Chapter Text
Ixchel had not exactly planned on returning to Crestwood, after all that had transpired, but when Caer Bronach came into view, she knew that she had to. Of course Charter wasn’t there, nor were most of Leliana’s more trusted agents. The fort was currently populated by an even mixture of Ferelden guards and Inquisition soldiers and scouts. The market road was quite crowded, actually, as traders from Orlais and the Marches came down and headed toward Denerim and Amaranthine.
When Solas approached her from behind and murmured in her ear to follow him, she had hesitated but for a moment. Bull wanted to talk with the scouts to assess the state of their camps out on the coast, and Dorian had pulled out his coin purse as soon as he saw the merchants arrayed about the fort’s courtyard. So, figuring she probably had some time, Ixchel turned and trailed after Solas toward whatever unknown destination he had in mind.
He led her off the road and down a steep slope to the southwest of the fort. Ixchel knew that a steep cliff would meet them soon; they had seen it in the distance from the tavern that held the dam controls. But they skirted the edge of the cliff and continued south, passing below Judith’s small farm, and kept walking. At some point, Ixchel jogged a little to draw even with Solas and hooked her elbow through his.
“It’s a beautiful day,” she prompted.
“Indeed,” he said lightly in reply. “Particularly in the absence of corpses and Regret demons.”
She tilted her head dramatically to the side and directed a sidelong glower up at her partner. “Solas.”
“Ixchel,” he replied in a decidedly unapologetic tone. The only other sign that he delighted in frustrating her was the gleam in his eye; once, perhaps, she might have been suspicious of the easygoing smile on his face, but it had become an almost permanent fixture of late. Even though she knew that beneath it was a Trickster’s cunning plot, the sight of that smile still never failed to warm her heart.
So she gave up. She leaned into his side as they walked and let her head drop against his shoulder. He chuckled and with his opposite hand reached up to pat her on the head. “Your patience will be rewarded,” he promised.
“It always is, with you.” She closed her eyes and smiled into the sun ahead of them. She could feel the waves of light washing across her face; the breeze ran fingers through her hair, and the grass was warm and springy between her bare toes. Solas was wearing leather armor today to protect his arms, and it was well-oiled and silken beneath her calloused hands. As she let him lead her, she traced with one hand the embossed leaves that detailed his vambrace.
He shifted a little, then laced their fingers together. “Here,” he said, and she opened her eyes.
The grass was tall here; it brushed her knees. But taller still were the long, purple flowers that surrounded them among these ruins.
“You aren’t wearing your crown today, princess,” Solas said. “Allow me to provide a substitute.”
“‘Princess’?” she repeated, raising her eyebrows as he pulled away from her to caress a flower stalk. “After all I’ve done to disavow a throne?”
He gave her a wider smile than before. “Ah, but I have far fewer negative associations with princesses, compared to queens, empresses, and goddesses.” He plucked the flower with its stalk and passed it to his other hand. “Particularly after coming to know Cassandra.”
Ixchel followed him and began gathering flowers herself. “But ‘Inquisitor,’ ‘Champion,’ and ‘Rogasha’ghi’lan,’ and ‘arasha’… Do I need more names, ‘ma’lath?”
Solas chuckled. “You are not only my Champion. I am not the only one who follows you as a guide in this world…”
He found a yellow flower growing amid the purple field, and he raised it for her to appreciate. It smelled tart, and its fine bristles tickled her nose. His soft laugh rang out and he chased her as she leaned back—she had gotten some pollen on her skin. She held still as he brushed it away, and then continued to hold still as he caught her chin in his hand and tilted her face up to look at him. His clear, looking-glass eyes drank in her curious, relaxed expression for a moment longer.
“But you have a power in you that is all your own, and matches mine,” he said reverently. “A beauty that only I am permitted to see. Yours is the only command I would heed…”
His words summoned a flush to her cheeks, but she squared her shoulders and drew closer. “So then are you a humble wanderer, Fen’Harel, or a scholar-prince come to woo me?” she teased.
Solas’s breath caught in his throat, as though his laugh had been shocked into silence. “What do you see?” he asked. Beneath the lilting, teasing tone was a note of shy wonder.
“You look far too good in gold to be anything but a prince,” she told him. “Let me find you your crown, then.” Ixchel raised herself onto her tiptoes to kiss him lightly, then pulled away. But he did not allow her to escape his grasp.
"When was I in gold?"
She grinned at him. "In Halamshiral, Dread Wolf," she reminded him. "You had styled yourself as my match. It was like you had seen my outfit ahead of time!"
"Ah," he purred, suddenly quite pleased at the memory. He dropped his hand to the side of her neck and brushed his fingers against the soft skin there. "I do remember. That was unintentional, though...it did please me, at the time."
Ixchel pushed against his chest. "I knew it!"
"No, you didn't," he corrected. He leaned closer. "You were worried. Afraid of what I thought of you...and still you laid your heart bare for me, spoke honestly to me..." His breath was hot on her face as he whispered now, and she blinked slowly, dizzy and warm at their proximity, at his attention. "You were in gold, too. Gold and flame and ash and blood. You had an empire beneath your heel by the end of the night..." His hands traced the shells of her ears as he drew her closer to kiss her gently. "After all you did to disavow a throne, you still deserve a crown."