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After hours of questioning, Solas is at last permitted to see the infamous prisoner that all Haven wants to see dead.
Shackles rattle in his ears, bruising pale wrists. Sitting in camp they were easy to forget with their weight settled in his lap, but walking through the Chantry dungeon they are impossible to ignore. With each step they ring, tolling like bells before an execution. Every pair of eyes in Haven turn cold when they lay upon him, sharpening their fears to a pointed end. He is an elf, an apostate; he is everything they want to blame, guilt decided before he had spoken a word.
That they happened to be right is a matter of luck, not rooted in sound reason.
Cassandra had seen that, eventually, but they live on borrowed time, and every instant spent questioning him brought them closer to the point of no return.
The soft glow of candles dim as they lead him through the prison. With each step he takes he walks deeper into a trap he has little chance of escaping. The guards who surround him keep one hand upon the hilts of their blades, their armour engraved with flaming swords, the heraldry of an Order sworn to cage those like him. A year spent avoiding them, and now he plays into their hands. He clenches his hands into fists, fingertips touching his palms. The magic dancing in his veins reminds him they have taken nothing from him yet. He breathes in, but cannot taste the fear in the air, not even his own. A world unsympathetic to its own doom.
“She’s through here,” Cassandra grunts as they stop before a heavy wooden door. The jailer flips through the keys and pauses at a rusted one, larger than the rest. Solas makes note of it, eyes sliding away before he is caught staring.
The door opens to a room lit with but a single flame. Until, that is, the Breach shudders. It is as though the whole world breathes in, the fabric of reality presses against him, an invisible hand that pushes against every organ, and then— the release. Above, the sky trembles, and the room floods with light. Solas moves to cover his eyes, shielding them from the bright green that illuminates every corner of the dungeon. He hears vermin scurry, fleeing into nooks and crannies, and between his fingers he sees his first glance of the prisoner.
She seems impossibly small inside the cell, though perhaps anyone would when contrasted with the Mark. As the light fades, the air hisses with a din that threatens to tear the world asunder, silhouetting her crumpled form. She lies like the dead, though if he strains his ears he can hear the sound of shallow breathing.
Her hands are bound, as well.
“Does the Chantry often jail corpses?” he asks.
The jibe earns him a sour look. “She isn’t dead,” Cassandra retorts, “and there is no telling what danger she may pose.”
“She will be soon.” Solas extends his wrists out, the keyholes pointed to the turnkey. “I will need both hands to examine her.”
He notes how she hesitates, the eyes behind her helmet moving between his before she looks to the Seeker for orders. “He is right,” she says, nodding her head towards him. “Release him.”
Another key is produced, smaller and clean of red rust. As she fits it into his lock, he goes still, holding his breath until it clicks open. The shackles clatter to the floor, ringing of false freedom. Solas rubs his hands, shaking the memory of restraint away from his wrists. Already pink circles cut where he was chained, rubbed raw by the metal. Time will heal them, assuming they have enough to spare. His magic will be put to better use.
Blue eyes flicker towards his jailers, head bowing with shallow gratitude. “Thank you.”
“Do not thank us yet,” Cassandra warns. “Will you be needing a light?”
“If that will comfort your soldiers,” he says, elven eyes flashing red as their corners catch the candlelight. The look she gives in return is one of unease, and he is forced to turn his face to hide the self-satisfaction in his expression. These past few days have had few bright spots, and he will revel in the small victories whenever he is able.
“Light a brazier, see that he does not toil in the dark.” As the room grows brighter one lamp at a time, the turnkey slips around them, unlocking the door to the prisoner’s cell. She holds it open just long enough for him to pass through. He knows what will come next, but jumps nevertheless when it slams shut behind him. Alarms raise inside his head, every instinct begging him to retreat the first opportunity he’s afforded, but he pushes past them. This is not the moment for distraction, he thinks, a counted breath filtering slowly through his lungs as his mind refocuses upon the task at hand.
He approaches with caution, feet soft against stone. In spite of his belittling remark, he cannot fault Cassandra for her caution. Even knowing the origin of the Anchor he is wary, uncertain of what it has become now, and how dangerous it may be. The Breach reaches out and he braces himself for the response, shielding himself from the blaring light. In one hand a barrier manifests, containing the wave of magic that follows. His teeth grit together, the spell’s scope narrowing, smaller and smaller, until it encompasses the prisoner’s left hand alone. Green magic retreats back into her palm, the strained look upon her face settles to an uneasy rest.
The immediate danger has passed, but his heart hammers behind his ribcage faster than before. The key to his plan lies within his grasp. The focus is still lost to him, broken or buried beneath the remains of the temple, but this— this is his to reclaim. His mind goes blank as he turns her palm to face him, a millennia of waiting finally at its conclusion.
He calls out with his magic, will manifesting past his physical form. Fingers no longer end at his nails but reach with threads invisible to the eye to touch the center of her hand. The Anchor reacts, its discordant song suddenly harmonious, the ripple of energy flowing from its heart passes over him like waves on the shore. Its current bearer moves in her sleep, pain contorting her expression. She whimpers and turns, trying to wrest herself from his grip, perhaps sensing his ill intent.
A drop of pity stalls him. He can feel her heart beating where he holds her, the tempo aligning with his own. For the first time since he has knelt beside her, he truly looks at her face. Her skin is ashen, hair brittle as the dark ice that clings to the corners of the dungeon’s walls. A striking white brand is stamped upon her right cheek, marking her as alike and apart from others of her kind. She is broken, she is haunted, she is doomed. This is mercy, he tells himself as the Anchor responds in kind to him, like the rhyming couplets of a poem’s final lines. Her breath rattles in his throat as though they breathe through the same tired lungs. The heartbeat hammering against his fingers flutters, then stops.
This is mercy.
The Mark flares. The world shudders around her, and the shout that rips the air may be his or hers. Pain lances through him, every scar on his arms stings as though they’re new, time bleeding through the cracks where he had touched his past.
“What happened?” He forgets the name the voice belongs to until her shadow falls across him from outside the cell. The harsh edge to Cassandra’s line of questioning softens as her hand curls around the prison bars. “Are you unharmed?”
“Yes.” Solas answers the easier of her two questions first to buy himself time. He nurses his hand against his chest, fingers trembling despite his efforts to contain them. He sees the prisoner’s chest rise and fall with new breath, hand glowing dully at her side. “The magic at play here resists study, it seems it does not wish to be known.” In the grave where his hope now lies a bitter rage rises. It tremours around his every word such that it might be mistaken for pure nerves. He allows that impression, and there is truth in it, as well. Before Cassandra’s hands reached for the bars, they had first wrapped around the hilt of her blade.
“But you are an apostate,” the Seeker says, her words meant to serve as both motivation and accusation, “it is your nature to study that which we who fall within the purview of polite society would not.”
His tongue lifts to the roof of his mouth, curbing any smart remark that might tempt fate. “I will try again. There are other options, and no defense is impregnable.”
Cassandra seems to accept his answer, arm falling to hang loose at her side. “So long as one will produce results.” A sentiment spoken only as an implicit warning of what will happen if he fails. Execution seems pointless, near as they are to the end of the world, yet he feels a chill as he turns back to the work he was tasked with. The prisoner had looked small on her approach, and yet as he knelt over her near-lifeless form, he felt no larger than she.
And no more helpless.
This power was his to wield, once. It had recognised him, reached out to him, but fixing whatever accident that anchored it to this prisoner lay beyond his present ability. Hardly a surprise, else he need never have involved Corypheus at all, but the revelation rankles nevertheless. Choking back his pride, he takes up the prisoner’s hand again, prying open the fingers clenched tight with pain. With his eyes he follows the lines in the palm of her hand, tracing them to her tendons where blue veins bulge beneath her skin.
He wonders if it recognises her, too. Does the Titan’s heart that birthed the focus remember its sun-touched children, or does it see only the same shadows on the wall as him?
Her pulse flutters at his fingertips, a countdown to their doom, and although he cannot stop it, he can delay. Folding his hand over hers feels like a surrender. This world will live to see another dawn, and his— his People’s— will wait for another morning. Another day. The frantic heartbeat soothes and slows, and her breath condenses in the air, calm at last. The Anchor thrums, unrelenting, straining against the barrier that manifests in the space where he pulls back his hands. It will not rest until the Breach is sealed, he suspects.
Nor will he.
This was posted for @unofficialdragonageday 2021. I may expand this oneshot into a multi-chapter fic sometime in the future, as this period of Solas' narrative is endlessly fascinating to me, and there's a lot about this fic that I think would work better with more set-up. Until that day, consider this a teaser, I suppose!
So for DA Day I wanted to post a little drabble I wrote about my Hawke named Wyatt and his "first" kiss with Anders. It's not their first first, but the one that changes everything and finally marks the beginning of a long, and beautiful relationship.
HAPPY DA DAY FANDOM! Never stop creating amazing things!
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I want you to leave me breathless! Thrill me and send me to heights I've never been!
The lines repeated over and over in his mind, and no matter how tightly he shut his eyes, Wyatt could see the words jumping off the page every time. Confound Isabela for teasing him with that damned book. Where she even found it amongst his library, he had no idea. He didn't have as much time to read as he might have liked these days and tawdry romance titles weren't exactly his first pick. It was just as possible she'd snuck it in there herself some months ago and forgot, only to find it again and take immense joy from the discovery.
Fortunate as he was, his guest for the evening hadn't noticed that Wyatt was distracted. Drawing a controlled breath through his nose, he opened his eyes to look at the man, bedecked in fine silks, with his neatly combed blonde hair and deep-set brown eyes. His nose wasn't right, his eyes too dark and too wide, but he was about the same height, with a comparable build, if perhaps a touch too full and too straight. Wyatt searched his face for the familiar freckles, the glint of blue somewhere in the pools of honey, or of the telltale creases at the corners of his eyes every time he smiled...
But they were not there. And this man was not Anders. He was but a feeble attempt to distract himself from what he really wanted. It hadn't even been planned, either, that he found a thin, fair-skinned blonde to give his attention to. No, it hadn't even occurred to Wyatt what he'd done until just a while ago. Fixating on the nobleman's lips, far too thin and entirely the wrong shape, Wyatt still imagined reaching out to touch, to drag his thumb across them, parting them gingerly while the other hand found purchase on the healer's hip…
No. It was pointless being here. Who was he fooling? Not even himself, apparently. "I'm really sorry, I- you should go. Again, really sorry. I'm sure you're great but-" his only offering was a self-conscious grimace, but the man seemed hardly perturbed. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and sauntered off, exiting the manor gardens through the back gate leaving Wyatt to slump against a pillar with a listless sigh.
"Hawke?"
That voice was like lightning dancing across his thoughts, sending a chill racing down his spine. Immediately he straightened and looked around wildly. "Anders? What are you doing here?" His eyes followed the mage, who stared back with some reluctance while stepping lightly like a cautious cat uncertain of his surroundings.
"I er- well, I came to return, um- Well your mother said you were out here," Anders floundered over his answer, yet remained rooted to the spot and continued to stare overlong. The light from the hanging lanterns reflected in his eyes, and for a moment, they were like liquid gold. Shadows played across his face, highlighting the slope of his nose, clusters of freckles, even accentuating the sharp edge of his jaw.
Wyatt swallowed hard and supped on the feast for the eyes that was the man in front of him. Drawing breath became a task with which he struggled until Anders finally spoke up. He crept closer now, glancing around the gardens with intent to find something. "Was someone just here?"
With a shake of his head and two short strides, Wyatt bridged the gap between them. Instinctively, his hands reached to cradle either side of the healer's head, and he smoothed his thumbs over pale cheeks, now flushed with color. "There's no one. No one but you, Anders. We've been dancing around this for too long."
"Hawke-Wyatt, I don't- you don't want someone like me. Surely there are plenty of handsome nobles, men who are far more deserving of your kindness, who wouldn't bring down yours and your family's reputation-"
"You are beautiful, and perfect-"
Anders didn't pull away; even when their foreheads met, he only closed his eyes tightly, as if trying to hold himself back from something and made a noise of protest in the back of his throat. "I am far from perfect, Wyatt. I'm not at all worthy of your sweetness, your attention…but I would be lying to myself if I said I didn't wish that I was."
"Then don't. Don't lie, be honest. Would you want this? Because I cannot imagine myself with any other man but you." His answer came in a kiss, in lips that pressed themselves suddenly against his own, a tongue that passed between them and wiry arms that grabbed at him possessively. Wyatt acquiesced, releasing Anders' face to sweep him up and balance him precariously against the side of the manor where they molded into one, kissing and gasping. All of their previous kisses had been fleeting. They were tests, tentative little experiments, or quick exchanges shared in shadowed corners when desire became too much and overrode all logical thought. They were not like this, never so deep and demanding for more, so perfectly natural that it was anyone's guess why it took them so damned long to get here.
thanks for the tag @retrowondergirl ! <333 heres a couple wips, very slowly jumping around working on them!
✧ lady inquisitor zelda trevelyan, fresh-faced, eager to bring hope to the downtrodden masses;
✧ a tainted herald zelda trevelyan, post-trespasser (ive been in love with her for a little while, oops), leader of the reborn cult of andraste, bringing the benevolence of the Maker's light to the sinning masses (ive started lineart on this one!);
✧ and a young kyneus and jowan, shit talking uldred after their illegitimate instruction
i invoke the age-old "youre tagged if u wanna do this!" :)
#dday #daday2021 D Day plus 77 years (at Omaha Beach- Normandy, France) https://www.instagram.com/p/CPyCJhHrnn3y4tfBl1tDv1b4b_M6uBt5fkrzkU0/?utm_medium=tumblr
