Lavellan set down the meal before him, looking triumphant and envigorated as she stood in the diffuse golden sunlight of the Emerald Graves.
They were set up in camp, one of the better provisioned one’s now that the Freemen of the Dales had been dealt with. It had been a somewhat lazy day in truth, Lavellan suggesting camp as a way to avoid the midday heat. Then, as was her won’t, she had vanished into a tent and promptly out the other side as stealthily as possible. Solas had contented himself with reviewing their travel plans in preparation for the trek to Elgar’nan’s Bastion, attempting to ignore Cassandra’s grumbling about how unsafe and irresponsible it was to just disappear when you were a public figure and the small pebbles Sera kept bouncing off the back of his skull when she thought he wouldn’t notice. He’d unconsciously taken to erecting a small barrier around himself to allay such harassment and eventually the illustrious Red Jenny had stalked off to find other amusements. Nonetheless, his vhenan’s return-with food, no less-heralded a welcome cessation of banal afternoon activity.
She slid the platter a little closer to him and set down silverware beside it, hooking her foot through a chair leg to drag it over and sit. Solas sniffed lightly at the delicious aroma, detecting rosemary and thyme and the rich smell of venison. Fiddleheads ringed the plate and added an extra touch of delicacy to the preparation.
“Protein. I couldn’t stand travel rations anymore and every single time we get this brought to Skyhold the human cook gets a hold of it before I can and char grills it. Or we end up with arrowheads in the stew.” Solas smiled at the pride in her voice, Lavellan was a Dalish huntress through and through.
“You are…sharing a meal with me?”
Lavellan paused and glanced up at Solas, either surprised by the question or rather by his acknowledgement of the actions significance. She perched herself on the edge of the chair, suddenly wary.
“Is that wrong…?”
“No,” He smiled to ease some of her anxiety, taking up the knife and fork and slicing off a small bite of the side of meat closest to him. Lavellan watched carefully, surprised when he extended the fork in her direction instead of bringing it to his own mouth. “As this is your kill, you should have the first bite.”
“Do you think I did something to it?” She asked with a cheeky smile, spearing a piece on a fork and offering it to him in the same manner. “Here, sharing food is about trust, Lethallin. You-”
“UGH. You two are disgusting! Andraste’s tits it’s just food. Here, gimme.” There was a blur of motion too fast to follow and both Solas and Lavellan lunged up from the small table just in time to avoid Sera as she vaulted over it, snatching the plate and pushing off from the edge of the table and hitting the ground at a run.
For a moment, Solas was simply too dismayed to have any reaction beyond sudden bereavement as he stared at the empty table before him. Lavellan was quicker on the draw…food theft was just not something the Dalish tolerated with good humour, regardless of the saccharine displays leading up to Sera’s interference.
“I…” Lavellan’s expression twisted into something that could only have been described as unadulterated fury. “SERA! COME BACK HERE RIGHT NOW!”
“Elfy idiots say what? You’ll have to run faster than that, Quisitor Ladybits Pointy ears!”
“Vhenan, do not rise to her bait-” Lavellan handed him her fork and quickly pecked him on the cheek.
“Solas, excuse me a moment-”
“Vhenan-” Sera’s thick Ferelden accent cut through his weary attempt to draw Lavellan’s attention away from her prey, cackling manically and hefting the platter of dinner from just past the circle of tents.
“So? You two going to suck face or are you going to come steal back your dinner before I eat it myself, yeah?”
“AR TU NA’DIN!”
“PBBT!! USE ACTUAL WORDS!”
Solas sighed and shook his head. Perhaps he’d forage for some supper for both of them? He doubted Lavellan would be able to reacquire the meal without imperiling both Sera whatever might remain of the steak once it was wrested from her grasp. Beside him, Cassandra stepped up with a dubious look on her face.
“What was that about?”
“Dinner. And a worthy lesson about the dangers of attempting to enjoy it in Sera’s presence.”
A fic for Tamlen and Tamlen/Mahariel shippers. I've been meaning to post this for a while. There was one of those heartbreaking posts about how Tamlen remembers who Mahariel is even through the pain and confusion of being a ghoul and I had to write this....
“Of course, I love you,' the flower said to him. 'If you were not aware of it, it was my fault.”
― Antoine de Saint-Exupéry, The Little Prince
Lethallan.
I remember you.
Through the pain, through the song that consumes me, I remember you. In my memory, you do not look as you are now. You are not gaunt, or hollow, or sorry. You are you as you were before...before everything. The cave, the mirror. You told me not to touch it...that we should go back to camp. Ir abelas, Lethallan. If only I had listened. I cannot remember now why I did not...I think I believed that the Keeper might forgive me. That forgiveness was not worth this, not worth poisoning us with the corruption. This empty shadow life brings a pain that I am glad I have not the presence of mind to tell you of. A hunger that is not hunger, and a force that drives my mind and body. There is agony to it, an agony you never had to fully know.
I carried you from the cave, Lethallan. It was not right that you should die from my mistake. You were so ill...you, who had not even touched the Eluvian. I remember holding you, even though my mind was ravaged by the twisting blackness of the song then. It was a nightmare, Lethallan, but I could stand. You...you were so still and you barely breathed. I bore you from the cave. I wanted to go back to camp, but I could not remember the way. The madness twisted my gut, warped my thoughts. I feared I would hurt you, so I left you. I ran…
The part of me that was not yet lost to the darkness hoped you would survive, that the clan would find you. I am glad that even though the song has left it’s corrupt mark upon you, you live. I am glad, lethallan, that you are not like me.
The song was all I knew for a time. It was one long note of suffering and I forgot myself. I forgot the clan, I forgot even my own name. Even your’s...it is still hard to recall anything save ‘lethallan’. But I kept...pieces. The sound of a bowstring twanging, the smell of pine, the flash of your blade in the sunlight, the soft suede of your gloved hand as you drew me through the woods. I remember your breath, frosting the autumn air. I remember that you were always the quietest, the better hunter...but how you would give me the kills to hold, so that when we entered camp the clan thought it was I who was the successful one.
I remember when Hahren Paivel gave us our vallas’lin...how yours took three days and how you never cried out once. I remember asking you why you had come hunting with me that day. I remember your voice when you admitted it was because you had wanted to be with me.
I remember some things with such clarity that the song can become nothing more than a background dirge. But that is fading. I am forgetting, Lethallan. I am forgetting more and more of myself, I am forgetting these pieces. The sickness has taken my body from me...my very name until you speak it. Tamlen.
The pieces are all I have left...they are my mind, my soul. The song hurts me everytime I try to remember...I am sorry, Lethallan. I cannot last much longer, the pain and the song insists that I must hurt you. Attack you. That you are like me and yet not like me. You are looking at me now, hands raised in a gentling fashion, stepping over the dar’misu that you have dropped. Like I am a spooked halla or a wolf in need of taming. I am neither of those things. You know this. I know this. But still you approach. You say that you wish we had never entered that cave. I wish it, too.
I have always loved you, ma vhenan. Ma da'mi. In all the time we had together, I never said it. It did not need saying, I think. We both knew. How could I not love you? We were always as one, lethallan. Together as children, together as clanmates, together as hunters, together as fighters. We always said we would die together, should the shems come to kill the clan or ill befall us. We did not plan for the cave, for the mirror.
Lethallan. I am so sorry. I am so sorry to leave you again. I tried to so hard to survive for you, the Dalish endure. Suledin. We weather every storm. Vir Adahlen, together we are stronger than the one. But you...you were always the better hunter, I remember. You are strong, you will go on living.
