Senka : "I'll tell you the tale of a charming rogue who stole the heart of a hapless hero."
I've seen a few takes where some interpret Rook's phrasing to mean that they consider themselves hapless.
Cool, cool.
Allow me to divert sharply here: Senka doesn't. Consider herself hapless, I mean.
She knows Lucanis loves to read romances. (She notes every little thing this man does. It is a habit borne of being a Crow. You can't be a good assassin without a focused mind and a meticulous attention to details.) Thus, in this moment she is weaving their love story for him via the "comfort" of her voice using verbiage she knows those books rely on.
Perhaps one day, Sen will even write their tale down in one of those fancy leather journals she came across on the desk in the Wolf's Den.
Solas won't mind. Not that she cares if he does.
Dellamorte and de Riva ... their story in her handwriting, the stark contrasts of black ink on cream parchment... something with a ridiculous title like: "Piccola Morte". [She's not a writer. She's a fucking assassin.]
But it IS something she winds up doing.
For him.
Years later...
"Piccola Morte" By Senka de Riva Dellamorte
Randy Dowager - Four and a half knives deftly sheathed out of five.
Solas finds a signed copy in the Lighthouse years later. To the Dread Wolf... He and Lavellan stay up all night reading it.
Another piece done for r/DragonAge and the Saturday writing prompt thread! This week and last was “one word prompts” but I combined a few of them. Enjoy!
Another restless sigh escaped him as he rolled onto the flat of his back. He laid against sheets that grew steadily colder with each passing hour that another body did not warm them. As they slowly adjusted to the velvet dark, his eyes stared straight up and searched the blackness for recognizable shapes. The gentle curve of the canopy overhead came into focus first, and Hawke fixated on even the most minute details, succumbing to hyperfocus at that moment when sleep evaded his grasp.
Rather than the distinct scent of parchment and herbs filling his senses, the sharp air was empty of such familiarity, strange in its woody, almost mossy smell. Beneath his fingertips, the heavy wool quilt was rough and wrong, lacking in the softness he knew and longed for. It lacked the gentleness of a well-loved coverlet, torn and sewn back together several times over. It was an awkward weight that offered little trade-off and felt too stiff in the way it draped over him. In his ears was the piercing whistle of air carried through cracks in the stone. Not just those within his chambers, but across the battlements just outside the door. Beyond that sound, only roaring silence filled the space where he expected the pop and crackles of a hearth or the muffled snores of a loyal hound. He even missed the vibrating purr of felines nestled somewhere by his head every night.
A misshapen pillow, hugged to his chest until his arms ached, was a poor substitute for the thing he missed most. Especially tonight, when his foolish predisposition towards heroics meant he had almost come so close to facing the void itself.
For a moment, excitement bubbled up in his chest when he mistakenly forgot his next journey was not straight home, but further away. He would once more put himself on the chopping block on behalf of another.
Varric would write, undoubtedly, in spite of whatever bad blood existed between the two men but -
Well, sleep was all but a flight of fancy now. Wyatt pushed the offending blanket to the side so he could get up, bidding his body obey when he met with initial resistance. Though the oversized bed offered no homespun comfort, it held more sway over him than the thought of leaving it.
Bare soles were cooled by the smooth stone beneath them as he stood and evaluated the pitch dark stretching out before him. The flick of two fingers was enough to bring forth light, summoning flame to ignite the candle’s wick, sat on the bedside table. At once, the shadows were chased into the corners of the room with the sudden illumination. As his eyes poured over the space, properly visible now even in the flickering light, they lingered temporarily on the armor stand just across from him. The Champion’s Mantle - so it had been dubbed. There was some pride to be had in wearing it, but also plenty of grim reminders. Briefly, Hawke considered strapping it all on and leaving Skyhold hours ahead of when he planned. After all, the Anderfels were far, and the trip would hardly be pleasant. The sooner he got there and dealt with the Wardens, the sooner he could return home to his warden, his heart and his life…
Maker, the past several weeks had been a challenge, for sure.
On a plainly carved rack beside the door, a dressing robe hung from one of the bare hooks - as did a set of equally lavish-looking slippers. They sat untouched since his arrival, part of some sort of “luxurious” welcome by the Lady Ambassador (or perhaps as a peace offering considering…) and that is where they would yet remain. Wyatt collected his tunic and trousers off the floor, finding his own threadbare attire far more to his liking than whatever resplendent amenities these people tried to foist upon him. He was no honored guest. He was simply a convenience, a temporary ally and one they practically threatened his closest friend to track down.
He did not flee, but he did not lay back down.
Hawke pushed against the heavy wooden door, after stepping into his boots, and emerged from the dim lodgings. Expecting to slip into night, dark as pitch, he was surprised to find a clear sky and battlements lit by a bright moon.
“Hawke?”
A feminine voice coaxed him from thoughts less pleasant than he would like and got his full attention. He couldn’t recall seeing another soul anywhere near when he had initially come outside, but just as well. Some company would do him good, Wyatt supposed.
“Inquisitor,” he smiled at her approach yet did not move to greet her beyond that. If she took offense, it was not immediately evident by the way she smiled back. Her green eyes steadied on him and pulled him into the fade all over again. His stomach turned, but he held his composure.
“Couldn’t sleep?”
Genevieve was a right sort, Hawke had determined in their brief time working together. As two mages, he felt a kinship; but he also appreciated what she was trying to do with the Inquisition. “Something like that, yeah.”
She seemed to mull over his answer, weighing it, judging it, before finally nodding. “Neither could I. Not after - well, you know what happened.” The Inquisitor tore her gaze away from him, growing quiet again while she admired the stars.
He relished the peace, enjoying the silence out here rather than the stifling nothing in the room. A sidelong glance from Genevieve made Wyatt realize he was ungrateful. Though he had not said anything aloud, and she had no way of knowing what his opinions were on the lodgings, he still felt particularly vulnerable under her stare.
The Inquisitor tore her gaze away from him (to his relief) and fell quiet while she admired the stars.
Hawke followed in her example, wondering if perhaps there was something to them, something that she saw where he did not.
I bet you’re still awake, hunched over your desk and scribbling away.
Or are you looking up at the same sky, wondering, praying that I return? Perhaps, you think I’ve abandoned you?
Swallowing was painful; the lump constricting his throat was a far too perfect match for the lead weight in his gut.
“You miss him terribly, don’t you?” Genevieve broke his reverie, and he found himself more than a little puzzled.
He let his weary body lean against the stone wall of the battlements with a posture oddly casual for conversing with such a prominent figure. Not that he was under any impression that the Inquisitor wasn’t just like him in some ways, someone who found themselves inexplicably thrust into a delicate position. One where too many people looked to you for guidance, to have it all figured out…
His facade cracked, and his lips curled into something of a smile. “I’m rather obvious, I see.”
“A bit like a lovesick puppy, but I think it’s charming.”
Wyatt snorted at her, but his smile remained. “Is that meant to be a jab at my heritage, Lady Inquisitor?”
“Only in good fun, I promise.”
The warmth in her tone surprised him, and for the first time since his arrival, Hawke felt at ease. At least, in some small part, despite the ache that he nursed in his heart. It was enough that his mind conjured up the memory of their parting. Though pained as he was to leave Anders behind, it was the breathless passion of a kiss goodbye that lingered at the front of his thoughts. His lips still tingled with the buzz of the fade as his tongue remembered how the other mage had tasted.
Maker, I need you here, now.
For it was not merely his heart that yearned…
“You should write,” Genevieve spoke again, with all the hope of wild youth in her eyes. “When I was in the Circle, in Ostwick, I wrote letters to my family - journals rather - about my day. Every eve before bed, I penned a new entry, just talking about the things that were going on. What I did, what I saw, what we would be doing at that moment if they were with me.”
He listened carefully and hung on every word before replying. “And did it help?” It was an intriguing notion, to say the least.
Something about her expression changed, subtly, but Hawke did not point it out. “A little, yes.”
Drawing a slow, steadying breath, Wyatt stood up straight and faced the Inquisitor. “I should try and get some sleep, but thank you, Inquisitor.”
She laughed, musically and her smile grew. Hawke felt privileged to see her like this, to chat like a pair of old friends. “Please, just Genny. I think you’ve earned that much. Now go, I won’t keep you.”
Right. Genny it was then. “Suppose I have. Alright. I’ll be setting off quite early, so let me say it was an honor, and if you’re ever in Ferelden-”
“May the Maker watch over you, Hawke. Over you both.”
No matter how hard he tried to stay away from her, he was always pulled in. Her sorrow, her fear, her desolation rippled the Fade like a waves on a stormy sea, but they were not what drew him in. It was the hope that bloomed within her breast, the determination and the perseverance that was the siren’s song that he could not ignore.
Was it because he lacked in them, and wished to have a glimpse of them, even if it were not his own?
Night after night he watched her from a distance as her mind spun dreams both heartbreakingly beautiful and terrible. He saw her sleeping mind refuse to accept the loss of an arm; and it cut him deeply, in a place within him he thought did not exist, when the day came where her form in the Fade reflected what it was in the waking world.
It haunted him when he was awake.
When he met with his agents, each time he wondered - would what he planned bring about her end?
Each time he prayed, with a desperation he did not think he was capable of, that she was safe.
How was he to have known that he would find, in this shadow of a world, someone who could banish the loneliness that dogged his every breath?
An enemy can end you, but an ally can betray you. Betrayal is always worse.
Yet for all that he’d done to her, she still believed in him.
She still loved him.
It should have been impossible. That she did, was a kind of madness in itself.
What kind of person would love a monster?
Apparently, she was. A tiny slip of a woman, whose bones he could have broken with just a touch. A woman who constantly defied everything life threw at her. A woman who would. Not. yield.
Even death was hard-pressed to conquer her spirit.
But he - he, who they called Betrayer, he who her kind feared - he had brought her low when countless others had failed.
And amidst all that, she had stood firm and declared, with certainty and strength - var lath vir suledin.
He hoped it would.
He prayed it would.
And each night, as he slept… he was reminded of it, and that reminder was both sweet panacea and bitter agony.
It sustained him.
It soothed him.
And the night when he drifted into slumber and realized, with a finality that numbed him, that she was no longer there…
Isolde takes on more than what she bargained for when she agrees to babysit Cullen’s young nephew for the day. Little Bran has got it into his head that Isolde is a witch, so Isolde decides to tell him the story of just how her hand came to glow green. Let’s just say that some stories are a wee bit too scary for a three year old.
I only just found @dahalloween today so trying my hardest to make up for lost time!
“You sure you’ll be alright?” Those were Cullen’s parting words as he turned at the doorway. Isolde smiled, nodded - she had this… or, well, she thought she did…
It turned out that caring for a three year old was a lot harder than Isolde had first thought. Little Bran Junior was somehow here, there, and everywhere all at once. Isolde soon regretted her decision to volunteer to babysit. She had offered to do so with only the best of intentions, hoping to prove herself a useful part of Cullen’s family. She had instead proved little, other than her inability to keep up with a toddler.
“Get back here, you little monster!” she exclaimed, and she was not exaggerating. Bran was all blonde curls and dimples, but with his father and aunts out at the market with his Uncle Cullen, he was proving to be a nuisance to this newcomer.
She cornered him just about, clambering up the bookcase in the living room, knocking books down as he did so. Isolde caught him easily around the middle, but not before the little brat knocked her on the head with a particularly thick book. One of Varric’s, presumably.
“I told you to get back here!” Isolde grunted, holding the struggling boy against herself. “You’d have hurt yourself.”
“I want Dada!” Bran screamed and wailed. “I want Uncle Cullen! I don’t want you!”
“I don’t want you too!” Isolde snapped - and she instantly regretted it. If he was going to parrot anything she said, it would be that. Plonking the toddler down onto a nearby chair, she took a deep breath and crouched to his level.
“I’m sorry,” she said, slowly. “Would you like a story?”
Bran folded his arms and pulled a face.
“I don’t want a story!” he snapped.
“A cake?”
“No cake!”
“A game?”
That caught Bran’s fleeting attention span. The little boy paused and thought on it.
“Yes, Auntie Izzy,” he said, all blonde curls, big eyes, and dimples again, “but not chess.” He pulled a face again. Isolde smiled at that; she too would happily miss yet another game of chess.
“What game should we play?” Isolde struggled to think of any. She tried to remember the games she played with her siblings before she was sent to the Circle, but she could only remember that one time Fee won hide-and-seek by hitching a ride out of Ostwick and disappearing for days. Hide-and-seek was off the menu then.
“Templars!” Bran exclaimed excitedly. He jumped up off of the chair. “Where’s my sword?”
Isolde struggled to hide her distaste at that: “Let’s play something else…”
Bran curled his lip, but Isolde was adamant. She held his glare easily; it was the toddler who broke first.
“Fine!” he said, eventually. “Let’s play…” But before he could come up with a suggestion, Isolde’s hand began to flare up.
Throughout her long vacation at Cullen’s family home in the Southreach, the Anchor had not bothered her once. Yet the moment she was left alone with a small child, the damned thing woke up again, sending out flares of green light and causing her to have an awful cramp in her wrist.
“Blasted thing!” she snapped, struggling to close her fingers over it. Months had passed since she had defeated Corypheus, yet she was not truly free of his actions. She looked up to find Bran watching her, his mouth agape.
“No, no, no…” she went to say, doing her best to hide her glowing hand behind her back. “That’s nothing! Don’t you worry about it…” But Bran was not worried. He was anything but.
“You can do magic?” he whispered, eyes wide, amazed. “Are you a witch?”
“No! I mean, yes. I mean I’m not a witch... I’m a mage, but that… that’s something else. Did you say you wanted cake before? I swear your aunt Rosalie had some fruitcake leftover…”
“Fruitcake’s gross.” Isolde could not fault his judgement there. “Let me see.”
Isolde kept her hand behind her back, feeling the energy pulsate beneath her clenched fist. All she had wanted to do was make a good impression on Cullen’s family, joining them in the run-up to Funalis. It was not as if things had got off to a good start.
Cullen’s family were polite and kind - but Isolde still felt left out. She wondered at first if it was down to her being the Inquisitor - running an international organisation and defeating Corypheus was a big deal - but, as time went on, she realised it was more down to her being a Marcher than anything. Cullen’s family were Ferelden to the core and there was only as much Mabari hair that Isolde could take.
Matters could not be helped if Bran started spouting out about Isolde practicing magic. Isolde being a mage had not raised any comment among Cullen’s relatives, at least in her earshot, but, from what Cullen had told her, the family had long ties with the Templar Order. She knew Cullen would understand, him having been with her throughout her journey first as Herald then the Inquisitor, but she could not trust his family to be so understanding.
“Bran,” Isolde said, before pausing. She did not have much experience with children - scratch that, she had no experience with children. She had no idea how to explain any of this to a small child, but, looking into Bran’s frank gaze, she realised that there was no way she could talk down to him.
So she sat down onto the chair and pulled him onto her lap. Her hand had stopped making a scene of itself and rested, quietly, by her side.
She explained to him first how she met his uncle, downplaying parts of the story where she thought necessary. How his uncle had helped her fight her way to the temple ruins to fight the Pride demon there and close the rift above it. She explained to him that her hand behaved like that when a rift was close… Bran’s eyes certainly widened at that! But she hastily explained that it also went off for other reasons. Reasons she was not so sure of herself.
She explained to him her time at Haven and then facing Corypheus and his dragon at Haven that wretched night. Bran listened attentively, his little nails digging into her arm, as she told him of her escape through the tunnels beneath the town and how his uncle had found her lost out in the snow.
Next, she told him about Skyhold, having to pause to answer Bran’s sudden pleas to visit. Of course he was welcome to come and stay, so long as his father had no problem with it… Isolde could only hope Branson was better than her at saying ‘no’ to a three year old. She may have had little experience beforehand in child-minding, but she had the sense to know that some stories of desk adventures were not suitable for little ears.
By the time she got to the part where she faced Corypheus in the final battle, Bran could not keep his eyes open, no matter how much he tried to. His eyelids drooped, his mouth opened into a yawn, and, before she knew it, he was fast asleep, his little head resting on her chest.
It was like that Cullen and his siblings found them, Bran still asleep on her lap. Branson thanked her profusely as he lifted his young son from her, while Cullen gave Isolde a hand back up to her feet.
“He wasn’t too much trouble then?” Cullen said, with a sly grin. He had been the one who had tried the hardest to talk her out of volunteering.
“Piece of cake,” Isolde retorted, folding her arms. “Didn’t think that I could do it?”
“I knew you could do it,” Cullen retorted, and he pulled her close to him. It was one of the rare alone moments that they could find in this crowded house of Rutherfords. “The toddler-whisperer,” he teased in a low voice, his breath tickling her lips as he leaned in to...
They were interrupted then by a Branson, arms folded, followed by a red-faced, tear-streaked young Bran.
“I had a nightmare,” he wailed, dragging his blanket behind him. “Cor- Cor-fee-us was coming with his dragon to eat me!”
All eyes in that room turned then to Isolde, who stood, flummoxed, under the combined weight of their appalled stares. Seems perhaps some stories did not make suitable bedtime stories for young children...
Some lil drabble about not-’Manehn for once in my life.
Fiona Cousland seems cold, at first glance. Standoffish, at best, with a stony face to match that regal bearing that makes her seem untouchable.
“Seems” being the operative word here.
Because there is a fire in her that always threatens to break through the little cracks in her skin, the scars from countless battles that wear and tear the flesh and the soul, sundering it a little more each time she must face the most heinous of foes.
A fire ignited when she found her father bleeding on the pantry floor, when she begged her mother to come with her but she remained, resolute and ready to fight to her inevitably bitter end.
This fire has been stoked and fed, at Ostagar, Denerim and Orzammar.
In the Deep Roads and in Redcliffe.
And though it always threatens to engulf her, to consume her until nothing remains, she still stands, regal, prideful, and unbreakable.
And she has found some comfort in the company of those who love her - her brother, her king, her comrades-in-arms, and her people.
Because when the Calling finally comes, the one she now fights to stave off, the looming specter that casts a long shadow over the throne and the Kingdom, she will not go quietly. She will fight to her last bitter breath.
It had started with her origins, her heritage claimed for their Prophet; they ignored who she was - Lavellan of the Dales, an elven mage; that she was everything their Chantry despised they conveniently forgot when the shems realized they needed her.
Then they took her blood, her blood spilled the myriad times she faced down demons and bandits and templars; not once asking how she was, how she felt, content, instead, to patch her up with poultice and potion and send her off to save them again. And again. And again.
Finally, they took her dignity once they realized they no longer needed her; Lavellan, Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste was no longer savior but instead a threat, and so they tried to claim her deeds for their own; when she left Halamshiral, the land that rightfully belonged to her people, she left with nothing but the armor she wore and the staff strapped to her back.
And then… then they took her name.
Inquisitor no longer, she was called betrayer, traitor, enemy; they chased her into and out of forests, slaughtered her clan, took all she cared about away from her. All because she had dared to fall in love with him; because she had given her heart to the Dread Wolf, He Who Would Raze The World, He Who Championed the Elves.
They would not believe she was on their side.
They were but ignorant beasts, who would rip to shreds anything of value in this world.
Fen’harel looked at the woman sitting at the table, her face devoid of all emotions, her hands carefully and meticulously turning over page after page of the book she read. For a moment, he could pretend that she was the Lavellan of old, his Lavellan, she who had vowed var lath vir suledin even as he’d broken her heart again.
Then she turned her face towards him, and he could no longer ignore the dreaded mark on her forehead.
The accursed sunburst pattern.
Lavellan gazed up at him, shutting her book with a soft thud, and rising to her feet to greet him.
“Solas.” Her voice was a monotone; it lacked the melody that it had once carried. “You are back.”
There was no vhenan, no careful running of fingers down his face and chest; no ma lath said chidingly as she traced a fresh scar or a new bruise.
There was only this blank, hollow shell.
“Yes, vhenan.” His voice broke on the last syllable. Clearing his throat, he continued. “Are you well?”
“I have been well taken care of,” she intoned, her face never changing, her posture as rigid and stiff as her expression.
This was not his Lavellan.
The fury bubbled anew in his veins.
They had taken everything from her, left her with nothing, not even herself. And for that, they would pay. They would all pay. Even those who had once been her companions, who had failed her in the moment she needed them the most. They had none of them prevented her Tranquility, and for that they would suffer, as she had suffered, as he had suffered.
When he burned down the Grand Cathedral and turned Val Royeaux to dust, he would take from the shems all that they believed in.
He leaves Lavellan alone on her knees, her heart a churning mess, such a contrast to the peace of the glen. She weeps, and weeps, and touches her face, mourning the loss of her vallaslin even more now, now that she has connection neither with clan, nor with lover. And somewhere in the midst of her grief, there’s an anger that bubbles up - she knows he loves her, she knows he cares, so why did he leave her, does he have someone she doesn’t know about? How could he do this to her, after all the time they’ve spent together? So she pulls herself together, and walks out of the cave, eschewing the safety of the Inquisition camp for an old, abandoned hut because she doesn’t want anyone to see her red-rimmed eyes.
She doesn’t know he watches over her that night.
She returns to Skyhold, alone, and when she walks past the rotunda she finds the door open; automatically, her eyes are drawn inside, and her gaze meets his. He immediately drops his head, his hands fumbling through the many papers on his desk, and it’s such an obvious dismissal, it is a fresh stab to her heart. And it’s incredibly painful and heart breaking, and she spends nights sobbing into the pillows because damn him, she’s not going to give him the satisfaction of seeing her broken, of knowing how much he has torn her apart. So she walks with her spine straight, her head raised high, and there’s command in her voice and strength in her eyes, and no one - save those who know her intimately - knows that she’s actually numb and cold inside.
Oh, but Solas knows. He knows, and it eats at him, claws at his throat till he wants to eat the words that caused her the pain, and it grieves him further because he knows he can’t do it, he’s sworn to a duty, and he thinks this is the only way to protect her.
And then the final hour comes, and his heart is in his throat each time she attacks the darkspawn magister, and he all but forgets about his companions, focusing on keeping her safe, dropping barrier after barrier; she must not be exposed to the power his orb contains, she must not be hit by Corypheus’ corrupted power. Only when Blackwall yells at him for assistance does he reluctantly leave her side, and even then, it doesn’t stop him from anxiously looking over his shoulder when he can. The orb’s power was not meant for a mortal. He knows this, and he will not let himself think of the fact that she is mortal, and that she bears his mark, or that it would some day consume her, because he will not allow that to happen.
The unthinkable happens.
His orb breaks.
And his plans all scatter, like ashes in the wind.
For all the heartache he’s caused her, Lavellan can see how anguished he is over the loss of the orb, and though she doesn’t understand why, she cannot bear to see him so desolate, and comforts him with her words, distressed that she cannot do so physically.
“What we had was real,” he tells her.
But he leaves her anyway, abandons her mercilessly a second time. Once more she’s thrown into the ocean of misery and heartbreak, and this time the currents are stronger, the waves stronger, and they threaten to overwhelm her, to pull her under until she drowns.
She wakes up one morning, her head pounding, the taste in her mouth sour from the copious amounts of alcohol she’s imbibed; her hair is tangled and knotted, her eyes are red, and she cannot remember the events of the previous night.
When she sees her reflection in the mirror, the remnants of her pride pull her together. She is Lavellan, First of her Clan, Herald to the shems, savior of Thedas, and she has been through too much for her to fall apart for a man, for a man who could abandon her so callously, not once but twice.
So she perseveres, pressing ahead, dealing with life like she always has, ignoring the hole in her heart that cries out for him. She is ruthless in her efforts to get over him; his murals in the rotunda she has covered with curtains; his room is cleaned out and redecorated, the remains of his personal items either donated or thrown away.
She keeps his books, and his notes.
She keeps the amulet that hung around his neck.
She keeps his clothes, pulling them out late at night, long after Skyhold is asleep, clutching the lambswool to her chest and inhaling the scent of him to comfort and ground her.
She is not glass, easily broken; she is diamond, strengthened by pressure, polished by pain.
And when she meets him again, after two long years, she does not run to him. She does not fall to her knees and sob. She stands as she always has, straight and proud, ignoring the pain in her arm and the pain in her heart as he - once again - brings her heartbreak.
But then he kisses her; and damn him, damn him, because that breaks her defenses, lays her bare open before him once more, and when he turns to leave her - her heart and hand wholly in his clutches - yet again, she rises to her feet, stiffens her spine, throws her head back. Her voice is loud, clear and commanding.
She walked through the dark, ominous forest, the trees looming menacingly over her. The ground was covered in sharp thorns that tore and shredded her skin; but not once did she flinch, or show any sign of pain.
She’d done this so many times it had become familiar.
The woods gave way suddenly to a cold grey light, leading her to a cliff’s end. She sat at the edge, her feet swinging freely as she stared into the blackness of the void beneath her, deep and neverending.
And she waited.
A familiar rustle told her that he had found her.
Tonight, unlike all those nights in the past, she did not turn her head to look at him, nor did she try to call him to her.
She knew it was futile.
Instead, she began talking, almost to herself.
“I should hate you, you know,” she began conversationally. “You’ve turned me into this horrible shell of a person. I should be angry. You lied to me for years, even as you told me you loved me. You broke up with me just days before we faced Corypheus... I had half a mind to die with him, did you know that? You knew that the Anchor would kill me, but you waited two years before doing anything, and then you took my arm - to save me, you said, even as you battered me with the truth after the ordeal I had just faced - and you crippled me, both mind and body. And let’s not even get started on your insane plan to destroy this world. Yes,” she mused, “by all rights, I should hate you. If I were a sane person, I likely would. But,” her breath hitched on a sob, “I can’t. I’ve tried, believe me I have, but how can I hate someone who has been a part of me?”
The tears were running freely down her face now. “Do you remember how we used to argue in Haven, when we were getting to know each other? We’d outside your hut, on the wall outside, and you told me stories of the Fade. I was never cold, even though I should have been, because I didn’t realize you had were keeping me warm.” Her lips quirked into a half smile as she relived the memory. “When Haven fell, and I trudged through that blizzard, all I wanted was to see you. One last time, I thought to myself, if I just see your face one last time I can die happy. I should have known then that you were trouble.” she laughed mirthlessly.
“Do you remember all those times you would come up to my room in Skyhold and help me with all my reports? I hated them, I thought they were boring and useless but you patiently sat and guided me through them. And what about that time when I was practicing my magic, and I accidentally hit you with my stonefist? I thought you’d be angry, but you just smiled, and then froze my feet to the ground so you could pelt me with snowballs.” She sniffed. “I think I miss that the most. I miss touching you, I miss the feeling of your calloused fingertips on my face, I miss not having your warmth surrounding me when I sleep. It’s been years, vhenan, and still each morning when I wake up I reach out for you, and still each morning my heart breaks anew when I find you missing.. But more than that, ma sa’lath, I miss just being around you. Curling up to you on the sofa while we each read our books. Or all those times you would be sitting on your scaffold, painting, while I sat next to you and tried to distract you. Or when we would sneak out of Skyhold, to that cave nearby, and eat frilly cakes and drink the expensive Orlesian wine.”
“How can I hate you,” she whispered, “when I know how it feels to have your heart beating against mine? When I have seen you shed tears over a wound I received? How do I hate the man who has, a thousand times over, healed me even at the cost of remaining injured himself? Where will I find another who can kiss me the way you used to?”
She sighed, and rested her hands on the ground for support. “Sometimes I wonder if I should just take your advice, my love. To go back to my clan and live out the rest of my days. Maybe even find a partner I can tolerate, and have a family.” She swallowed the lump in her throat. “I wanted that. With you. I’ve pictured, a hundred thousand times, spending the rest of my life with you vhenan’ara. We’d have a place to ourselves, just you and I, tucked away in the forest. We would read, and you would paint, and we would hunt together. And we had children,” her voice was filled with pain and longing, “twin girls who had your eyes and my smile, and a baby boy who looked just like you. You doted on them all,” her heart was splintering, “and one night, when the girls accidentally set fire to their favorite toy as they were fighting over it, it was you who remained calm and soothed them. I was too busy trying to put the flames out and celebrating,” she chuckled. “You were so patient with them, always. And you argued, a lot, with Dorian about how to teach them. And the number of times you would sneak them sweets even after I’d punished them!” her tone was fond. “They had you - and I - wrapped around their little finger.”
Behind her, the wolf howled, long and mournful and yearning.
“I don’t know how much longer I can go on, Solas,” she confessed. “I’m trying. I am. But it’s getting harder for me to get out of bed each morning. I come here each night,” she stared into the void again, “and every part of me wants to jump in. To let myself go, and just... not feel. It would be a relief...” she looked down at it, mesmerized. “Such a relief...” she murmured, and leaned forwards, closing her eyes and waiting for the inevitable fall.
It never came. Instead, she was pulled backwards, a firm grip tugging at her clothes. She found herself flat on her back in the middle of the cave at Crestwood... where he had broken her heart - and she jumped up to her feet, backing away from the wolf who stared longingly at her. “This is cruel, Solas,” she sobbed. “Why would you bring me here? Why won’t you just let me fall? It would help you, wouldn’t it? You would have no one to stop you!”
The air shimmered, and the man she loved stood before her. Her eyes roved over his face hungrily, drinking in every detail; it had been so long, and she was so parched.
“Vhenan,” he pulled her into his arms, and she wept, relishing his warmth and the scent of him. “You promised me, did you not?” His lips brushed across her forehead reverentially, his thumbs brushing away her tears. “Var lath vir suledin,” he reminded her. “You swore to me. Would you break your promise?”
“And I will,” she said quietly. “Always. But I can’t go on, Solas. I am so tired...”
He kissed her, softly, gently, his need for her greater than even hers for him at that moment. “What can I do to help?” he asked.
“Come back to me,” she replied promptly, and he chuckled. “That I cannot do,” he said regretfully, “nor will I allow you to walk the path I have started.”
“Then come to me in the Fade, if you will not in the waking world,” she countered. “Let me be with you each night.”
He looked torn.
“Please,” she pleaded. “Ma lath, you give me strength to keep going. Would you deny me this?”
He sighed in resignation, the temptation too great for him to ignore. “Very well,” he promised. “I will meet you in the Fade every night, vhenan.”
“Promise?”
“I promise,” he kissed the tip of her nose. “Now, however... you need to wake up.”
When she opened her eyes, for the first time in three years her heart was not heavy.
