❝ Bare-faced but free, frolicking, fighting, fierce. He wants to give wisdom, not orders. ❞
Independent Solas of Dragon Age: Inquisition & The Veilguard. Not strictly canon compliant. Single ship. Sporadic activity.
Links
Rules ✦ Carrd ✧ My AO3 ✦ Credit ✧ Solavellan Long Fic
Important Notes
✧ I encourage reblogging MY fics/drabbles/headcanons/etc, but please do not reblog roleplay threads for the sake of my rp partners’ comfort levels. For more specific rules I ask non-rp blogs read this page.
✦ I run a Dragon Age multimuse over at @ourdawncomes.
✧ This blog is oc-friendly and outside of romantic shipping not exclusive.
✦ Credit for the header art of this post goes to Nipuni.
✧ This blog isn’t spoiler free! I will only be tagging endgame spoilers from Jan. 1st 2025. Spoiler tag is #da4 spoilers
✦ You can find me on my personal blog & writing blog @queenaeducan / @queenaeducan-writes
About Solas
✧ Solas is not strictly canon compliant, I have been writing him for ten years and have my own share of headcanons/interpretations that do not align with canon.
✦ He is pan/asexual and agender, using he/him pronouns in the King’s Tongue but open to any pronouns (he/she/they/etc) in Elvhen. This isn’t a secret, but he also doesn’t necessarily come out about it as he doesn’t expect it to be understood.
✧ My canon/default Inquisitor is Thora Cadash as written by myself over on @ourdawncomes, I’ll tend to use her if an Inquisitor is needed to establish setting, but obviously am open to writing with other Inquisitors and other blog canons.
✦ Solas is single ship, he will only be romantically shipped with @theshirallen, a companion OC written by Joly. This ship is canon divergent, as Solas doesn’t abandon his decision to tell Ian the truth in the Grove.
✧ More interpretation notes can be read here.
About Me
✧ My name is Tas. I’m 30+ and I use she/her pronouns.
Non-binary Lavellan/Solas. Rated M.
Chapter Summary: It is the morning after the Breach was sealed, and Thora must determine how to get the Inquisition through the mountains alive while grappling with what it means to be Chosen.
The whole camp smells of survival, fire, and blood, but as they draw near the healers’ tents the smell overwhelms her senses. Breakfast Thora hasn’t eaten turns in her stomach. She knows what she will see from the scent before she arrives: rot in living flesh, the sickening sweet smell of surgery, and a thick fog of sweat. Her hand itches for the pouch of herbs Solas had given her, lost somewhere between here and Haven, but it’s for the best that she can’t dive into it, she thinks. Better the woman they’re meant to trust can look them in the face without blanching.
She peels back the tarp covering the entryway, fabric heavier than any weapon she’s ever heaved. Beyond it, bodies turn in bedrolls and under thin blankets. She’s ashamed to say she doesn’t know more than half of the faces in here, the Inquisition had grown so large so quickly, bigger than anything she’d ever known before.
Written for @daflowerzine. Frame beautifully illustrated by @gellymilk.
WOLF'S WEED. A noxious weed that has grown in alarming quantities around a sanctuary that once freed slaves liberated by Fen'Harel and his forces.
I was inspired by an off-hand remark Dorian makes in Trespasser and the Scottish legend of the thistle. Thank you so much for letting me lend my words to this project. If you're interested, there is currently a leftover sale going on!
Transcript under the cut. Can also be read on AO3.
13th of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon.
The sanctuary is nigh-unapproachable on foot. Our scouts report that the valley is overgrown with a noxious stripweed, dubbed wolfsteeth by the Dalish for how it tears the throat. Though many-a-gardener can attest to its tendency to grow where it is not wanted, to see it in such great quantity is most unusual. I had wondered if it wasn’t planted, and left to grow wild, in the manner of a moat. Raze it, and an errant breeze will choke your soldiers before they reach the gates. The approach will be slow.
17th of Bloomingtide, 9:42 Dragon.
We found evidence of a skirmish amidst the weeds. Time has worn away most of the archaeological markers, but the Dreamer dispatched to us, Feynriel, has proven himself. I remain skeptical about the historical merit of a Dreamer’s visions, but I will record them for posterity.
The hunter’s vision unfolds like the flight of an arrow: forward and through. They know the ground they walk, the target they track. To pass so close to the wolf’s shadow is a heavy risk, but the cost of failing Andruil far surpasses it.
Their throat scratches, then burns. They surrender to the cough.
What appears at first to be a slight shift of the wind surges forth as a gale.Tooth and claw rip and tear, but as the memory fades, Hope chimes out from the heart of the valley.
From the journal of Professor Mahaut of the University of Orlais
Var Shiral'vhen - Chapter 26: Thunder on the Mountain
Non-binary Lavellan/Solas. Rated M.
Chapter Summary: With the Herald still lost to the blizzard, the Inquisition needs to take a risk to find their savior. Ian volunteers to mount the search personally.
“I’ll organize a search party.” Cullen straightens as he turns, shoulders squaring with new purpose. “We can–”
“What? Wait, Commander–” Ian has to take long steps to catch Cullen, imposing himself in the man’s path and nearly getting knocked back for the trouble, the Templar barely managing to stall his forward drive before they collide. “I don’t think–I don’t think sending more people into the snow is–”
“I won’t abandon her to the mountain, not after–”
“Look around you!” Ian’s voice quakes, but he sets his feet and his jaw, determined. “Do you have–have you started counting, yet? How many–how many we’ve lost? Are still losing? A dozen, just in–just in the time since we left the Chantry. We couldn’t even–they’re still where they fell. No pyres, no prayers. I–we–the Inquisition can’t–”
“We can’t do nothing!” Cullen glowers down at him, “And you don’t–”
“I’m not saying that! I’m–I’m saying that–I’m saying that—I’m–” He closes his eyes, forcing breath through his nose before he looks up, meeting Cullen glare-for-glare. “I’m saying that sending more soldiers out there right now is pointless. Even if they knew exactly where to look. Send them out snowblind, and all you’ve done is kill them, and Thora is lost anyway. If the blizzard doesn’t take them, they’re just as–just as likely to find whatever remains of those Templars.”
Non-binary Lavellan/Solas. Rated M.
Chapter Summary: While the rest of the Inquisition retreats, Solas joins the Herald's party in the final push against the Red Templars, then reunites with an old ghost in the Fade.
“You’ve never hesitated to take lessons from the things that make you miserable. How often have we had conversations about the evanuris? About Elgar’nan? About all the tyrannies and ignorance of the world we were fighting for?”
“Too often, I once recall you saying.”
“I’m sure I did. We said many things to each other over the years.” There is as much fondness in his answer as there is reproach. Felassan turns Solas's wrist towards him. “I am posing the question of if you stand to learn something from your happiness.”
“I lost another tooth,” they tell him, grinning wide and sticking their tongue through the new hole.
“What did you do with it?” Daras wonders, finding his knees so he can see them better. He always does that, makes himself small. They don't have to crane their neck to talk to him.
“I put it in the bird's nest outside my window, in between the eggs.”
“Why?”
“It’s the same color. It needed somewhere to belong.”
“I see.” When he stands, he pulls them with him, swings them up so they can clamber onto his shoulders. Their knees knock his ears before they settle, their fingers fold against his crown to cushion their chin. “And when the eggs hatch?”
“The shells don't go anywhere. It still belongs.”
“Naturally.” He keeps one hand on the cross of their ankles as he walks, but they're steady and secure in their seat.
“Where are we going?” Miolvun wants to know.
“I haven't decided.”
“That's good.”
“It is,” he agrees. “I don't have anywhere to be. Do you?”
“Nope.” There are things they should be doing, probably, but they aren't interesting. Daras is interesting, even if all they do is talk and walk. He talks to them, not at them, and that's something different.
He wanders a beaten trail for a while, paths worn smooth by the passage of many feet, before he chooses a less practical route. Daras ducks low enough to spare them the reach of branches, but only if they fold themself against his head. They laugh when their hair snags a limb, tug until the little twigs come away with them, joining their journey.
The morning's rain has made the earth soft, and they hear it squish between his toes. Their own curl, imagining the sensation, but their eyes lift expectantly. There, breaking the sky between retreating clouds and visible even through the slowly thickening canopy, prisms of color arch and spin.
“How do plants live without rainbows?” they ask. Daras glances up, taking in the inspiration for the inquiry before returning one of his own:
“Why do you think they need them?”
Miolvun curls their fingers, the braids beneath their touch coarse and thick. “Rainbows…only happen when there's water in the sky. And then there's light and it makes the water shine. That's everything plants need. But rainbows aren't as common as rain and sun, so how can plants live without them?”
His answer comes slowly, but not because he doesn't know. He knows just about everything, so when he delays it's usually because he liked their question. He turns it over in his chest, lets it linger. Then the conversation moves again.
“If they relied solely on rainbows, they might starve. Plants need the water, and they need the sun, but they don't require them in unison. They can enjoy them separately.”
Miolvun tries a whistle, but the gap in their smile ruins the sound. They cluck their tongue instead, before asking another question.
“Do you think plants would do better if there were rainbows all the time to feed them instead of having to go back and forth? Maybe they would be bigger! Or have different colors. They could drink the color from the sky.”
“If the water is in the sky, it isn't in the ground, which is where it should be to reach their roots.”
That answer is less satisfying. Too practical for their liking, and they let him know it. They can argue with Daras, without too much worry of rebuke.
“That’s sad. Rainbows are much prettier than rain.”
He squeezes their ankles, laughs a little when he says, “There is beauty in rain, too. In the nourishment it brings and the music it makes.”
They spend a little time thinking this over, before they decide that plants are simply doing it wrong. Needing water from the ground isn't smart, when water always comes from the sky, first.
“Plants should learn to drink the water in the air. Then it could always be rainbows and never rain.”
“And who would teach them?”
“Maybe I could.”
Not that they know how to do that, but they don't see any reason they can't figure it out.
“Perhaps! Or they might teach you that the wiser course is to utilize the resources already available.”
They shake their head.
“Rainbows are still better than rain.”
“You are certainly allowed to think so,” he tells them, offering neither argument nor agreement.
They sit comfortably on his shoulders, and he carries them deeper into the trees, and the rainbows above are lost save the occasional glint through the thickening canopy.
“Why do we only have two legs?” There's a bug on their cheek, and they draw their palm beneath it before leaning into his head, dropping their hand to show it to him. “Lots of things have more.”
Daras pauses in his step to consider their new friend and their question, and they lose track of time to the easy conversation and the joy of his company. The stars are out long before he takes them home.
II.
“Why didn't you stay a spirit?”
He sits beside them, and it should be strange. His clothes are fine, threads of gold woven into the autumn of his hair. But there's mud on his bottom, just like there is mud on them. They'll both be frowned at, when they get home, but no one will criticize him. That just never happens. He's too important.
They sit together at the quiet bend of a river, and Miolvun splashes in the shallows as they collect flat rocks. When their shirt is full, they return to his side, and he is watching them carefully.
“Why do you ask?”
“I just wondered. I asked my parents, too.”
“And what was their answer?”
“Mother said she wanted to know what it felt like. She watched people, and they were beautiful, and she wanted to feel beautiful too. Father said he followed her.”
Daras nods, and they settle with their knees in the mud. Their stones slip from the hammock of their shirt and tumble to the earth. Miolvun is deliberate in sorting them, but they haven't forgotten their question, or that he hasn't answered.
“Why didn't you stay a spirit?” they ask again, a cue to indicate they won't be distracted.
“My friend asked me to take a body. She needed my help, and I chose to be a good friend to her.”
“Mythal?” They have heard her name. She is important, too. She is why he has gold in his hair and a tree on his face.
“The same,” he smiles at them, and they feel his affection warm the spring around them.
Miolvun selects two stones. Large and flat, a steady base. They set them a hands width apart, and seek two more stones to set atop them.
“Do you think that's why I did it?”
“You ask as if you are uncertain.”
“I don't remember,” they say, and now there are six stones, two stacks of three each reaching for the other. “But if someone asked me I think I would. If I thought I was needed.”
He is quiet for a long time, watching their little tower of stones build upon itself.
“Is that important to you?”
“It must be,” they shrug. Pick the widest stone. It's thin, but it spans the breach between their towers, joins them in their stretch towards the sky. “There's a reason, isn't there?”
“We make meaning of ourselves,” he tells them. “It is not necessary to seek it in others. Not even your parents.”
“But you have meaning in your friend,” they argue.
He is slow to yield, but he does nod.
“I just think it's important to have a reason,” they persist, setting a stone atop the bridge they've made. “I wanted to know, that's all.”
There's something more, but the words to express it escape them. They want his answer to satisfy. They want it to be the same. They were needed. They answered.
But they don't feel needed. Some days they don't even feel wanted. So why are they here? Why fill these bones at all? Why had they done this? What had it been like, before?
Their frustration makes their hand clumsy, and the tower falters. They have to begin again. They do, teeth driving into their lip as they right the stones.
“Miolvun…” Daras speaks slowly, watching their hands at work. He has a thought, and it's heavy. They can tell, because he sits too still. He is trying to decide if he should talk to them or talk with them.
“Don't treat me like I can't understand things,” they warn him. He doesn't, often, but sometimes he is too gentle. They don't need him to be gentle. They need him to be honest. “Just talk to me.”
“Very well,” he says. “What if they didn't ask you at all?”
Their hands go still, the large bridge precariously balanced.
“Is that what happened?”
“I am uncertain.”
“But you think it is.”
“I suspect,” he admits, the words leaving with a sigh.
“Why would someone do that?”
“To see if they could.” It's an unusually direct answer, and their fingers curl into little fists atop their folded knees as they study their wobbling tower.
“That's not a very good reason.” They reach again, straighten the stones. It stands more certainly, and they pile three more atop the bridge.
“It is not,” he agrees.
“I guess it doesn't really matter at all, then.”
“It matters,” Daras says softly. “You matter. How you begin is less important than how you live.”
Miolvun considers, and they begin to answer. The sound that escapes from their mouth is not words by any measure, however. It’s a startled, strangled cry. Their little tower of stones shudders and collapses as the earth beneath their feet heaves, violent shakes that rip leaves and twigs from the shading trees, and Miolvun scrambles further up the bank, towards Daras, who catches them in his arms and shelters them against his chest.
Magic swells about them. It does not spare them the quaking of the earth, but the tumble of falling debris and the rise of dust does not touch them. Daras soothes his fingers through their hair, murmurs quiet reassurances as they huddle, as they wait. Even when the earth grows still, Miolvun hesitates to move. Daras does not hurry them. Continues the strokes of his fingers, the softness of his words.
They turn their face, freeing themself only enough that their words will not be muffled against his shirt.
“You should be a parent,” they tell him.
He snorts. “Should I?”
“You’re better at it than…than some people.” It isn’t very subtle, but they can’t bring themself to say it more directly, either.
“You keep me quite busy, da’len,” he teases. “I would have no time for another.”
“I wouldn’t get in the way,” they assure him.
He hums a little, shifts his fingers from their hair to their back. Looks out towards the bend of the river, to their toppled pile of stones, the smooth rocks lost beneath fallen leaves and bits of stick. “Do you want to go home?”
“No,” they sigh. “But I probably should.”
III.
They press their face into their pillow, hard enough that their nose scrunches painfully and they can feel their curled fists beneath the downy stuffing.
“They told you.” Daras hovers in the entryway for a moment, and the pull of his air nearly escapes as a sigh. He stifles it, as he crosses the threshold, door slipping shut behind him.
“They told me,” Miolvun mutters without lifting their face.
“You're upset.”
“Nothing gets past Wisdom.” It is a massive force of will not to sit up and chuck the pillow at him.
He would deserve it, but it is the impulse of a child, and they are not a child.
“Miolvun–” he begins, and they don't want to hear whatever is at the end of that tone. It's gentle, which feels like placation. They don't want to be placated. They want to be angry.
“They didn't ask. They never ask.”
He doesn't say anything.
“You didn't ask me, either.” Miolvun turns their face toward the wall, and the drag of their cheek against the fabric wipes their tears away. “You all just decided.”
“I am asking you, now. What do you want to do?”
They laugh, but it isn't funny and the sound is wrong. Bitter, a terrible flavor in their mouth and a twisting in their gut.
“It isn't a question anymore!” They push themself from their pillow, open palm slamming into the soft stuffing. It yields with an unsatisfying oomph.
“I can't actually choose anything. If I said I don't want to go, what would I do? Stay here? They don’t–” they bite away the end of the sentence, steady their rising volume and racing heart with a deliberate breath.
“They made me, and now they don't want me, and,” they accuse pointedly, “you're only taking me because you pity me.”
“Pity is the furthest thing from my mind, da'len.”
“Then what is? It certainly isn't about what I might think.”
“I offered because you are unhappy here, and they were seeking…alternatives.”
There is a lot of implication packed into the word, and Miolvun resists the impulse to pull it apart. They desperately want to know what other plans their parents may have concocted, what other unwanted futures Daras had intervened to prevent. Their gut churns, heat and anger and the knowledge that learning more will only fuel their temper. They focus on the part they can face, the easiest hurt to pick at.
“But you didn't ask me.”
“I should have,” he concedes. “I am sorry.”
“You should be,” they bite, unwilling to release their anger even when good sense tells them he isn't the source.
“I am asking you now,” he repeats himself, calm and quiet in the face of their frustration. “What do you want to do?”
They hit their pillow again. One last childish indulgence, before they drag their breath past their teeth and surrender.
“I want to go with you.”
“You are certain?”
“I would have chosen it, if someone had thought to ask me.” Miolvun sighs, lifts themself to their feet. “When do we leave?”
“As soon as you would like.”
They snort. The illusion of choices, again. They don’t snap at him, though, just shrug. Cross to their wardrobe in search of a bag to fill. “Alright. I just need to pack a few things.”
“We can arrange for someone to bring them.”
“There’s no need.” And there isn’t. The room is littered with their possessions, the detritus of a childhood abundant with toys and trinkets, books and journals. Loose sheet music haphazardly stacked beneath a soft stuffed dragon. When they pick it up, the satin wings droop over their fingers. They toss the dragon to the bed, tuck the music into the pages of a book, prop the book at the bottom of their bag. “I’ve outgrown most of this.”
Daras slips behind them, settles on the edge of their bed. Watches as they pack another book, deliberate in their selection, before they return to the wardrobe and begin to sort through their clothes.
He rescues the dragon from its banishment, and the little wings flop to one side of the creature as he studies it.
“What’s she like?” Miolvun asks, their own hands busy with folding shirts.
They will find out soon, but…they want something. Some reassurance. Some promise that this will turn out to be better. That being given away isn’t the end of everything, even though it is.
“Compelling.”
It isn’t a particularly helpful description, and they huff a little. “Mother said something similar. That the tides rise because the ocean can’t stand to be away from her.”
“A poetic description,” he says, in a tone that suggests he expected something like that from her.
“The tides don’t only rise,” Miolvn points out. “They fall too. If she’s that compelling, the ocean would sit still and stay put.”
“I enjoy my travels,” Daras says. “And I am glad to return to her, when I am through.”
“You are not an ocean.”
“And she does not truly compel the tides. Metaphor is sometimes more meaningful than a direct answer.”
“Or you’re just not sure what to say.” They pull the tie at the top of their bag, cinching it shut. “She’s the All-Mother, Daras. What is she like? What does that mean?”
“When I say she is compelling,” he begins, smoothing the dragon’s wings until they sit more evenly, one on each side of the soft ridges that span its back. “I mean that she inspires. She has a way of making the people around her aspire. It is why they look to her, why they gravitate to her, why we often desire to emulate her benevolence. She makes you want to become the best of yourself.”
“Doesn't sound much like a mother, to me.” And they let their anger seep too long, thickening the air with bitter feeling.
“There are many types of mothers.”
“I don't think I can stand any more of mothers.”
“I doubt she will attempt to fill that role. At least, not in the way you worry.”
Miolvun drops their bag beside him on the bed. Tugs the dragon from his grip to return it to its place on their desk. When they pull their hand back, it disturbs the fidgeting of a little crystal trinket. The hare flits away from their fingers, until they press their knuckles to the desk, palm open in invitation. Clicking, musical notes follow its uneven hopping as it crests their palm.
They lift their hand to study it, then move to put it back.
“Even that?” Daras asks.
“I'm not a child anymore,” they say. They don't need toys any more than they need this room, or their parents’ approval.
“Not all sentimentality is childish.”
“You keep it, then.” They can't quite bring themself to throw it. Turn their palm over his so it slips into the cup of his hand. He catches it, watches as it nuzzles into the hill of his thumb. They'll be alright, they think. So long as they're with him. “We can go. I have what I need.”
IV.
“Where are you going, little shadow?”
Their step stalls, but they are too careful in their walk to risk tipping the over-filled amphora.
There are several courts in visitation, some important meeting. The People's promise and salvation gathered to strategize and work to assure a better future.
“I cannot think of a time I have seen you so far from his shadow. Are you lost?”
“No, Blessed One,” their answer is quick, though it struggles past the sudden dryness of their throat.
Elgar'nan's First draws closer, and they hold very still. Clutch the base and the arm of the amphora with bloodless knuckles. They do not want his attention. They have done well in the unseen places, in being silent and unnoticed.
Fear makes them small, and Enfenras leans over them as they press their back to a wall. He reaches with long fingers, touch cold against their cheek. Smooths a wayward curl from where it has tumbled over the arches of their mask to tuck it back into place behind the taper of their ear.
“You are not long to this place. Being lost is no shame. I cannot imagine you are accustomed to these halls, as yet.”
“I am not lost,” they insist, “though I thank you for your concern, Blessed One.”
“A shadow should not stray far from the one who casts it,” he tells them, and offers them no space to move away even as his touch recedes. “Lest it be left behind.”
A shudder runs their spine. His tone is light, as though he offers nothing more than a passing thought. Layered beneath the words, they hear a warning.
“Your nature is not one to thrive in solitude,” he observes.
“No, Blessed One.”
Their nature is nebulous, they think, and the only right he might claim to find it worthy of comment is his own elevated rank. They disagree with his assessment, but an argument with an enansalen is not their place.
“Enfenras,” Daras's voice is smooth, volume low. They feel the prick of annoyance in his advance, however. There's a stutter in the breath behind his teeth, as though he must file the irritation away before letting the air shape his speech.
Elgar'nan's First straightens his spine, half turning to acknowledge the approach of his counterpart. The First of Mythal's court is his equal, and his friend.
They are still, fingers tight against the amphora. Their gaze flits from one enansalen to the other, waiting for a cue.
“Hello, Daras. I found your little shadow. Were you missing them? Unlike you to misplace your things.”
“They are neither a thing nor are they misplaced. This is their home as much as it is mine, and you are a guest in these halls.”
Enfenras yields easily, taking a single step back and angling his shoulders to open a route for their escape. They keep their steps short and level as they move past him, concerned with the delicate fill of the amphora and the visibility of their own racing heart. They settle beside Daras, resisting an urge to slip into the shadows they have been accused of hugging. Wanting him to stand between them and the tight, tingling aura of Elgar’nan’s First.
“You should keep them close, all the same,” Enfenras says, tilting his head as he watches Daras's face. “Especially in times like these.”
Daras frowns at him, and they wonder if he is assessing the advice for the differences between what is said and what is implied.
“We should go,” they murmur. “The wine will get warm.”
Daras nods, gesturing for them to lead. They do, and he falls into step beside them as they ease past Enfenras. They both wait until their path has carried them several corridors away before speaking.
“It's the last amphora of the winter wine,” they tell him. “It will be seasons before another batch is ready. There wasn't a timely frost to chill the grapes. But I told them it was for you and Anvallar.”
“You would rather talk about the wine?”
They shrug carefully, then answer the question he poses without asking.
“He told me you would abandon me, too.”
“Ah.” When Daras sighs, it is with his whole chest, shoulders leaning into the emotion. “The things we fear are often projected onto others.”
“No one is going to abandon an enansalen,” they say.
“You have no reason to fear it, either.” They want to believe him. They want to trust in his words and the warmth that spreads from him, the fondness and affection he offers with the reach of his magic.
They know, though, that a person is only allowed so many mistakes before their presence becomes more a burden than boon. They count theirs silently, tallying a ledger in their mind as they walk. Hope the scales balance in their favor.
“Thank you,” is all they say.
V.
The halls glitter. Bright light from blazing sconces, the flutter and flit of visiting wisps.
They fight the urge to shade their eyes, to rest. Each glint drives directly into their skull, and they lower their face. Their step slows, and Anvallar's hand at their arm tightens.
“Neravir,” she begins, and they shake their head.
That isn't their name, though they are far too cautious to refute it. One does not deny the All-Mother her boons.
“Neravir,” she says again, and they lift their face. “What ails you?”
“Nothing,” they assure. “Lost in thought.”
She frowns at them, but the air shifts. They feel it before she does, force ignorance until she looks first. Follow her gaze.
Daras stands in the entryway.
And oh, they miss him. Since waking, they have been consumed by the aching places they need him to fill. The promises and reassurances and protection that feel too distant in the turbulent sea of the world they have returned to.
Does he know their name? If he says it, will it fit? Will it feel as though it might belong with them?
He pauses. He bears all the signs of having returned from dreams that carried him into the wilds. Hair disheveled, clothes stained. Unfit for court, but all criticism slides away. He is the First. He is her chosen.
They search his face, and cannot name his expression. There is a twitching to his breath. Surprised to see them.
They are anchored to Anvallar’s side. They would prefer to be anchored to his.
“Lethallen...” he breathes. It fills the room. It is for them. Only for them. Relief and joy and something that stings of regret.
They do not speak. They watch him. Careful, guarded. The edges of their vision curl with the lingering influence of flame. Smoke tightens their lungs.
“I have missed you,” he offers, stepping closer. Anvallar squeezes their arm, but she releases them.
They measure their step. Reluctant to display enthusiasm. Reluctant to offer anything that might later be a knife to twist.
He reaches first. Touches their cheek, as if searching for the scars they've hidden. His thumb skirts the gold of their mask, finds the bare skin of the bone beneath their eye.
“Lethallen,” he says again.
“Hello, Daras,” they offer.
His hand moves. He catches them first by their shoulder, pulling them forward. They allow it, lean into it. Let him wrap them, first, before their own hands lift.
“Are you–” They tighten their hug, force the question away.
“I missed you, too,” they murmur. Quietly. Only for him. A truth that feels private. His hold tightens, and their mask bites their skin where they bury their face in his shoulder.
There is security in his embrace. They are reluctant to loosen their hold.
They do it anyway.
“I am well,” they lie. “How are you?”
“Neravir,” Anvallar says behind them. “She is waiting for you.”
“I’m sorry,” they say. Their voice is soft, quiet. All their edges worn smooth. Daras catches their fingers, squeezes their hand. They return the gesture, and then they pull away. “I’m coming.”
Characters: Solas, Original Ancient Elvhen Character(s), Non-binary!Lavellan
Pairing: Solas / Original Ancient Elvhen Character(s), Solas / Non-binary Lavellan
Fandom: Dragon Age
Rating: E, Chose not to use archive warnings
Other Tags: Dubcon (not Solavellan pairing), Sex as Self-harm (again not Solavellan), Solas as Wisdom, Elvhenan
Summary: Made to serve as Mythal's wisdom in matters of war, Solas seeks the answer to love's nature through the people he has loved throughout his life.
"Love is taking."
They are young, and their bodies are young. Enfenras looms over him when the question is asked, baring a freckled shoulder to wicked intention. A tremor of pleasure pulses against Ma'daras, the heat of desire tempered by the cold against his naked skin. Long-fingered hands bare his body, laying claim to flesh that was made to be possessed.
Non-binary Lavellan/Solas.
Rated M.
Chapter Summary: Ian is revisited by the violent ghosts of his past as the Red Templars descend upon Haven.
Content warning for disassociation/PTSD.
At his back, the lower level of Haven burns. Smoke rises to choke him, and he must work to keep his strides long, despite the coughs that rack his shoulders, moving with determination until a new sound breaks across the sky. A great roar shakes the sides of the mountain, and even as Brage ducks into the Chantry Ian pivots, eyes traveling to take in the silhouette that breaks across the scarred heavens. Brimstone stings his nose, along with another unmistakable scent, sweeter and sickly. Blight.
“Archdemon.” The word trembles across his lips, impossible and terrible. Denerim swims in his vision, bodies burnt where they had fallen in their flight, and the Archdemon shrieks its challenge. “No…it–no. No!”
It can’t be real. This can’t be real. He’s dreaming, again, assaulted by the fears of yesterday, mistaking the present for the past. The Archdemon is long dead, the Blight ten years gone.
This can’t be real.
🌳 Read it here on AO3 🌱 Start from the beginning
"I believe I have made it abundantly clear that Elvhenan has never known a god's touch. That being said..."
He remembers the heat more than anything. Whether it came from the bell of Ian's pipe, Solas's own magic, or the flush of new affection, it burns at odds with the picture of fresh snow crowning red curls.
"There are altars, nevertheless. Pockets of time, rather than space, where we may devote ourselves to our... indulgences."
"If there are spirits for every emotion and personality trait, are there spirits of mischief as well? What do THEY do?"
"Naturally." Snorting, his smile half-hidden by the hanging of his head, he continues, "The unexpected, for the most part. I might tell you what I have seen, but it will not spare you. I have known spirits of their nature who will shift the energies in a room until you stumble over your own two feet, or whisk the thought from your head when you cross a threshold. Some are less subtle in their machinations, picture breeches- or rather, a lack thereof."
A thought occurs, expression changing by degrees, the faint impression of a furrowed brow coupled with a frown.
"Sera is not a terrible place to begin, in fact, if you were to imagine the chaos they are capable of causing."
Whether that is a mark against Mischief, or a rare victory for Sera, he has yet to decide. Either way, he is certain the comparison would win him no favours with her.
If you could change the course of Miolvun's life, would you? How?
"Miolvun has suffered no shortage of others who would deign to imagine a better life for them. My design, even if meant in their best interests, may be no more welcome than those who come before me."
His hands catch themselves behind his back, eyes flitting down in reflection. A faint pressure bends the air, as though a hand lingers upon the string of an instrument, daring it to sound. "And yet... this is not the life I wished for them. When I imagined what came next"— but 'next' is like water, always slipping between fingers— "it was... gentler.
"There have been few constants in their life. War— and myself. Perhaps when war is finished with them, I must be, too."
