For the DADWC: Fireflies and cicadas.
thank you! A little melancholy for @dadrunkwriting
Fandom: Dragon Age. Words: 366
Iwyn Lavellan x Solas | Post Trespasser | angst Rating: Teen. Melancholy, a tad angst, reference to sex
Oranges
The air on her balcony is cool against Iwyn’s skin, crisp inside her lungs. The sunrise colors the mountain peaks pink, the everlasting snow glowing in the morning light. It’s always cold here, no matter the season, far enough above the Skyhold courtyard and it’s unnatural warmth.
Once, on a quiet evening in the Tavern, they’ve talked about summer. In the Marches, the summers can be warm and sticky, but Iwyn’s clan always move to the summer pastures in the mountains. She hasn’t experienced real heat, other than the awful deserts on the Orlaisian borders. Cassandra had told Nevarra was much the same, acrid, sand blowing through deserted streets and stinging your skin.
But later, when she’d had another beer, she’d also told of warm nights, her fingers sticky with dates she’d shared with her brother.
Josephine told of Antivan ports in the summer, the streets alive with street theater, the air scented with oranges and cicadas singing all night. Iwyn hasn’t heard cicadas, and she only had an orange once at the market in Wycome. Dorian said cicadas and fireflies were in the countryside in Tevinter, but the noise and lights of Minrathous drowned them out. He told of evenings where the warmth of the day lingered and darkness fell swiftly, chased away by thousands of magical floating orbs of light.
Solas said very little, only that he was used to both warm and cold climates. Later, when they were alone, he offered to show her the North in the Fade – oranges and dates, fireflies and cicadas. She loved every bit of it. They often went there, holding hands in olive groves while the fireflies danced, kissing in the dark heat until their need took them to the real world.
She hasn’t found him in fade, not yet, and her attempts to do so often leads to snow-filled fir forests and howling wolves.
Most days, though, she can’t really control the fade.
Most days, she can’t really remember her dreams, but she remembers the cicadas singing, and wakes with the scent of oranges in her nose. Those days, like today, she throws the doors open, and breathes the cold, crisp air until her lungs burn.