Frescoes and Lullabies
This was a prompt given to me by @queergaymer, to use “So it was you.” So, Solavellan~
Note: The lullaby they sing is the one that’s featured at the bottom of the Elvhen Language wiki page. It’s also a poster on my wall lol
Solas hums to himself as he works on his newest fresco depicting the debacle at Adamant. It’s grown late in the night, only the squawking of a handful of ravens high above him and the occasional footfalls of the night patrol passing outside his door to keep him company. The plaster is stubborn tonight, doesn’t want to take to the colors he wants, but he’s always been one to enjoy a challenge and the monotony of the constant mixing allows him time to ponder the events of the Fade. (In hindsight, it’s perhaps due to his preoccupation that the plaster won’t do what he wants.) But he finds comfort as he always has in watching the way the plaster swirls so thickly in its bowl as he lazily drags his stirrer through it. And so he hums. He hums songs long forgotten by this world, melodies sung by lovers lying lazily in bed, lullabies sung by tired parents to infants who won’t quiet, jaunty songs shared drunkenly around the fire.
The plaster lays easily upon the wall once he has the colors set, and eventually the humming turns into soft singing. After all, there’s no one awake to be bothered since even Dorian had retired to an actual bed earlier that night. He does not get carried away, but as the hours pass by, he does allow himself to raise his voice a little more, and he loses himself so far in his work that he does not hear the soft footsteps passing behind him, does not feel the endearing nor the vibrant green eyes watching his hands move across the wall.
She makes no sound, not wanting to distract him from his work, and he does not take notice of her even after the light of dawn breaking through the windows jars him out of his trance. With a stretch and a yawn, he leans back to admire his work then blinks in surprise when his hand brushes against a plate of food sat beside him. It’s long since gone cold, leftover roast and vegetables from the dinner he’d missed that night, but the bread is still soft and sweet-smelling. His stomach growls its displeasure at him, and begrudgingly he sets his tools down and eats.
When he climbs down the scaffolding at long last and stretches, he is alone again, his mysterious benefactor having taken their leave it would seem. He does not ponder it much further, exhaustion guiding him to his sofa into which he slumps and slips into a deep sleep.
This continues for the following week. Solas stays up well beyond what he considers comfortable, hard at work, she comes to watch him and bring him food, and by the time he’s finished she’s gone.
It’s the sixth night in a row that he finally discovers who has been watching over him. He’s singing again this night, softly because he suspects Leliana is still working in her alcove, but he’s singing. She’s been there about an hour already, watching him with her gentle smile as always, but she can see that he’s beginning to grow tired. His voice has been a little hoarse from these past nights, but tonight it’s softer, more reserved, and he pauses frequently to yawn. As quietly as she has previously, she slips from his desk and makes for the door, until a familiar tune reaches her ears and halts her steps. Her smile which until now had been gentle and amused grows upon her face into a soft grin, and she turns to look up at him.
The song is a lullaby favored by her Hahren to soothe the younger children and babies in the clan. Her steps are silent and her movements fluid as she makes her way up the scaffold, and she sits delicately on the edge, looking at the art that he’s already completed. “…ara ma’nedan ashir. Dirthara lothlenan’as, bal emma mala dir—” His words hault as her voice joins his, and he looks over at her in surprise.
She turns a warm smile to him, her nose crinkled, and his surprise melts away into a warm smile of his own. His hand, stained with the dyes of the plaster, reaches over and settles atop hers as he picks the tune back up with her. “Tel’enfenim, da’len, irassal ma ghilas, ma garas mir renan. Ara ma’athlan venas,” and he leans in, places a soft kiss to her temple, squeezes her hand before he finishes in a low, honey-smooth tone, “Ara ma’athlan vhenas.”
Vikara smiles at him, a soft blush dusting her cheeks, the same light pink as the vallaslin upon her left eye, and she reciprocates his kiss with a quick peck to his nose. He chuckles at it, wiggles his nose in response, and leans back to observe her. She knows she looks tired, having not slept more than a handful of hours this past week, and she can feel the concern with which he takes in the bags under her eyes, the dullness of her hair, but he does not comment on it. Instead, he looks down at the plate of food she’d brought earlier. “So, it was you. I might’ve known since I know of no one else who insists upon staying up all night,” he teases.
She giggles softly, looks back over at his other works. “I heard you singing, came in to talk but you looked so at ease.” She blushes, the tips of her ears darkening, too, as she adds, “I liked watching you work.”
He reaches over and tucks a stray hair behind her ear, brushes his knuckles along her cheekbone. “I appreciated the gesture,” he whispers. As she smiles, he slips his hand around to the other side of her face and gently pulls her to look back at him. “Next time, though, you might stay and talk with me instead.”
She turns her cheek into his hand, lets her eyes close for a long moment, and sighs contentedly. “Well, if you insist.”
He chuckles and moves some of his stuff around to accommodate her better. “I just might. I always enjoy your company, vhenan.”
She settles in, close enough to feel his warmth but not too close as to disrupt his work. “Far be it from me to disobey my elders.”
He lets out a chortle and shakes his head, an amused smirk upon his lips as he goes back to his work. “Oh, no, Vikara of Clan Lavellan is the epitome of obedient,” he teases, bringing another giggle from her. After a long while, he glances at her and nudges her knee. “Tell me. Where did you learn that song?”
She hums and pulls a knee up to rest her elbow upon it. “It’s my Keeper’s favorite lullaby to sing to the children,” she explains, and he tilts his head as he thinks over her words.
In a rare burst of sincere curiosity, he nudges her again. “Tell me more of your clan, vhenan.”