It is insane! And of course I fell for the most toxic ship. Joan and Vera. Ugh. Anywho, current hyperfixation. So, I’ll be drawing a lot of silly things from the show as well as all the other characters. I really do love Bea and Franky. Boomer and Liz. Doreen.
Helloo just wondering if there was any wentworth fans who live in Illinois they have a con coming to Chicago and i literally don't know anyone who's a fan. I would love to make a friend or even a group of friends to meet up with there!!
Been seeing these mashups going around and kept meaning to send you some! How about "fake dating" + "time travel"?
Thank you so much, I loved these tropes and I had to write something out. It took on a life on its own, and I’m sorry it took so long.
A strange object sends Solas and Iwyn Lavellan back in time, right into a situation neither can control.
next chapter || read this ao3
Iwyn Lavellan x Solas | Post-Crestwood | romancerating: teen, time travel, fake dating, awkwardness, arlathan
Temporal Arrangements, chapter 1
Solas is up front, his back silent and broad. Iwyn halfway regrets her decision to bring him, but the notion is childish. He is the best choice for this mission. They need to investigate an overlooked item in Dirthamen’s temple. A scout had found it, sketched it, and said they didn’t want to touch it because it ‘glowed angrily’. A wise choice, probably.
Now, the scout is leading Solas, Dorian, Cassandra and herself through the labyrinth of rooms to somewhere they had missed on their earlier visits. Cass had sent her sympathetic looks earlier, when they had made camp. Dorian had been talking the whole way, trying to cheer her up. She appreciated it, but she is thankful he is silent now. Him and Solas can look at the item, spend the whole afternoon discussing it, then they can go back. Hopefully it will be worth their time. Hopefully Dorian and Solas will not need longer than an afternoon.
“Here it is,” the scout says a little later. They all crawl through the hidden door, and true enough, inside rests a strange object on a small pedestal. She agrees with the scout, it looks angry, all edges and an unsettling purple glow. She can smell the magic too, bitter like burnt mushrooms.
“Fascinating. I have not seen this kind of magic in a long time…” Solas takes a step forward and reaches for the object. The smell intensifies, and the magic grows. It is fast, or maybe she is slow. Dorian yells. Cassandra draws her sword. The violet tendrils reach for Solas, for his hand, twining up his arm. He flickers. He screams, or maybe she is the one screaming as she grabs him and tries to pull him back. Then the magic hits her, consumes her, but she doesn’t let go.
When she finally can see again, when the pain in her arm has faded, she is not in the muck of the broken temple. She is in hallway, lying ungracefully on top of Solas. There is music somewhere and the air is cool. Above her, floating lamps cast a soft glow on the midnight blue drapes.
Solas’ clothes are fine, silk and gold and soft furs. Nothing like the rough clothes he usually wears, and nothing like the armor she still wears. Water from the derelict temple is still seeping through her boots. Beneath her, Solas’ chest is broad, solid and close. It feels like home, and it’s the last thing she should think about. She scrambles to her feet, and Solas follows. His eyes dart everywhere, panic and a strange recognition in his gaze.
There is a murmur of voices and clinks of glasses and footfalls and the rustle of fabric from the doorway to the left. The sound of people, many of them. She keeps her voice low.
“Where are we? What happened?”
“I’m sorry – I must act quickly.”
His magic washes over her, cool and clear and somewhat different than usual. Her armor disappears and she is dressed in an white gown, shimmering with golden lights. It clings to her upper body, split by a deep cut all the way down her stomach, and the skirt floats from her hips all the way to the floor. The material is softer than anything she knows. Her arms are covered in numerous golden bracelets. Thankfully, it almost feels like armor.
“Solas – what is going on?” She is not about to panic. It will do her no good.
“I need to… I don’t know for sure… I think we are – “
An elf strides from the doorway towards them. He is short and compact, with deep brown skin and clad entirely in black. His hair hangs in thick twists from his head, each intricately woven with gold.
“Lord Fen’Harel! I didn’t see you arrive. How long have you been hiding in the shadows?”
She must have misheard. Fen’Harel? But Solas replies without pause.
“How would you know?”
The man laughs – and she can’t tell if it is genuine or fake.
“I am afraid I have not yet made your acquaintance, my Lady.” He swoops in and grabs her hand, kissing it with an elegant bow. His fingers run questioningly over her palm. “A warrior? Are you here alone?”
“She is with me.” Solas pulls her close, his arm around her waist. She tries to ignore it’s the first time in weeks he has touched of his own volition. She has to keep her wits, and not notice how perfect his hand fits on her hip.
“Lady Iwyn, this is Lord June. Lord June, please meet Lady Iwyn.”
“A pleasure to meet you, Lady Iwyn. Let me know if the wolf’s challenges grow dull.”
June. Lord June. Fen’Harel.
She has to do something, not stand there and gape. What would Josephine do? An Orlesian curtsey are probably out, so she settles for a nod and a smile.
“As I am pleased to meet you, Lord June.”
June smiles broadly and turns to Solas. He talks about war or politics or both, and Solas confidently replies, smooth and even. He is at home here, though every answer is evasive.
“Let us re-join the party.” June moves towards the double doors where the music plays, and Solas follows. His hand slides from her waist and presents his arm for her to rest hers on. She has no choice but to do so. Where is she? What happened? Is this some sort of vision in the fade? Is this real? She remembers the elf’s – June’s - assessing gaze before Solas staked his claim, and she wonders what would have happened had she arrived here alone. Wherever ‘here’ may be.
They pass through the opulent golden doors. Magic swirls through the air, pressing against her, running through her. The spark she carries burst into flame. Inside, there are more people than she can count. Elves, all dressed in lavish garments embellished with precious stones or gold or silver or leather or fur.
She freezes, but Solas keeps moving, and she has to move with him so she doesn’t stumble. Her feet are bare, the only familiar thing other than Solas’ presence besides her. Except he is not familiar at all, no hint of the humble apostate. She is out of place, plain and small. She wishes her hair was done, instead of stuck in haphazard pony tail. She hopes she has no mud on her face.
They part with June, but soon another elf engages Solas in conversation. This time, she doesn’t recognize the name, thankfully, and after a similar simple introduction, she is left to observe again, the conversation involving topics and places she has never heard of.
She wishes she could pull Solas away, ask him where they are and what is going on, but every time they take a step, another person engage them in conversation. All she manages is a quick denial when she asks if this is the fade.
It is real, somehow. Real and overwhelming. It makes The Winter Palace look like a barn, the Orlesian Game feel like child’s play. She can’t tell how many questions Solas deflects with other questions, how many layers of vitriol is hidden beneath the niceties.
Free to observe, she looks at the people. She notices the servants – or slaves she supposes. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth as she grabs an elegant glass of a tray. They are well but plainly clad, almost invisible shadows moving through the crowds, never looking her in her eyes. Vallaslin adorn their faces, the patterns varied and beautiful. No two alike. Something else the Dalish got wrong. It fills her with revulsion and curiosity. What do the different patterns mean? Do they all belong to different nobles?
She realizes it is a blessing she no longer has her vallaslin. It would look wrong here, stark tattoo rather than the pulsing, swirling magic of these, and she could hardly be believed as Solas’ companion if she wore them.
The guests act and look like nobles. Some seem more important than others, but she doesn’t understand the system. She barely understands Orlais, so she stops trying to guess.
Here is another person to talk to, another introduction made. They look at her briefly, but with no challenge. They are there to talk to Fen’Harel.
That is what they call him, again and again. Her mind screams. Unreal. Unreal. Unreal. But the music and the drinks and Solas arm around her doesn’t feel like dream. It still feels different, like reality has no place here.
“We should dance,” Solas says, when he has bid a tall woman good evening. Someone else is approaching, but Solas is already in motion. She nods and smiles, and tries to remember what Josephine told her. If you look the part, no one will question you.
At the dance floor, Solas leads and she follows. The dance is easy enough, a relief. It also brings him close. His body next to hers, his hips pressed against hers.
“Iwyn,” he says, low in her ear when he gets the chance. “I must be brief. We have travelled back in time. I am sure much here is confusing.”
“It is. Fen’Harel.”
He winches. She almost regrets.
“I’m sorry. I will explain later. Please, do not offer anything to anybody. Do not say much about yourself, if you can. No one knows you, and they will rip you apart if they can, if only to elevate their own status. Be evasive.”
She nods.
“I am truly sorry, this is the only way to prevent it, you must be seen as someone who holds my full interest. Not just… professionally.”
His lips slide over her cheek, and it’s a ghost, a figment from when she was enough for him.
“Anyone unclaimed, anyone suspected of being a free agent, or without much power, or from a minor house, is seen as target of manipulation, expected to pay fealty or be subjected to someone else’s will. You must be seen as high enough status to be here on your own, and to be here with me.”
The music stops and he presses a quick kiss to her mouth. She wants more, and she wants to scream, to claw at him, to tell him to go fuck himself. She smiles gently and devoted at him.
She notices the gold earrings and studs in his ear. Intricately, a chain connects a stud in his lower ear to ring at the tip. She wonders if he would moan if she tugged gently on the chain, and it is absurd, inappropriate. She should focus, heed his words, and she has no right to know. Not anymore. No matter how good his acting is.
“So sweet – how long will it last? Until the morning?”
“Sylaise.”
Solas voice is cold and they turn to face the intruder. A tall woman, with beige skin shimmering like a flawless topaz, and her dark hair a waterfall down her back. Her flowy green dress is covered with swirling whorls and flowers, constantly in motion. She can almost glimpse the pattern once tattooed upon her face.
“Fen’Harel. Are you not going to introduce me to your companion?”
“This is Lady Iwyn,” Solas says. “She graciously accepted to accompany me tonight.”
“It is my pleasure to meet you, Lady Iwyn.” Sylaise’s dark eyes seem to glow and it is equally menacing and reassuring. The intent is different than the cool disdain she has for Solas.
“Would you do me the pleasure of having this dance?”
Sylaise smiles, and Iwyn doesn’t know is she is expressing genuine interest or if it is some sort of powerplay in front of Solas. Solas’ grip on her loosens, and she hopes she reads him right when she nods and accept the dance.
The music swells again, intricate unfamiliar rhythms, and she follows the taller woman, hard and beautiful. It is easy to dance with her. Sylaise holds her gaze, the intensity boring into her. Iwyn hopes she can’t read her mind, and she tries to bring forth nothing but memories of the party, of the beauty and grace she admires in the creature of legend who sweeps her around the floor. The air burns Iwyn’s lungs, and she is glad Sylaise asks no questions.
The dance ends and Sylaise kisses her cheek.
“I do hope Fen’Harel doesn’t bore you. You are the most interesting thing he has dragged up for the past decade, I would hate to see you languish. Let me know anytime you want to … dance.”
“I will keep that in mind, Lady Sylaise.” She hopes her voice is steady, and the words vague enough to not insult.
They are, thankfully, right in front of Solas, so she doesn’t have to navigate this treacherous ground alone, out of place and out of time. Solas has a peculiar look on his face, and it makes her realize that she is here on purpose, where Solas had to overhear Sylaise and her offer. He saunters to her, and extends his hand.
“I hope you have room for one more dance with me, my - lady?” He has never once called her my lady.
“Always,” she replies, and for her it is no act.
This time, when they dance, he holds her closer. She understands the dance now, but not the desperate, sorrowful look in his eyes. His magic runs over her, pouring out of him, like he is filled to the brim with emotions he doesn’t vocalize. She lets herself get carried by it, the floating lamps, the golden light, the polished floors and crystal windows. Unlike anything she has ever seen or felt. Solas’ hands are firm on her, his desire burning hot and real in this magic palace of dreams. She forgets where they are and what they are and aren’t, and enjoys his body a next to her.
He doesn’t let go when the dance ends. They are close, their faces mere inches apart, his familiar features an ache in her chest. Her lips are parted, and she snaps them shut. She wants to kiss him again, but she dares not.
“We should be able to leave soon,” he says.
“Good.”
She doesn’t want the charade to end, or maybe she does. She enjoys his closeness far too much. She has too many guesses and questions burning in her head.
After a few goodbyes, they leave through a large Eluvian placed in the lobby. Solas quickly hurries through the Crossroads, the landscape bending to his will. He is silent, and she does not interrupt. They pass through another Eluvian, howling wolves decorating the frame. Fen’Harel. Solas is Fen’Harel and she hasn’t had time to dwell on it.
“Fen’Harel.”
She blurts it out as soon as the mirror closes behind them, before she takes in the oval room the mirror is placed in, which looks identical from this side. Wolves, and wolves on the frescos – his frescos, covering the room, the walls, and the domed ceiling.
Solas’ shoulders sag at her outburst, as if she ran a spear through his chest. He does not meet her eyes when he turns to her.
“I am sorry. I … we should go somewhere private to speak. I do not know how far news will travel and we better keep up the charade.”
There are elves in the hallway beyond, curious glances quickly averted. Solas squares his shoulders and he grows taller, or broader, or simply more. Fen’harel.
She follows him through the doorway, where he puts his arm around her, and he leads her through hallways, light and airy and full of magic. He nods at the people – his servants, and he dismisses them with a wave of his hand.
They are finally alone when they arrive in a suite of rooms. The first has a sitting area and work desk strewn with papers and books, so familiar it hurts. She can glimpse a bedroom beyond the double doors.
“Please. I… we should be alone here. I am… I can’t…” He looks hopeless, lost, and he sits on the couch, and he puts his heads in his hands. “I suppose you have questions.”
She sits. She is next to him.
“Fen’harel? That was what you couldn’t tell me.”
“Yes. I… I wish…” he stalls, and he stares up at the corner of the room where the bookshelves meet the ceilings.
She lifts her hand, and she almost touches him. She lets it fall to her lap.
“Solas. Is that your real name? Or something you made up?” She needs to know. Who is this man next to her? The man who fought with her, who bled with her, who loved her.
“I was Solas first. Fen’Harel came later.”
“You’re a god.”
“No. There are no gods.” Resolutely he turns to her and explains. He tells of wars and deceit, of generals and leaders, of nobility and mage-kings. How later, they became revered as gods, but it was false. And it has not yet happened, but the seeds have been planted. June’s confidence and Sylaise’s haughtiness, and they both think themselves better than anyone else. How soon, Elgar’nan will declare himself a king, and a god.
She tries to understand. She fails. She knows he speaks the truth, but the truth is elusive yet.
“You couldn’t have explained this to me? You couldn’t trust me? I love you.”
“I wanted to. I… I am sorry. There are…” The words come haltingly, drawn from the depths. He collapses inwards and turns away.
“This isn’t all, is it?”
“No, there is more. Things that have not yet happened, though it is nigh inevitable. I have – I will soon… not soon, but.” He shakes his head.
It is too much. The music and the party like a dream or a nightmare. The magic. The revelations and questions, the anguish that should be hers and not his. Her soul and her bones are tired, worn thin.
“Solas. Can I call you Solas still?”
“I prefer it.”
“Solas. It is late. We have travelled through time. Whatever else is there, let’s talk about it tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow. Yes, you are right.”
Whatever else he has to say can wait. His secrets make him withdraw inside his own misery. She loves him. She can’t bear to see his pain. She knows now that he cares about her, more than she thought. She wants to take his hurt away. He is afraid, and she wants him to be bold. She wants him to let her love him. She rubs her hand over his back, gently, like she is soothing a frightened halla.
The tenseness leaves him as he accepts her caress, her caring. They sit, her hand on his back, stalled as the ever-present magic dances around them.
“The bedroom is through there,” Solas finally says. “You can… please take the bed. I can sleep here. I wouldn’t… I’m… It is best if we keep the cover story. I have – I had – plenty of guest rooms, but…”
She gets up and she peers into the room, revealing the biggest bed she has ever seen. She laughs.
“Solas. Don’t be ridiculous. We can both sleep comfortably, easily. I don’t think I have ever seen such a big bed.”
He shrugs.
“Come to bed. Rest. Let us talk more in the morning. It’s not as if we haven’t shared a bed before.” She notices the look on his face. “Sorry – I know it’s …. The bed is big, and I think we’re going to need all the rest we can get.”
He nods.
“I hope you can get me my armor back. And I need something to sleep in.”
He nods again, a little lost. He walks to a large closet and pulls out a tunic, clearly his own.
“You can use this to sleep in. I hope it’s – it can work. I’m afraid your armor is gone. You need something suitable made.”
She takes the tunic, and lets the dress slide off her, not bothering with fake modesty. Solas turns away quickly, but not before she sees the blush on his cheeks. He changes with his back turned, and it doesn’t prevent her own staring. She should probably apologize, but she doesn’t.
Iwyn crawls under the blankets next to him. It feels strange, to share a bed with him again. She has a thousand questions. She wants to go home. She needs to calm her mind. She can feel the tension radiating off Solas, his breathing uneven. He looked so broken, after they were alone, and she knows he is deeply troubled. Did he think she would hate him? Fear him? Maybe she should, according to the legends, but she knows him. Her knowledge leaves no room for fear.
She lets her hand wander across the bed, and finds his. She curls her fingers around his, and he squeezes them gently in return. Good.
Eloise Trevelyan x Cullen Rutherford (Post-Trespasser), for @dadrunkwriting
“She’s asked to be alone,” the healer replies shaking her head. Asked, Cullen is sure, is a generous use of the word. Everyone at this end of the Winter Palace is likely to have heard her cries of pain.
“Yes, but-” he protests. But I am her husband, Cullen thinks desperately. I have to see her. She will want to see me. She needs me. The ceremony had been performed in private, but surely they weren’t expected to keep their marriage a secret forever, and these were extenuating circumstances. After everything they’ve been through, everything she’s survived, to lose her now… Unthinkable. He can’t. He can’t.
The healer continues to shake their head while offering a sympathetic frown. Another time, if he weren’t so distracted and anxious he might have taken more notice, appreciated an unmasked and honest face amongst so many gilded veneers, but it doesn’t comfort him now. They reach behind opening the door just enough to peak back in, before turning back to him.
“She’s sleeping.”
“But she is alright,” Cullen presses.
“She will live,” the healer concedes after a moment’s hesitation. “But I imagine it may take longer for her to restore her balance of humors. She’s- she’s been through a great deal. Not many in her place would have been able to remain conscious through the procedure.”
“Please,” Cullen tries again, nervous hands clenched tight into trembling fists at his side. “I won’t wake her. I just… I need to see her. Please.” The healer bites their lip, clearly considering.
“She was very explicit in her instructions, Commander, no one was to see her. I know the two of you were very close, but until she wakes to tell us otherwise…” they continue, worrying their lip. “The surgeon would have my head.”
He’s about to continue protesting. This healer is clearly on the fence, ready to be swayed. He wants to be the exception, to argue that this is worth breaking from the Inquisitor’s or Surgeon’s instructions, but a more logical part of him- the Commander of her forces- knows the importance of rules and order. This healer is simply trying to do their job, to look after the woman he cares and worries so deeply for. So he nods, swallowing the lump in his throat as the healer silently draws the door closed once more.
“I-” he hesitates. “If you could just tell her that I’m here. Have someone alert me when she wakes… I’ll be in the chapel.”
Thanks for the TMI Tuesday fun thing! Was your first Shepard more Paragon/Renegade? Which fighting class did you choose? What are your cats' names and how long have you had them?
Hey, thanks for playing! First AND BEST, baby -- Kyra is definitely more paragon than renegade. She likes rules, likes knowing what her job is and what she can expect, and it takes a lot to get her to go off-book*. And she’s a vanguard (biotic charge + nova all day long, my dude).
As for my kit-cats, you had the same brilliant question as a couple others! Their names are Thor and Loki, and yes, they are brothers. We’ve had them for.... I think four years? Three? -_- Told you my memory was shit... Okay my kitten pics are from three years ago, so three. Anyway, you can check out the lengthier answer here, if you’d like. :)
