Varric had never been good with kids. It surprised those who knew him, though there wasn’t often a time when he was around them. He had usually stuck to pubs and dark alleys and darker towns. When he ran into children there… One didn’t have to be good with children to do what was needed then.
“Loud. So loud,” Cole said, beside him, hanging his legs precariously off the side of the battlements. Varric had long since given up getting him down from there. “You don’t have to be loud around me.”
Varric laughed once, just a breath of air, then looked down at his hands. They were calloused and tough from firing Bianca. He had always thought, one day—
He moved his hand in a slight motion from his leg and closed his eyes, imaging a smaller, finer hand in his, maybe two or three, dragging his to some exciting place. He could’ve shown them the nooks in Hawke’s mansion where they could hide while they were trying on Hawke’s fancy clothes. He could’ve taken them sailing with Isabela, showing them how the waves crashed against one another and how to steal from Isabela’s plume. He could’ve—
A hand slid into his, slender and bony, but warm. Varric jumped, startled out of his thoughts. Cole smiled sadly at him.
“If you want, these can still come,” Cole said, quietly, hand limp in the hold.
One side of his lips quirked up and Varric shifted out of the hand hold and rubbed his face. What had he been doing? Getting emotional right in front of the kid? Maker knew Cole didn’t need more of that.
“No, I think I’ve passed those days,” he said. “I’m good with where I’m at now.”
The lie sat uncomfortably between them, and Cole didn’t speak for a long moment.
“I can be them, or one of them,” he said, his fingers tapping on the stone. “If you want. You can show me— how to steal feathers?”
Varric laughed, the boisterous sound bouncing off the walls. Below in the courtyard, a stumbling man raised his mug in their general direction, yelling a cheers. It soon died, and Varric glanced over as Cole, face hidden beneath the unwieldy hat.
“Sounds great, kid,” he said, and he meant it.
Cole glanced up to meet Varric’s gaze, eyes widening. Then, he ducked into a shy smile, wrapping his legs in a criss-cross.
“Oh, come here,” Varric said, nudging his shoulder. Cole blinked at him, but got down and Varric buried him in a hug. Cole stood fixed and slowly wrapped his arms around Varric’s back.
Things have always been… easier for me in the Fade.
That was his constant excuse. He wouldn’t deny it, not privately, to himself. It is true, he is freer there, more than he should be, but it did not excuse any of his more impulsive actions whilst there.
He comes to her regularly. She knows it. Even without the Anchor, her spirit is a beacon to his with it’s familiar warmth. He does his best to keep her unaware of his presence at first, left in the dark about his reservations and his fears, but she is much too intelligent for that. It is mere months before he is discovered, and chased.
Anger and duty was the most obvious impetus for it, the fire in her stride another piece of evidence that chipped away at his hopes.
His sick, twisted hopes.
Over time, her stride turns to a walk and finally to nothing at all. He finds her sitting, underneath a beautiful, mature Mother tree. Her eyes are closed and she breathes quietly, the pattern ever so slightly off as he arrives.
“And the wolf arrives to finally finish his kill,” she murmurs. “How goes the hunt, Fen’Harel?”
Her words, though barbed, are honeyed. He can’t help but take another step forward, and she does not move. The last sounds he had heard from her had been shouts and rage. It almost lets him believe—
But her words still stand and once he has gotten over the initial shock of hearing them, he realizes that he may have preferred the shouts. But words stick in his throat, leaving him when they, most of all, should come. Her eyes open, and she checks around her quickly until her eyes rest on him.
He does not come as The Dread Wolf for her. No, he has never come to her like that, though he knew, one day, he would. That he will.
He wears the skin he always had around her now. A simple black wolf.
“What do you want?” she demands.
He says nothing and takes another tentative step forward. She stills, but does not stop him. He takes another and one more lands him at the base of the tree. She is still a short distance away, but not far. A mile for lovers.
He lays down in the grass and puts his head on his paws and looks up at her. She stares for a moment before returning to rest her head on the trunk.
“Why?” she says.
It’s difficult to speak in this form, but not impossible. That’s not what keeps him from responding.
“You owe me this much,” she says, not unkind. “I need to know why— Why you still come.”
He lifts his head to see her curled up in a ball, head on her knees. Her head is turned away from him, but he can still see the trail of a tear down her closest cheek. He holds back an instinctual whine, and stands up to be in front of her.
“I never lied to you,” he says, his voice, he knows, only an echo of what she would remember. It was much more gravely and rough. Not fit for her ears.
She looks up at him, surprise coloring her features, before it melts into realization. She groans, looking almost ready to strangle him, but it is all too soon tainted by sorrow.
A pair of arms wrap around his neck and he freezes— But it is her, and she is warm and kind and familiar. Before long, he is not a wolf, but himself— Solas— in her arms and has his own arms wrapped tightly around her frame.
He stays there until morning breaks in the small grove and she begins to falter in and out of the dream.
“I don’t want to leave,” she says, grabbing a fistful of his shirt.
He plants a kiss to her temple.
“Neither do I,” he says and squeezes her tight, then straightens. “Now, go. We are both needed elsewhere.”
She looks at him and clenches her jaw.
“I will find a way,” she says, and sinks out of the Fade.
He is alone now, and he smooths his hand over the flattened grass where she had lain.
His arm begins to throb, and he can feel sheets on his body. It won’t be long now. Before he has to continue, become—
For DWC: how about the "you're jealous aren't you?" / "I'm not jealous!" prompts?
Thank you for the prompt, @ma-sulevin! It feels like the gaps between answering prompts are getting longer, my Friday nights seem to be stolen out from under me.
For @dadrunkwriting!
No warnings apply!
“He needs more bandages,” he said. “There may be more with the west camp.”
The surgeon nodded and ran out of the tent. The man beside him groaned, though Solas had done his best to ease his suffering. There was no surviving his wounds. Perhaps if he was stronger, if his magic—
Then he wouldn’t be even be here, healing humans in the aftermath of his own foolish mistake.
He finished and did what he could for the man before moving onto the next patient. There were so many. There were only a handful of healers, and those that could help were already running low on energy. There were too many burn marks and not enough blankets.
He moved onto the next patient and the next, and the next, his hands knowing what to do. He needed this right now, needed to be busy, not to think. Without the Herald, his plans would be dust.
Caught up in his task, he didn’t notice being called until someone tapped on his shoulder.
“The Herald—She’s back. You’re needed,” the runner said. “The Co—”
He took off out of the tent too quickly to merit a reply. He searched the snowy landscape and soon spotted a party returning from the top of the hill. The Commander’s fur made him easy to pick out, and Solas soon saw what he was carrying.
He looked at the nearest aid and relayed what he needed, before taking a tent and setting up his workspace. The aid returned with some of the supplies that he needed, but it would have to do. He had been through worse.
Cullen trudged into the tent, saw Solas, and gently set Naya on the cot.
“Chill has set in well,” he said, putting his hand on her forehead. “She needs to be warm, and quickly.”
Cullen withdrew his hands after a beat too long and rubbed the back of his neck.
“I’ll do what I can,” Solas said, and placed two fingers of each hand on her neck.
Cullen’s hand twitched toward the cot, but he abruptly nodded and walked out of tent.
It was easy to spot the signs of love in the Commander’s gaze. Or adoration— Infatuation. Certainly more than simple respect.
And what of it? Just because she had shown interest, didn’t entitle him to any special claim on her attentions. It certainly didn’t mean he should feel any at all annoyed at Cullen’s obvious manner and light-hearted at Naya’s obliviousness. It certainly didn’t mean he smirked when Naya said Cullen reminded her of her younger brother. It certainly didn’t mean that he wished that Cullen was more often out on recruitment campaigns.
It certainly didn’t mean he was jealous.
Naya murmured something indecipherable and the Mark flared. Her whole body tensed and she clenched her fist, but the light poured out from her fingers.
He moved to dampen the burst, and moved his hands from her neck to her hand. He closed his eyes and absorbed the excess magic. He inhaled sharply, everything in focus for a moment until the majority of it diffused.
Naya sighed quietly and wrapped her hand around his own. His breath caught. They were sure and calloused around his own, and it seemed so right, his longer fingers and her smaller and finer ones, fitting like a jigsaw. He squeezed back for a moment, before jumping and checking the area around him for anyone watching. He slipped out of the grip and into the air than seemed colder than before.
Mother Giselle was hurrying over to the lean-to, heavy skirts not having fared well with the dirt and snow. Solas pulled blankets up to Naya’s chin, careful to tuck in her hands.
“The Herald will survive this,” he said to a huffing Mother Giselle. “Tend to her. She should be as anyone recovering from the cold.”
The Revered Mother nodded, and took his seat near the cot. She searched her person, and pulled out a handkerchief and wiped Naya’s brow.
He slipped away, the lack of mana making his eyelids droop. It wouldn’t be a bad idea to sleep and regain some strength.
He had wandered through the bustling camp and into the less populated areas outside. Here there was some peace, a soft quiet as the last snowflakes fell on the alcove they were in.
There were not enough cots, so he found one of the supply tents and leaned against some packages of grain that they were able to salvage. He flicked his hand to provide some small heat and in less than a moment he had drifted into the Fade.
“You are jealous.”
Him? He was not jealous. He couldn’t be jealous.
“The Herald and I can never become anything more than what we are,” he said, but he knew his spirit betrayed him.
Even thinking of her brought memories to the surface of his mind, made all the more vivid with the intensity of his emotions. Little memories flickered by, glances and too-long looks, until more substantial times emerged.
“Indomitable focus?” she breathed.
“Presumably,” he replied, the words flowing as naturally as he breathed, not daring to stop himself. “I have yet to see it dominated. I imagine that the sight would be—”
Snow landed on her halo of hair, the bright light shining to brighten her features as would be observed in a portrait. He could recall the look of concentration that hardened the lines of her face while she struggled with the familiar pull across realms. The passion, the fervor that was required, the innate ability to reach across to something that was both known and alien— caressing and demanding—
“—fascinating.”
The memory fizzled back into his consciousness and he saw Wisdom smile contentedly. Knowingly.
The high of the past moment was still bubbling in his chest, and he knew distantly that it should never work. That these echoes that he was surrounded by couldn’t be more than that— It meant too much for so many and so much of what he was planning, and it just couldn’t—
He faltered into the waking world and into the cold, finding a sight that he had not conceived in even his most outlandish outcomes, he had come to a realization.
She stared out into the crowd of humans, singing a song whose origin was long since past remembrance for them. She met his eyes across the distance, confused and slightly frightened. Just like a much younger man had been so many millennia ago.
He skirted along the outside the group of humans as they dispersed, striding towards her and the news he could bring her.
“A word?” he said.
She jumped, but her gaze softened as it landed on him and she nodded, following close as he lead her.
She was more than an echo, and by the tired edges of a smile on her face as she looked at him, jealousy seemed a far away thing.
Equal parts dread and ecstasy filled him, and he didn’t know if he would be able to keep himself away.
For DWC: Icy winds and dreams that linger, running, feeling, falling "Somehow, I knew" For whoever tickles your fancy! (But I saw Solavellan in your sidebar so this was kind of geared toward that? But your choice :D)
I got so freaking inspired off this prompt, you have no idea! So a big thank you @silent-of-spirit for this little slice of inspo heaven. I may have gone a little overboard? Ah well.
For @dadrunkwriting!
Pairing: Solavellan
Warnings: depictions of pain, mild anxiety
Word Count: 3,121
He isn’t with her when it happens.
He is with a scouting group, examining the condition of the Veil in an area around Crestwood. A simple task. The Veil is already weakened in the area, so tears that had been caused by the rifts had not been able to be cleanly patched by Naya. There is still a slight disturbance, enough to alarm.
He had just awoken, having solved the trouble. It was a simple matter of disparaged spirits being drawn to the cracks and being unable to leave. He is lucky they had not been corrupted by the experience. It took only a few moments of magic at the areas of interest before the spirits could roam free.
“Ser, Ser!” yells a young man, running into the camp. His eyes search the camp wildly before landing on Solas and relaxing. The man rushes to him and hands him a rolled piece of parchment. “It’s from Sister Nightengale.”
The remaining fatigue shakes off of him and he takes the paper from the boy. The signet is familiar, but the shade—
Red wax.
He stops short and with quick fingers he tears open the seal and unrolls the parchment, breathing thanks to the runner. He devours the words, and his feet carry him away from the curious glances in the main camp.
It’s the Mark. Come quickly— I have arranged transport…
The rest is details. Nothing significant. Nothing to tell him about her.
His breath hitches. She had been able to keep it stable for this long— There was no reason why it would flare now. What had set it off? He couldn’t— He wouldn’t be able to—
His knees weaken, almost buckling. He steadies himself against a nearby tree and puts his head to the smooth bark. He shuts his eyes.
It could have passed already. Perhaps a momentary flare, he reasons. Nothing to warrant this level of concern, but Leliana is not one to risk divulging unnecessary information. If it were serious, or even not, their enemies could exploit this to their advantage. Even this little was dangerous. He presses his head harder against the tree.
It does not help.
The back of his eyes burn with tears and a small voice, long repressed, whispers accusations at him. All are true.
He clenches his jaw and ignores them, pushing them out of his thoughts. Tears threaten again, but he will not allow them to fall. Not now.
She needs him.
He takes a calming breath. None of the scouts could be alarmed, his sudden absence was probably too worrying already. Rumors had spread through the Inquisition, he knows. Now, how would this look? A message with a red seal, the Inquisitor’s lover in tears, a hasty ride to Skyhold? No. He needs to look composed.
He walks into the camp and looks through the scouts, finding the head scout not present. She probably went with the party that just went out, still monitoring the almost-rifts. The rest of the camp goes about their duties with a more dedicated air with his presence.
He finds one of the older scouts and clears his throat, gaining her attention. Solas relays what he needs, and she nods and runs off to do as told.
It is a half an hour before he is riding, set on the marsh roads leading out of New Crestwood. The gelding is ruffled by the sudden departure, strange new rider and his pace, but she does an admirable job of keeping a steady gallop.
He makes it to the town Leliana’s agent specified just after dusk, but still a bearded man outside the stables is there waiting to take his horse. Solas pats the gelding on the neck, just before the man takes her.
“Ma serranas, lethallin” he murmurs.
If the man hears, he says nothing and goes inside the small building. Solas contents himself with looking at the night sky, but cannot stop himself from tapping his foot. Every moment, every second he dallied was another second she could be—
He exhales sharply. He had been able to avoid playing scenarios in his head most of the journey, but now in the quiet and the absolute stillness of the dark, it is all his mind conjures.
The man returns and Solas starts, but he does not bring another horse with him. Solas opens his mouth to ask, but the man interrupts him.
“Nightengale ordered rest,” he said. “4 hours.”
Fair enough. His eyelids were already drooping.
He nods his assent and the man grabs the candle that he had been holding to light his way and guides Solas to an stall in the barn, furnished with the necessities of an inn room.
The man sets down the on the small table in the far corner of the room and tells Solas he will wake him, if needed. He declines. The man nods and leaves without a further comment.
He immediately slides under the covers, the blankets surprisingly warm. It takes him only moments for his eyes to flutter shut.
He isn’t interested in visiting with spirits today, but he does what he can to seek out those of an amicable nature. There was only one of note that he can find, and it is already becoming infected with the sickening growth of corruption.
Purpose is drawn to him, however the desperation in Solas’s bearing does not help with the darkness creeping along its form. He does his best to calm himself, finding a peaceful sense of altruism inside him before speaking.
“Adaran atish’an, Purpose,” he says. “I’ve come to ask a favor.”
“And why should you beseech a humble spirit, Dread Wolf?” it says, sending a slight ripple of wariness.
“I have a purpose for my journey,” Solas says. “I would only ask you to help me know it.”
The spirit considers, the wariness that hovers around him as a fog not abating. The moment grows so long that Solas is tempted to go seek out another spirit, even if there is little chance of finding one obliging. He almost does, but Purpose speaks before he can come to a decision.
“I will help you, Dread Wolf,” it says, but Solas knows what comes next. “But you must help me with a purpose of my own.”
“Tell me of it.”
“You’ve met the man who is called Romero,” it says. “Though I don’t believe you learned his name as such. He is now thickly bearded and grey at the temples.”
Ah, the guide to his unusual bedroom. Yes, the spirit is probably tasked with watching over him, or those who keep this area of land.
“Yes,” Solas says. “What would you like me to do?”
The spirit flares with energy, and Solas backs away. It’s nature was at war with itself. With Solas’s question, corruption wormed its way further, causing this nova of energy. This battle would decide the spirit’s fate, and whether it was to become a demon. This would take only seconds.
Solas inhales through his nose and fills his mind with purpose.
Picking up broken glass of a cup that a maid had accidentally dropped. Healing the pains of an elderly woman’s joints. Traveling on the countryside, through swamps and forests to arrive at desolate places, which later bloom into beautiful, little towns.
His mind helpfully inserts Naya into the moments and he falters for a moment, but quickly pushes her out, keeping careful hold of good, of satisfaction of a job well done and of comfort. He needs this. He needs to know.
She needs him.
He opens his eyes to find the spirit— and a spirit still it was— staring curiously at him.
“Your main purpose is a mystery, Dread Wolf,” it says. “However, one must know that purpose is not always found in places of great risk or reward.”
“And is it risk or reward that you would offer to Romero?” he asks.
The spirit doesn’t speak for a moment, considering his words.
“Reward,” it says. “The man has suffered through more than his share of toil for the land on which you slumber. When you return to your Inquisition, you must grant him a boon.”
“Any specifications concerning the boon?” Solas asks. He had already learned this lesson regarding deals with spirits.
“Only that it must be something he truly desires,” it says.
“If it is within my power, he will have it,” Solas promises. A small price for what Solas was asking. “Now, for my favor.”
The spirit nods its head.
Solas lays out what the instructions, and the spirit goes on its way. Solas mills about the area, willing his mind not to stray.
It is an hour before Purpose returns and sets about gathering wisps for its task. Solas taps his foot as the wisps go into place at Purpose’s direction and a scene unravels before his eyes.
Naya appears first, sharp as if she were truly before him, beside Iron Bull. They are on Skyhold’s battlements, braced side by side, each with one hand touching the stone. The icy winds brush at his cheeks, as if he were really on the mountain.
Cole sits cross-legged on one of the rivets and Varric stands on the steps across from him, trying to get Cole to get down. Dorian leans against the wall of the building, playing with an orb of water.
“One girl did beat a Charger,” Naya sings, grinning. “The biggest of them too, just ‘cause she knew to walk in a straight line through and through!”
Solas chuckles despite himself. He had no doubt that she had been waiting to use that line for sometime.
“Only if you run as quick as your mouth does,” Bull mutters, digging his heel into the stone behind him. He flicks his head at Dorian. “Ready when you are, kadan.”
“Runners, on your mark,” Dorian says, dropping his ball and walking to be behind them. “Get set— go!”
They sprint, Naya brushing by Cole’s leg. She gets a lead on Bull on the beginning, but the lumbering man was just getting up to speed. By the middle, they are neck-in-neck.
“Don’t worry,” Bull huffs. “There’s no shame in being outmatched by a Ben-Hassrath.”
Naya doesn’t reply, eyes ahead on toward Sera. She pulls ahead for a moment, mess of hair and braids whipping behind her, with a triumphant smile on her face.
“I don’t think—” Naya says, then trips, stumbling to the ground. Bull skids to a stop before her, just missing trampling her.
The mark flares, bathing the stonework in familiar green. She sits up and leans against the wall, clutching her hand to her chest and uses her other to get her hair out of her face. She heaves a sob, stretching her marked hand out as it pulses.
Solas steps forward, reaching to help, only to slide right through the illusion of her shoulder. A tear falls down her cheek and his heart demands him to fix it.
Your fault, the voice whispers.
“Naya!” Bull says, kneeling down in front of her, hands hesitant in the air. “Dorian!”
All are at her side in a moment, but she is only getting worse. She shuts her eyes, making more tears fall and, as a healer, he knows cries of pain aren’t far behind.
“Vhenan,” he whispers, clenching his fists. But there is nothing he can do. This is past, only a ghost of a memory.
He watches as Dorian attempts to assuage some of the power, only to agitate it further, making her shake and hang her head under the weight. If he were there, this moment would’ve been bygone in an instant, worrisome, but over. Instead, he watches as Sera runs to go get help and Naya crumples onto the floor.
No, no, no nonono—
Solas watches in fixed horror as Dorian leans down and checks her breathing. The rest of the gathered stand stock still as Dorian listens, his skin unusually pale.
He comes up and nods once, and sags back. The mark still flashes, though it is duller than before.
“Can we move her?” Bull asks.
Dorian opens his mouth, frustrated sounds matching his shaking hands, until he sighs and raises his hands and lets them fall in something that equates to I don’t know.
There are echoes of rushed footsteps and Cassandra’s voice yelling orders following close behind.
The faces of his friends begin to fuzz, the mountains in the distance melting into a sickening green. Several, now indistinct figures, hasten to Naya’s side, all hesitating, unsure what to do. The figures, the battlements all slowly ebbing until he is left with all green.
Her face is the last to fade.
He blinks and he looks to see Purpose standing above him. It offers a semblance of hands to help him stand.
“Thank you,” Solas says, though the back of his eyes burn with what he saw. What he had asked to see.
“I expect payment in full,” it says, wariness unabated since it last spoke, except this time it was laced with something else, something uncomfortable… Pity.
“And I promise to honor your terms,” he replies.
“Then be on your way,” it says, turning it’s attention to the wandering wisps then snaps back to him. “Dawn approaches, Dread Wolf.”
He awakes in a cold sweat. The woolen blankets had been tossed off of him in the night, landing on the floor in a heap. He rubs his arm and sits up. He takes no extra steps to get ready, not even bothering with the slight hairs on his head before stepping out the door, pack in hand.
Romero is there, sitting by the stables, glazed look on his face. At Solas’s footsteps, he starts and stands up, muttering something about horse and ready.
He returns in a few extended moments, a dark brown filly’s reins in hand. He exchanges them for Solas’ pack and situates it on the saddle.
Romero raises his hand in a single wave and Solas takes his leave to begin riding.
The sun is rising as he begins his ride and it peaks as he reaches the way point Leliana described. He is given a bowl of ill-defined lumps in a watery broth, but it is hot and he does not have the time to search out other fare. He downs it as best he can and is given a new horse, a black stallion with little attention for it’s human handlers or himself and is on his way.
The horse gallops at a brisk pace, only slowing when they reach the higher altitudes, whinnying at the snow landing on it’s coat. However, with some prompting from Solas, it continues begrudgingly on its way.
It is much past nightfall when they reach Skyhold’s gates, but they are already being drawn up as he arrives. He urges the horse to go faster.
Tension is rising in his chest as he passes into Skyhold’s commons. He slides off the horses back and hands the reins to a bleary-eyed scout. Leliana stands at the top of the stairs leading to the entrance to the upper entrance. Solas runs to her, stomach dropping as he sees the bruises under her eyes darker than he’d seen them any time since Haven.
“She is in her chambers—” But he is gone too quickly to hear the rest.
The stress and the anxiety and the worry had built up like a current over the past days, the little food and sleep not helping the settlings of his mind. He had avoided dreams, but his waking mind would not stop tormenting him with the image of her crumpling to the ground, unconscious and in unspeakable pain.
He barrels past scout and maid alike in the dark hour, and sprints through the main hall, footsteps rattling against his mind. What if she was— What if he couldn’t—
He swings open the door leading to her quarters and furiously climbs the steps, the back of his throat burning as he reaches the last, but he cannot stop and doesn’t until he bursts through the door to her chambers.
Beside her bed, obscuring her from view is Dorian on a short stool, slumped over the covers, whispering words that stop short as Solas enters. The Tevinter straightens at once, beginning to say something, but Solas pays no heed, rounding the bed until he sees her face.
Her hair is ratted and splayed across the decadent pillows, but her face.
Oh, her face.
It is contorted in a twisted grimace, features he knows, he loves, all wrong.
He murmurs words of useless comfort, and strokes her a lock of hair from her face, then goes to inspect her hand.
“Vhenan,” he says, her hand crackling and much too hot.
Your fault.
He takes her hand in his, ignoring the heat and closes his eyes. He takes the familiar magic and siphons it, leading it from her, who is so unaccustomed to magic to herself. He can sense her body’s rejection of it. There is a utter sense of wrongness of it within her, of expulsion, of not right, and something fractures within him.
It isn’t long before the crackling dies down, leaving the mark to return to a faint glow. The warmth is there, but it is only natural, normal. Her breaths come slower now, and her face is not so pained.
Dorian leaves, telling Solas that he’ll inform the others. Solas takes his place on the stool, and takes her hand. He should stay the night with her, make sure that she is—
He awakes to fingertips brushing along the curve of his ears. He inhales sharply, but his chest only tightens further at what he sees.
She smiles at him from across the bed, eyes holding nights of lost sleep but warm as they take in him. Her hand moves from his ears to his eyebrows and the bridge of his nose, skirting over his lips.
She cups his cheek and he leans into the touch, desperate for her steadiness. The reality that she was okay.
“I thought— I thought you were—” he chokes out, and she shushes him, beckoning him closer, onto the bed.
His joints ache from the long-held position, but he complies more than willingly, climbing on the heavy covers to lay beside her.
He wraps an arm around her shoulders, and she tilts her head forward, letting their foreheads touch.
“I knew, Solas,” she whispers, voice hoarse, and it pains him. “Somehow, Solas. I knew you were coming. That I would be okay.”
He lets the tears fall and contents himself with her presence. Here. Alive. Unharmed.
Hello! For DWC “Don’t give me that look! It wasn’t my fault!”
Thank you, @for-the-love-of-solas for the prompt! For @dadrunkwriting!
Words: 379
Pairing: Solavellan
Warnings: None
As a healer himself, she really would’ve expected him to take it better.
“This is ridiculous,” he says, his ragged voice betraying him even as he speaks. “I’m quite fit.”
She opens her mouth to interject, but a glazed look comes over him for a moment before he is overcome in a fit of sneezing. She has to bite her cheek to keep herself from smiling, and Solas scowls at her as he recovers.
“Hey, I’m not the one who decided to clean out rooms that have been untouched for centuries,” she says, raising her hands in defense. “That, my love, was your idea.”
He hums an agreement and pulls his covers closer, while she reaches over to check his temperature— If he was feverish, she would fetch a healthy healer. Otherwise, he would have to wait it out. A small bug wouldn’t hurt him.
She had just begun to reach towards him when he starts.
“No!” he barks, then coughs. She hesitates, frozen in her seat, but he scoots back from her in the slightest and shakes his head. “No, I don’t want to infect you.”
She breathes, tension easing from her body and almost laughs. “Infect me? What do you have, Solas— the plague?”
“Is that possible?” he says, and for a moment she is truly worried.
“No,” she says. “Now, if you would let me take your temperature, I can figure out if this is more serious.”
He relents, and as she lays a hand to his forehead, he closes his eyes. “I believe I may have a fever.”
“You think?” she says, and retracts her hand. “I’ll be back in a minute. Vivienne should be able to help break it.”
“Naya—” he says as she stands. She pauses, looking back at him.
“This won’t hurt you?” he says quietly, his brows knit in concern. She stops fully and gives him a reassuring smile.
“No, I’ve had many worse fits than what you are suffering,” she says. “Don’t worry.”
His eyes flicker into the distance and he grimaces, his gaze is only more anguished as it focuses back onto her. He nods at her, but she takes a moment watching him turn onto his back and close his eyes before she shuts the door and leaves.
She kept her eyes closed and hoped the sounds would dissolve into silence.
“You move and and we all die!”
Her hope was in vain.
Dorian gripped her shoulder and she jolted to full consciousness. He pulled at her to come towards the amulet, but Ellana’s eyes were fixed on the scene playing out before her.
“No!”
An arrow had struck Leliana’s chest and she was sent staggering back. Ellana ripped free from Dorian’s hold on her and ran towards the demons ahead. She took her staff from her back, whipping it in front of her, killing the Venatori and evil creatures equally quick.
Quiet fell upon the hall as her last spell fired and the Venatori died. As soon as he fell, she ran and dropped to her knees before Leliana. Her hands hovered above the blood. The arrows still protruded from various places on her torso and she had gained more as Ellana fought.
“No, no, no...” she said, bringing green magic to her fingertips, spreading the glow along the length of the damage.
Leliana’s eyes flickered and she looked up at Ellana with a lucidity that startled her. Ellana spells blinked out and blood spread across Leliana’s torso.
“Can’t you see, Ellana?” she coughed, her words choked. “You stupid girl, you couldn't have saved us.”
“Leliana—”
“There are no excuses here. You weren’t enough,” Leliana snarled, showing blood filled teeth. “What? Did you think so?”
She opened her mouth to respond, but faltered. She blinked and Varric’s corpse appeared standing beside her; His red lyrium haze burnt into her as he spoke.
“Do you believe anything I tell you, Hazelnut?” he said. “Believe nothing. Look at me. This is your work.”
“Ellana.”
She flinched. She had never heard him say her name like that before, so full of bitter ire.
“Ellana, look at me,” he said, and she turned her head.
His face was unusually pale and his eyes, like Varric’s, burnt red. The scant torchlight bounced off his skin and gave him a dangerous look. She would’ve barely been able to handle the rest, but a dark hatred creased in his face. It took her back to the day when he strode forward, killing the mages that had tortured his friend. It was difficult to see then, directed at someone else. But now it drove into her, searching, devouring, disgusted.
“You think I could ever care for you?” he asked. “Look at me. Look! There is a reason I have not gone any farther than flattery.”
She stepped away and put her hands over her face, trying in vain to close out all else, like she had as a child during a particularly scary nightmare.
“What? Did you tire of me? Decide that I should die for spurning you?” Solas said. “Did you even try to save us?”
“I tried,” she said, balling her fists. “But you were already dying, there was a chance—”
“You couldn’t save us here, how long before we die again?” Leliana said, color draining from her face, eye sockets deepening. “How long before you make a decision that kills us in your world?”
She choked, not able to speak as her friends decayed around her. Leliana’s flesh rotted, turning a sickly white as her skin bloated. She scrambled back and watched Solas’ skin turn black, his blighted eyes shriveling in his skull. Varric toppled, worms eating his skin and jacket alike.
She was stuck to her place in the floor, shaking, unable to turn away as she saw her friends, her dearest friends, wither.
It continued, their skin blackening completely. Then, all manner of creatures came to tear away bit of skin or organ until nothing was left but bone.
Those are my friends!
Rats scurried back into the cracks in the wall, a pair of vultures took off into the other hall, a fennec ambled away, blood staining its mouth.
She wanted to growl, scratch at the animals, if only to keep them from Solas and Leliana and Varric.
There was a blockage in her mouth though, preventing her from speaking, just as it prevented her from moving. She sat motionless as the last rat ran off, the last chunk of Varric’s rib muscle in its teeth.
A scream built in her throat, but it was stopped like all the other exclamations she had tried to force out. It was worse to watch, to be able to do nothing, not even to speak as they suffered, than to have caused it in the first place.
A breath of wind touched her cheek, making her shiver and sink back on her calves.
“Just let go,” Solas whispered.
She gasped, leaning away from the bones in front of her. They shuddered, lying on the ground and connected and made due where cartilage and tendons should be. The remains of their clothing and armor, shredded and torn by the animals, readjusted itself over the bones and lifted the skeletons with them. They stood above her, the skulls angled down where she sat.
“None will miss you,” Varric said, his jaw moving with his words. “We will be just fine without you. In fact, it might be easier without you screwing things up, getting us killed.”
“Let go, child,” Leliana said.
They each stepped closer, closing in on where she sat, again unable to move.
She trembled, tears stinging at the rim of her eyes.
“No, this isn’t real, this isn’t—”
“Ellana.”
Solas. She stopped short and her eyes darted to his skeleton, but she knew it hadn’t come from that. This voice was richer, urgent, laced with concern.
“Ellana.”
“This isn’t real,” she said and stood up. The skeletons blurred.
But no, the skeletons continued and marched toward her faster as the room drew out of focus. She wiped her eyes and took a deep breath.
“This isn't real.”
She closed her eyes, and opened them up. Solas hovered over her, his hand firmly gripping her shoulder. If he had hair, it would’ve been mussed. His clothes were rumpled and his eyes flashed, looking over her with a concern that shook her out of the last reaches of the Fade.
“There was a disturbance in the Fade,” he said, his voice gravelly from sleep. “I did not desire to intrude, however… I believe you wished to be woken.”
The images of her dream clashed with her reality and she struggled to keep her thoughts in line.
“I, uh, yes,” she said. “Thank you.”
He opened his mouth as if to say more, but instead brought his hand back, and she pulled back and sat up. He turned to go, but she reached out and tugged on the arm of his tunic. He paused and looked back at her.
“Ma serannas,” she said, holding his eyes and took the moment to relish in their untainted blue.
He nodded his head and gave her a weary smile.
“Of course, lethallan,” he said, and turned to leave.
“Ah, Solas—”
Mythal, what was she doing? He turned back to look at her again, but his expression betrayed none of the impatience he must feel. She hesitated, but a rat scampered through her mind, its teeth filled with blood.
“Could you— I mean, could you stay here?” she said. Heat rose to her cheeks, and she looked to the ground. “I just— It’s fine if you don’t, I was just—”
It was like this sometimes, when they had a large encampment. There was a spare tent and the soldiers and scouts expected the Herald to remain separate. She couldn’t stand it.
“Ellana,” he said, cutting her short. “I will get my bedroll.”
She closed her mouth, and watched him disappear behind the tent flaps. She laid back, twisting her fingers between her hands as she waited. He returned soon with his blankets. He set up and slipped into his blankets, and she found peace in the rhythm of his breathing.
She drifted into a quiet place in the Fade, where no visions of death haunted her. She shifted through moments of forest and glade, full of birdsong and trickling streams.
She relished the cool grass beneath her feet and she matched her step with the paw prints that led the way. Some part of her whispered that this way was wrong, but how could a path in the forest be wrong?
Something flickered at the edges of her vision, but always farther away, always dodging out of sight. Hadn’t she been afraid of something? Should she be? She shook her head and continued on her path.
She watched squirrels scamper up trees, while she picked daisies for a necklace. She wandered over and sat against a great oak and stained her fingers green making a chain of flowers. She leaned her head against the bark and sighed.
She awoke the next morning, Solas still asleep, but obviously close to waking. She looked at his calm features for a beat, a soft glow settling in her stomach. The darkness haunted at the edges of that glow, but she banished it. She put her hair up in a tie and pushed the tent flap aside, the chill morning air crisp to her senses.
Solas exited soon after her, none awake yet, though they were soon joined by the others. Someone shared the bread and salted mutton, and everyone accepted a cup of tea except Solas. Varric cracked a joke, hair not even in its tail yet and they all laughed.
She breathed in through her nose and took a tentative sip of her tea. She watched as Varric patted Cole on the back, grin still tugging at his face, the boy obviously confused as to the nature of the wisecrack. Solas ate quietly and caught her eye as she looked them over. She gave him a reassuring smile and drifted her gaze over to Harding and the newest scout, who was fumbling trying to repeat the directions that Harding had given him.
They were fine. They, besides the poor scout, were happy.
This peace, such as it was, was fragile, prone to cracking. Yet, as she sat around the fire, mirth still coloring everyone’s faces and two kinds of warmth filling her belly, she couldn’t find it in herself worry.
Quick Solavellan short inspired by the Hoizer song Like Real People Do
I will not ask you where you came from/ I will not ask you and neither would you
Honey just put your sweet lips on my lips/We should just kiss like real people do
It is after. Much after. She finds him in the field, looking out into the sunrise. He no longer wears his armor of gold or has his pelt over his shoulder. He is not that now.
She grabs her basket and tools and heads out into the yellow light, her hat shading her from the sun. She starts at the first row, and begins pulling weeds and watering the crop. She uses a little of her magic, though it still hurts. The sad plant straightens, getting back some of it’s life. It is comforting, to see that.
Halfway down the row he joins her noiselessly and she lets him, putting the basket between them and handing him gloves. After a few attempts at pulling the weeds, Solas sighs and begins instead to liven the plants before him.
“No!” she says, putting her hand on his arm. The weak green in his palms sputters out, and he looks to her, wince still in his cheeks. She drops his gaze, and takes a weed in hand. “Let me show you.”
She show how she handles it, pulling straight up. It takes him a few tries, but he catches on quick, and works in earnest.
They work in silence for the next hour until she leaves to get water. She fills the bucket, along two canteens besides and takes the bucket first out to the field. He is still working with dedication, almost fervent.
She leaves and brings back the two canteens. She has to clear her throat to get him to look up. He does, and says a quiet thanks and takes it from her hand, fingertips briefly touching.
They drink and then continue, breaking only for lunch. It is dusk when they stop, only half the field done. She wipes her hands off and stands, her bones protesting the long hours of work.
He stops as well, and looks up at her, no expression, just asking for the word. To leave.
To stay.
“Come,” she says, offering her hand.
He looks at it for a moment, hesitant, then takes it and rises. She picks up the basket at their feet and places it in the crook of her elbow and offers her hand. Gloved, but free.
He accepts it, and she leans into him as they walk back to her home. There are bare sounds of soft dirt underfoot and the last call of birds before dark that serenade their stroll. It is not as beautiful as it once might have been.
The growing darkness casts an ethereal glance over the expanse of land, the shadows playing tricks. Spirits of Malice prefer the dark, and hint at the edges of the woodland, but the moons are bright tonight and lend her enough light to guide her back.
They enter her home and she makes quick work of setting everything in place for a meal, small but enough to beset hunger before morning. He helps, chopping and stirring alongside her.
It doesn’t take long for them to eat and finish and it is full dark now. She put the dishes in the bucket and turn to face him.
He stands there and apparently waits for word again. To leave.
To stay.
“Stay with me.” she says, stepping forward.
The candlelight flickers across his face, and it is all uncertainty underneath.
“Only if you truly wish it,” he says.
Wish it? It was hard to tell now, what she knew, what she felt. It was clear once, a day in the Fade when she had taken a chance and kissed a man as elusive and mysterious as a Fade-spirit. But now? The confines of her heart had been broached and shattered, leaving her to search through what was left.
“Emma lath, vegara,” she says, taking his hands in hers. She leans up and kisses his cheek, chaste and sweet, and looks back into his eyes. So open, uncertain now, but reflecting the same brokenness that she has inside.
“Ar ju’vegara.” he whispers. “Min melana, vis ma’nuven ra.”
“Ma’nuven ra.”
His lips meet hers soft and quiet, and the pieces of her come a little closer together, not whole yet, no. Far from it. But they shake, and she knows what he is.
“Vhenan,” she breathes and takes him by the hand, leading him to her room.
He is her heart, as she is his, even if they are broken.
vegara = come, Ar ju’vegara = I will come, ma’nuven ra = you/I wish it
DWC! How aboutttt “Shooting star, make a wish.” :-) Any characters/pairing you're feeling!
Ah! I’m back! Feels like forever. Anyhow, I am so sorry on the late ask, this thing must’ve been sitting in my inbox for well over three weeks now. Thank you so much for the prompt!
For the @dadrunkwriting!
So I took this seemingly innocent prompt and twisted it (sorry!) beyond recognition.
Pairing: Solas x Ellana Lavellan
Warnings: Depictions of pain?
Words: 942
She didn’t deal well with pain. She never had, but she never before had to deal with so much.
She had been shocked when he’d left the first time. A sad longing that had become all too familiar to her, a knife to her gut, was the last expression she saw on his features. Leliana had searched, but if he didn’t want to be found, she didn’t want to be the one to find him.
She had never loved someone like him before, in both meanings of the phrase. He was thoughtful, kind and creative, so different from the ones that had tried to win her affection in her old clan. He didn’t speak loud, but each word held weight. She could listen to him speak of his journey’s forever, lost in the worlds and memories he painted for her.
She had never loved so deeply before, either. She had always thought that the right man would come along, no need to rush things with someone who wasn’t right. It didn’t mean she had never fallen in love, but it seemed wrong to call the other times love now.
So when he left a second time, she was left broken. She heard his voice, speaking a foreign language, but feeling like music to her heart. She rushed to where she could see him, only to find him changed. Still Solas, just… plus one. He spoke with a confidence she was used to, but it was laced with other things. Duty. Regret. Sacrifice.
He was going to destroy the world and she believed him. She searched within herself for some bitter emotion, but found nothing. He was here. There was still time.
“Var lath vir suledin,” she cried, clutching her hand. The pained look that had never left his face intensified.
“I wish it could, vhenan,” he said, looking down, breaking eye contact.
Another course of energy surged through her. Every nerve was being branded with a hot poker then set sizzling into the water. She yelled, another twisted sound escaping her lips.
“My love,” he breathed, and leaned in close.
His gauntleted hand wrapped firmly around her unmarked one as he brought her up to his level. His other hand wrapped around her head. She didn’t need anymore guidance from there.
Their kiss was bittersweet. As he pressed into her, she deepened the kiss, asking, pleading him to stay. And for a moment, a flicker of a second, he gave in. Hope ran through her, bringing them from remembrance to passion. Their kiss lit alive.
Stay, vhenan, she wanted to say. Stay with her now, and she would love him as long as she breathed if he would just stay.
He slowed for a moment, and she opened their eyes and him, the electric blue fading from his irises. They acknowledged something neither wanted to face. He gripped tighter on her hair, bringing her in close. She closed her eyes, letting the the hidden part of her heart hope, even as she knew what would come.
He broke away in a sudden motion, shuddering, and stood up. She tilted her head up to look him in the eyes. He didn’t meet hers.
“I will never forget you,” he said, turning away.
Hands swaying at his side he walked away. She watched him go, one traitorous part of her hoping against hope that he would turn back.
He didn’t. He continued to the huge eluvian, stopping for a moment before the watery surface. She couldn’t see very well through the tears, but he could’ve turned back to look at her for a moment. He could’ve looked torn, hateful, but she would never know. She blinked, and he was gone.
She curled in on herself and found a wretched anger clawing through her chest. She wept, cursing her foolishness, her stupid false hope, before collapsing into despair.
Dorian found her first. She didn’t realize he was there until he sunk down into the cool water and hugged her. She cried into his shoulder, before remembering that soon he would be gone too.
She had forgotten about her arm. It bristled with new energy, but she found that the pain was beginning to disappear. Meanwhile, she found she had no feeling in her hand. She hugged him tight with the arm she did have, and kneeled there, vision swimming, eluvian still in sight. The surface glittered, serene and calm, unmoved by her emotion. If she focused, she could see bits of energy skittering across the surface. They flew across the glass, looking like shooting stars.
“In the days of Arlathan, shooting stars were thought of as a sign,” he said, arm wrapped around her waist. It was a nice and warm against the wind that blew through the battlements at night. “One of torment and destruction from the heavens.”
They both gazed up into the sky, taking in the view.
“Oh?” she said, looking over at him. “So, ancient elves were grim and fatalistic as well? You would’ve fit in nicely.”
Some indecipherable expression flicked across his face, darkening his eyes.
“I think not,” he said, and pulled her closer, joy gone from his eyes.
No, don’t brood, not tonight. She leaned in close.
“How about you make a wish instead?” she said. Their lips were warm, barely touching. She shivered.
He hesitated for a moment, but she pressed closer, and looked into his eyes. She knew, rather than actually saw he smiled, but it soon melted into a soft kiss.
“What have I to wish for, vhenan?”
She cried harder, and thought if all else proved false, the ancient elves may have been right about the stars.
