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Chapter Text

He is led into the prisoner’s cell by a grief-stricken Cassandra. Solas does his best not to lash out at her, knows that her pain runs deep, but her fingers are digging in as she drags him deeper and deeper down the hallway, and he cannot help the snarled “Seeker” that passes through clenched teeth.

As if he too is not reeling from the events of the day. 

And then he sees the prisoner. 

Pointed ears. Small. She is unconscious and barely upright, trembling even in sleep. Sickly green light flickers from her hand, and he zeroes in on that. “That is not possible.”

“And yet, it is.” Cassandra is unmoving behind him, blocking any retreat possible. Her voice is hoarse, from crying or screaming, he is unsure. 

Solas ignores her, and the slight edge to her tone, and walks towards the girl. He sets his staff down next to him as he kneels in front of her, her hair falling to hide her face and he thinks of the forest ground right before a storm. It is brown, but it is of nature his mind goes to when he sees it, of the trees in forests he has roamed, bark he has trailed fingers on. 

Slowly, he reaches for her chin to tip her face up, and the world spins once again.

A rendition of Mythal’s vallaslin graces her cheekbones but not her brow, green in color, and the mark in her hand flickers yet again, making the markings appear as if they dance upon her face. He is frozen. A million thoughts echo loudly - too loudly - in his mind as his eyes sweep over the face that wields his friend's markings. This is a child, there is no other word for the youngness of this young girl, and yet she wields a weapon that has rendered him speechless. 

“ Solas!”

His fingers let go of the woman’s chin, suddenly feeling as if he has been caught and burned. He glances over his shoulder at Cassandra, who has her hand on the tilt of her sword. “Seeker. Is she a Circle Mage?”

“No one knows who she is,” Cassandra growls as she prowls forward, looking down at the woman with barely concealed contempt. “Or what she is. Is she possessed?” 

He jerks involuntarily, standing as he does so. “You have templars that can tell you that answer.”

“I am asking you,” she snarls. 

“No,” he snaps, more bite in that word than he has been willing to show since he has been around this group. “She is not. But you know that.”

Cassandra nods, once. She circles the elven girl slowly before kneeling in front of her. “Who are you,” she whispers softly. “Solas. Can you contain her magic?”

“Seeker?”

She tucks a strand of the girl’s hair behind her ear, and Solas tries not to flinch at the marking on her cheek. “You are… very knowledge when it comes to magic.”

He feels a trap, the noose tightening around him. “I have seen a lot through the Fade.”

“It is chaos out there.”

An understatement. The death of the Divine has thrown everyone off balance, and they are all trying to grapple at any branch of power they can. “I expect it will get worse, Seeker.”

“Of that, I have no doubt.” She stands slowly, wincing as her knee pops. “Keep her alive. We need her alive, and awake. She is the only one who knows what happened.”

“Seeker-”

“You will have all the supplies you need, anything you need.” Her voice leaves no room for argument, and he feels his teeth clenching together. “We need to know what she knows.”

With that, Cassandra sweeps past him and leaves him with his charge. The ground underneath him feels unsafe, as if any small misstep will cause it to open yet again. He goes to the table off to the side and begins to organize poultices and potions. When he finds he has mixed the wrong herbs yet again, he curses softly and turns his body towards the elf. 

She is small, even for elven stature, and looks much too thin. She has shemlen clothing on, mismatched and wrong . She is a mystery, and he is afraid. 

* 

Of two things he is sure as he takes her hand and thrusts it to the rift: this will work, and he is drawn to her. Even before she had stepped towards him, he had been pulled to her without thought. It is something that unnerves him. 

He is grateful for Varric taking the spotlight not soon after their introduction as he works to soothe his trembling hands. She continues to glance at him, drawn to him just as he is to her. 

It continues even after the rift is closed and they are in Haven. 

He stays away, but she finds him rather quickly. He learns she is proudly Dalish, and that settles in his stomach uncomfortably. She talks about her clan and her role at the Conclave and his ears perk up as he begins to ask why her Keeper would care about human affairs at all, but he catches the vallaslin and the words die before they are shaped, and they taste like ash in his mouth.

She questions everything . 

Unable to resist, he tells her of the Fade and the things he has seen, though he is careful to weave his tales in such a way it will not rouse suspicion. Wishing desperately for peace, he finds none as he is drawn to her like a moth. She is bright, and hope radiates from her in a way he has not seen since -

The thought hurts, and he finds himself staring at her when she is not looking. In Haven, she is protective of him, being an apostate mage in the middle of Mage-Templar war is something she takes seriously. She is quick with her words, but sincere.

It is unsettling. 

Her sincerity drips from her lips, a balm to those around her. When she is worn out by all of the interactions she has with the people around her, she seeks him out. And so he answers her questions, sees them fly across her face at an alarming speed. 

And then she makes a quip - small, really - something about her focus, and when he replies that seeing that focus be dominated would be fascinating, color washes her face. Not in embarrassment but in eagerness, those neverending emerald eyes lighting up as she grins as her thoughts turn to subject matters very much not academic. Her small hum of appreciation at his words has his blood thrumming in anticipation. 

He finds he could get lost in those eyes, if not for the vallaslin on her face. They are green, and the marking complements them well. He hates that he appreciates the beauty it gives her. 

It is not until their conversation turns to the Dalish that he sees a flicker of anger in this woman, and when he is alone with his thoughts, he relishes the fire in her eyes as she refuses to back down from his words. Careful, careful . But he finds he cannot when she pushes him on the Dalish’s world view, and it is just another reminder of how wrong this world is. Still, he does what he can to minimize the damage done by his words but he finds he does not have to worry, for her anger fades as quickly as it came. He learns she does not hold onto her annoyance, and her pride washes away to her thirst for knowledge and the answers he gives her. 

It is not often he has seen pride turn away so quickly, if ever.

He looks forward to her visits, even though he knows it is foolish to form attachments with any of them. 

Still, he learns her name and finds it rolling on his tongue when he finds out her name. Although she doesn’t openly reject the title of Herald, she insists he calls her by her name—Thienna. It feels foreign on his lips but melts effortlessly as he speaks it.

A knock on his door takes him by surprise. The hour is late, the dinner bell has come and gone, and most everyone is in their sleeping quarters or finding comfort in the tavern. He crosses his cabin easily and opens the door to find her there. 

“I - Herald?”

She smiles at him, dipping her head quickly. “I went to the tavern after dinner. It is… loud.”

As if to give her story credence, a roar of laughter rings out from the tavern. She smiles again, tilting her head at the sound. 

“Then I went to the Chantry, to see if I could help the advisors with anything, but I was told I had done enough for today and was sent on my way. I thought I would sit there for awhile; there is such beauty in their idols and statutes. I… people kept coming up to me for a blessing or a chat and I…” Lavellan sighs deeply and shakes her head. “I am sorry.”

Solas blinks. “Why?”

Her head jerks up at this, brow furrowing. “Why?”

He smiles patiently. “Why are you sorry?”

Her cheeks color yet again as she looks away. “I am not who they think I am. I hardly know anything about the Maker or Andraste, and yet… I cannot take their hope away. The way they look at me, Solas. It breaks my heart. I know that yearning. We pray to our gods and have our rituals with the hope that someday they will be freed and help us.”

His skin prickles uncomfortably. “You feel like a god?”

A surprised laugh escapes her. " Gods , no! I am saying this poorly, it seems.”

“Would it help to step inside where it is warmer?”

She freezes. He has not seen her do that and finds he is curious as to what he has said to cause this reaction. The Dalish are not known for their shyness in close quarters, where they must move quickly and without much privacy. He watches her glance behind her shoulder once again before nodding rather stiffly. He has not felt this much curiosity in his bones in a very long time, not over someone as primitive as this young woman is. 

“I did not mean to intrude,” she says at last as she spies the cup of tea and book lying on the table. 

“Think nothing of it,” he says quickly as he gestures to a chair. “I was merely passing time.”

Her lips quirk up to the side in a small smile before she settles across from him, eyes focused on the fire burning behind him. “I found I could watch the campfire for hours, back in my clan. It was never the same, each flame different, and something about night watch filled me with peace. Hearing the rest of them sleep while I alone had the responsibility of watching over them, it was not a duty I took lightly.”

He lets her speak, finds he cannot tear his eyes away from her. Her words are steady, and despite her quiet voice, she is strong. While he could do without the Dalish traditions, he finds he would happily listen to them if she is the one telling them. 

Finally, she lifts those emerald eyes towards him, and her brows furrowed. “That is how I think of being Herald. Just another night watch that is taking much too long to be over. I keep thinking that someone who knows what they’re doing will come along and fix this.”

Her mark flares slightly, as if in protest. 

Solas’ tears his eyes from her face to her hand. “As I said before, it seems you hold the key to our salvation.”

She clenches her hand closed, and the moment grows tense. 

“That is… a heavy burden.”

Lavellan looks up wearily at him through thick lashes, sorrow swimming in her eyes. “It is not one I take lightly. If we can’t fix this, it’s not just these people that would fall. My people… We have suffered enough.”

She has no idea. Solas leans back, takes a steady breath. “Suffering is a part of life, da’len.”

Pink floods her cheeks once again, and her lips curl up. “I have been called that my whole life-”

“All twenty-something years of it?”

She laughs. “Yes. A very short one, I will grant you. But never has that word made me feel as small as when you say it.”

That brings him up short. His eyes widen. “Herald, I did not mean -”

She waves her hands at him, there is no anger on her face. “I did not mean it as a slight, Solas. I… quite like it when you call me da’len. It reminds me of home.”

Her voice is full of yearning. He imagines her on aravels, her hair free of the long braid she now wears it in. He has seen her in the Hintherlands, plucking herbs easily and with care. When she thinks no one is looking, she digs her toes into the soft ground beneath her and hums happily. She tips her face up to the sun, letting its rays hit her face until Cassandra nagged her to watch for damage to her skin. Days later, freckles dusted the bridge of her nose and she grinned widely while Cassandra murmured under her breath about insufferable elves. 

“I imagine this place is no home.” He says at last, when the silence has stretched for too long.

Her head tilts at this in reflection before she says, “It is different but… I find the more I do to help and feel less like I am responsible for what they think I did… it feels like it could be a home.”

He finds himself wishing it could be true. 

Chapter Text

He cannot stop thinking about their kiss in the Fade. It infuriates him to feel like a lovestruck fool, the taste of her mouth intoxicating him. He aches for the touch of her lips against his, emboldened by the courage in her reaching for him in their dream.

If she knew… 

But she does not, and when she pushes him - gently, for she is not demanding - he finds he cannot deny her. Does not want to, but needs to have her. In his youth, he bedded many women and knows that he could have her weeping in ecstasy before him. Just thinking about it has him shift uncomfortably as he feels himself swell, knowing that when he lays in bed tonight, his thoughts will be of her. 

He does not wish to take her, not like that. 

He should not want to take her at all, she is everything he sees wrong with the world, with the mistakes he’s made. She and her people have paid the price and are oblivious to the true weight of his regrets. 

Mythal’s markings taunt him, every blessed branch gracing her cheeks stretched out towards him as if mocking him. His fingers had curled around her face during their time in the Fade, as she gasped at the ferocity of his need and then pressed against him. When he opened his eyes, his fingers lay splayed over the branches, and he dropped his hands to his side, feeling sick. Wanting to take her, right there and then.

It is so very confusing. 

Especially when she stared at him, glassy-eyed and disoriented, holding herself as if she too could not stand the absence of his body.

She is a child.

He tells himself this, over and over, whenever his thoughts turn to her. She is a young woman, her future ahead of her, and he has no business being interested.

And he is not, not really. He finds her fascinating, this is true. She defies all expectations at every turn, the mark on her hand should have killed her instantly. Instead, she uses her power to better the world, eager to right all wrongs. 

She is not a great beauty, and he has seen his fair share. Lavellan keeps her looks natural, and he finds that fascinating. Her eyes carry the slightest hint of liner, and her lashes are coated in the lightest of mascara. Beyond that, she wears no other decoration on her face (besides the blasted markings), and the most she does is allow her handmaiden to braid her hair in a coif every morning when they are in Skyhold. 

When they are on the road, she revels in freeing her hair, waving her head happily as the wind blows through it. She laughs freely as she says Josephine would not approve of the Herald looking so wild. And yet, every Inquisition soldier they meet does not see her as a wild thing, a Dalish oddity. They see beyond that and it infuriates her, yet she says nothing. She does not lecture them on her people, but goes out of her way to help them whether they have pointed ears or not. 

Eventually, Josephine stops suggesting that Lavellan wear her hair up in a dignified manner that would befit a leader and begrudgingly agrees that she is rather gorgeous with that mane of brown rippling down her back. 

Solas found himself agreeing, not entirely enjoying the diplomat’s shrewd eyes.

The Tevinter magister becomes an unexpected friend to her, and she delights in that friendship. She is still cautious around Cassandra, and he can see that it rankles the Seeker, although she respects Lavellan’s hesitation. She was, after all, her prisoner, and she has not forgotten how they saw her as the cause of the rift. 

In their quiet moments at camp, he can hear her tell Dorian and Varric in low tones that she is afraid. She is careful never to say it around Cassandra, but when the Seeker is away in her tent, Lavellan’s guard goes down, and she opens up freely. She tells Dorian of her clan and asks of his people. Her face softens as he tells her of his father, and she weeps as Varric tells her the truth about Hawke and the mess in Kirkwall. When he speaks of Merrill, Lavellan all but vibrates when she asks to meet her. There is no condemnation in her voice when Varric tells her of blood magic, only acceptance into her clan, should Merrill want it. 

Solas cannot help but feel bewildered by this contradiction of a woman. 

She eventually warms to Cassandra, Cullen, and even Leliana. She does it the same way she tackles everything else - through endless questions, demanding answers in a way that never feels intrusive. The advisors all fall to her inquisitive nature, and before long, they are valued and Solas cannot help but be awed by the way she leads. At the helm, she is capable, but she always asks for feedback. She is eager to learn and accepts her failings as a lack of understanding rather than a fault within her. She does not accept this lack of knowledge as a reason for her failures, and when she stumbles, no one seems to notice.

He notices, and when she comes to him, he can’t help but feel honored. For so long, he has been at the helm of a revolution, and here she is, doing it in a way that he has not considered before.

She relies on her people, on their expertise, and knows she is not right in all things.

It is disconcerting. 

When she asks about the Dalish and his thoughts, she is guarded now and he feels shame at the way he brushed them aside. If they were able to create this creature, what else has he gotten wrong? 

He can see why she was their clan’s First. She is direct in all of her interactions, and concise in all things. She makes choices and stands by them, admitting her shortcomings in a way he finds humbling. She helps at Haven with making potions and poultices, healing soldiers where she can and gracing them with her presence to boost morale, seeming to actually enjoy their presence whether they are elf, dwarf or human.

Perhaps most bewildering of all is that she does these things not in a way to boost her position but because she cares for them. There is no intricate game he can decipher being played on her end; it is merely who she is. Pride has him scoffing, reminding him that these are simple-minded people doing things just to get by.

Wisdom reminds him that she does them because that is who she is . Lavellan is blinding in all things, and everyone she interacts with is dazzled by her sincerity.

He is no exception, but he sees the cracks in her armor when no one else does. Already, she is flagging, worn down by everyone’s need of her. She does not stop, and cannot seem to falter. He knows how this will end and finds that unacceptable. 

Without him realizing it, he knows a change has occurred, and he will help her succeed. He has his plan, that cannot change, but it can wait until she succeeds against Corypheus. 

When she was lost to them after Haven, the feeling of fear that he has not felt for years clawed at his throat. He tells himself it is because they cannot lose such a valuable asset, but he knows it is a lie. Even now, he cannot imagine a world in which her smile is gone. A world without Lavellan is suddenly one he cannot phantom, and that thought had him reeling, discomfort settling in his bones.

Those bones nearly turned fluid when Cullen brought her to the camp after the avalanche at Haven, nearly frozen and unconscious. He used every ounce of healing magic he had until color returned to her skin, ignoring Dorian as he held her hand and whispered to her in his language. The anchor is different now, he can feel it, and he imagines how terrified she must’ve been to realize this on her own.

He cannot help but feel anguish at the thought of her frightened and alone. 

When she wakes and is sung to by the humans - and what a sight that was, to see one of their people elevated for a moment in time - he calls her over and cannot help the bite to his words as he speaks to her. He can see her face shutter as she realizes she is being spoken to as the leader and not a friend, formality coating her words. He hates it, wants nothing more than to bring out the laughing elf girl he knows, but he must get her where they need to be. 

No one else but her can do it, of that he is certain. 

Their journey to Skyhold is uneventful, and he deflects her questions of how he knows this place once they get there. This is not an ordinary place, she can sense the magic in it and the way the fade feels different. She eyes him with appraising eyes, and for once, he feels as if he is being hunted instead of being the hunter. 

He knows her tenacity could win out, should she set her mind to it. 

And then the kiss in the fade happens and the world is once more not as it seems. 

Solas hears her approach him, soft feet that could be softer should she wish them too, but instead gives him time to finish mixing paint and oils. He glances over his shoulder, and she is studying him intently. Those emerald eyes are narrowed.

“Inquisitor?” 

She blinks once and then smiles, that furrow in her brow gone immediately. “Solas.” 

Silence stretches between them as she approaches him, eyes scanning the wall he is currently working on. She breathes deeply, closing her eyes as she hums. “I wonder if I will ever be able to smell paint and not think of you.”

His heart stutters. He has been many things, but this is the most free he has been able to be. To do things because he wants to, not because it needs to be done. “Do you have smells associated with all of your friends?” He says at last, running a rag through his fingers.

“Just you,” she replies with a smile. Her cheeks turn pink, and she lifts her chin. “Though Dorian does smell of wine, so there is that.”

“Only the best wine, dearest!” Calls Dorian from above, and Lavellan laughs happily. 

Duty and want wrestle within him, and he is lost.

Chapter Text

The elven clan they encounter in the Exalted Plains is polite but guarded. The seller’s outright refusal to trade with them stunned Lavellan, though she hid it well. He couldn’t help but watch her during their initial interaction, his first glance of her in her element. Only to see her be rejected by the very people she felt connected to by virtue of their race. 

He cannot help but feel vindicated- these are the Dalish he knows, ignorant and close-minded. He begins to say as much as she leads them out of the camp but stops short when Cole speaks up.

“They don't see you, not really. Fear curls in their hearts, sharp and cold. Are you theirs, a puppet bound by strings? Or a friend, someone who stays? They want to believe, but the wanting cuts.”

She stops in her tracks, head bowed. A tremor runs across her shoulders, and he finds himself reaching out to her, grief lodged in his throat. But Lavellan looks over her shoulder, that auburn hair swaying in the wind as she smiles slightly at Cole and says, “then let’s give them a reason to believe.”

Her eyes shine brightly with determination as she sets after the golden halla, tending and herding with an ease that frustrates Cassandra. Lavellan ignores her, singing softly to the animal as she follows it back to camp. Before the beast enters the campsite, it turns back, and his heart sinks - it’s done this before, and they’ve had to double back to get it on course. Lavellan freezes, several feet away from the wretched animal, hands in front of her while she makes a low shushing sound. The halla walks towards her and lowers its head, and for a second, they all freeze as they hold their breath to see where it will dart off to. 

It walks, head hung low, until it reaches Lavellan, who mutters a soft “ oh!” of surprise before pressing her own head to the beast’s. They stand like this - elf and halla in a quiet moment, with their foreheads touching and her fingers running softly up and down its neck. She is murmuring to it, smiling as the halla lets out a small huff and nudges her. 

“I would have a sugar cube for you, if we were back home,” he hears her say gently. There is such longing in her voice. “Thank you, for trusting me. I needed this more than you know.”

With that, the animal bleats gently before making its way to camp, where a fair number of the Dalish have been watching this exchange with awe. Lavellan does not approach them and instead inclines her head respectfully before walking away. 

Later that night while they are eating fish and bread, Cassandra clears her throat. Lavellan looks away from the lake reluctantly, eyeing the Seeker wearily. “Inquisitor, if I may ask?”

Solas pretends to be engrossed in a book, knowing that a dry remark is begging to be released from Lavellan’s lips. She does not speak it and instead stares at Cassandra in invitation. 

The woman does not squander the opportunity to speak her mind. By now, none of their companions do. They have been given free rein to speak their minds, and while Lavellan may not always agree with them, she does not belittle or scorn them. 

Solas wonders why she does it. For all her youth, there is wisdom beyond her years behind those enchanting eyes. The words that slip from their companion's lips are often narrow-minded and bigoted. Yet, there is always a pause before Lavellan speaks as if she is truly considering their point of view and reshaping her own view of the world with every interaction.

To Solas, it is a thing beyond understanding.

“How does it not bother you, the way they treated you today?” Cassandra says, at last, heat coating her accent so that every word is clipped more.

Lavellan smiles bitterly. “Who says it doesn’t?”

“We did all those things for them,” the Seeker rages, her face red and splotchy. “You are the Inquisitor, the Herald of Andraste, and they do not trust you!”

“Cassandra, you didn’t trust me.” 

Lavellan’s words are the sharpest he’s ever heard, but he can hear the sorrow beneath them. Cassandra freezes, eyes wide. “I would follow you-“

“ Now. You would lay down your life for me if I asked, now .”

“Of course!”

“ Now.” Lavellan says again, her voice deathly quiet. He can feel Cole vibrating nearby, reacting to her anguish. Wordlessly, he beseeches the spirit not to intervene. “That was not the case at Haven. That was not the case after the Divine was murdered. You had no reason to trust me.”

“I… no. Forgive me, Inquisitor.”

She shakes away the apology, a smile much too sad lifting the corner of her lips. “I do not hold that against you, Cassandra. I only remind you to make you understand. They don’t know me from the Dread Wolf. I am the very figurehead of a human movement. Knife ears or not, I am not one of them. Not anymore.”

Solas has gone deathly still, not daring to breathe. 

Cassandra ponders this, having the grace to look embarrassed. “I only thought… I thought it would be easier, when faced with your people.”

Lavellan laughs softly. “Just because we look alike does not make them my people. The Dalish are all diverse and different. My clan was comfortable dealing with humans, if a bit weary, but my Keeper deemed it important enough to send someone to your gathering.”

A beat, and then Cassandra smiles. “Lucky us.”

“Yes, well.” The mark in her hand flickers slightly, and Lavellan frowns. “I have to believe it will all work out in the end. That whatever path I have to been set on is the work of the gods. Or a god. Who knows. Maybe it was Andraste, having a grand old laugh.”

Cassandra shifts uneasily in her seat, as if waiting for a divine smite to come down from the heavens at Lavellan’s quip. When nothing happens, she takes another careful bite of her fish before sighing. “I am sorry.”

Lavellan waits for a second before raising her eyebrows. “You’ll have to be more specific. I still haven’t forgiven you for being so very angry at the bears in the Hinterlands.”

An impressive scowl crosses the Seeker’s face so quickly it makes Lavellan laugh. “I am sorry for Haven. You did not deserve our… my anger.”

Silence stretches between them, and he can see Lavellan is not as comfortable with it as she is when silence blankets her conversations with him. An odd feeling - pleasure?- ripples through him at the revelation. “Yes, well.” Lavellan looks as uncomfortable as he has ever seen her. “Hindsight is both a gift and a curse, I suppose. As I said, I understand why it happened as it did.”

“You must have been so frightened.”

Lavellan whips her eyes up to Cassandra, guarded and vulnerable all at once. She teeters on this edge before falling and offering her the truth. “I was.”

Something shatters within Cassandra as if the obvious realization is not something that had dawned on her. The Seekers wilts in on herself, a thousand emotions flashing through a face that can hide none of them. 

“You didn’t know, she didn’t know. The not-knowing doesn’t hurt, not if you’re trying, reaching, learning. You both want it, the closeness, the warmth of a friend, but fear knots your hands and keeps your words small. Why can’t you just let it be, let it bloom?”

Heat floods both the women’s faces instantly. Lavellan recovers first, laughing. “Well. Who needs apologies when you have Cole around?”

He materializes next to Lavellan, peering into her face. “I only want to help.”

She smiles warmly at him, stroking his hair away from his eyes. Cole freezes. “I am very glad for your help, my friend.”

“I do, very much, count you as a friend, Inquisitor.”

Cassandra’s quiet proclamation has Lavellan turning, her eyes widening in surprise. Solas, who has spent countless hours studying her, watches as she weighs the woman’s words and finds them worthy. Easily and effortless as breathing, she deems this human a friend. 

His mind is reeling from trying to understand it.

“Once you took the shackles off, I very much started to like you too, Cassandra.”

It is the Seeker’s turn to bark out in laughter, as if Lavellan’s youthful optimism is catching. 

Solas waits until the camp settles for the night before finding Lavellan sitting away from the camp. He hesitates before continuing on his way to her, breath catching as he sees her face tipped up to the night sky, looking as serene as he’s ever seen her. His fingers itch to trail along her cheekbones, her markings be damned. He needs to feel her, to reassure himself that she is real.  

“I can hear you thinking all the way from here, Solas.”

He smiles. “My apologies. I did not wish to interrupt.”

She looks over her shoulder at him, a smile blossoming over her face. “Pity. Here I am hoping you’d be the very person to interrupt.”

A chuckle escapes him as he finishes making his way to her, settling down easily next to her. “I had thought you wanted peace.”

“I wanted to be me , just for a bit. I can’t be that at camp. Out here, where it’s just me and the open sky… it makes it more bearable.” 

He considers her words, feeling sorrow at how much chafe she has under the mantle of Inquisitor. “Tell me of your clan, da’len.”

Her eyes turn weary and questioning instantly. “You don’t care for the Dalish, Solas.”

“I have not had the best interactions with them, that much is true,” he concedes after a moment. “But you are everything I would not expect from them. I would like to know more about it.”

“Would it not be easier to see it in a dream?” She teases him with a slight nudge. “Although there have not been many battles that we have been a part of for you to witness, Mythal be praised.”

The name said so easily from her lips has his stomach dropping. His face is a mask once more, taking care to make sure his voice is even when he replies. “That is worthy of praise indeed. You must have a remarkable Keeper.”

At this, her face softens. Stories pour out of her, tales of a woman who leads their clan in a remarkable way, and Solas can understand why Lavellan leads as she does. She tells him of sickness that came to the clan and how she and the Keeper worked tirelessly to save many of the sick. Her voice thickens with sorrow as she tells him of the ones she couldn’t save, the children she held as their parents fell apart next to her. How her healing power blossomed first, but lighting has been her calling, the one that has truly shined throughout her life. She used it sparingly until she joined the Inquisition, and she still cannot stand the smell of charred flesh; how she bathes with oils and scents whenever she can, and still, she cannot get rid of the smell from her mind. A tale of a bonding ceremony has him smiling as she demonstrates the binding she helped the Keeper perform, and then her voice dips yet again as she tells him that a band of bandits killed the bride and she had to perform a different kind of binding when she helped send her off into the beyond. The tale of getting her markings comes up, and she admits she still does not feel worthy of them, as if she has not done enough for the goddess she worships. How she spent a week in solitude to prepare for the ritual, praying to the entire pantheon for guidance on how to lead and protect, and she felt Mythal’s calling stronger than all the rest. 

He feels fear at this, as if perhaps Mythal truly did seek her out as a vessel. There is nothing to suggest this beyond the markings on her face, but he could see Mythal choosing her as a champion, a light so bright it would be a beacon for anyone to claim. 

She speaks with love for her gods and tries not to feel the heartache that will claim her later when the truth comes out, and she is robbed of that history. It will be a reckoning for all elves; he knows this, but he does not know all the elves in Thedas. He knows this one and wonders if there is a way to spare her of this pain.

He knows he can do nothing to prevent what is to come. 

Lavellan tells him that she has begun to learn more of their language beyond the basic phrases she knows from her clan. She laughs embarrassingly as she tests a couple of them out, her accent thick and clumsy, and he feels inexplicably proud. A child, he tells himself once again, trying desperately to learn of her people. She admits her talks with him have prompted her to learn the language and probe beyond the history she knows.

He is unsure if he should be honored or terrified.

Silence finally settles between them, and Lavellan tips her face to the sky again. The moonlight bathes that face, caressing every angle with reverence. There are fewer lines on her face now, fewer worries lining that brow. Her long legs are spread out before her, and she wiggles her toes happily. “Thank you for letting me talk.”

“I enjoy learning about you”. He says it honestly, though he knows this is dangerous. They are meant to be nothing, these people he woke up to. He cannot deny that Lavellan is more than just another elf in his mind. She has become a spirit he cannot imagine life without.

She exhales softly, murmuring, “Sweet talker,” as she tilts her face up to him.

He moves without thinking and meets his lips to hers. The kiss is chaste, nothing compared to the one in the fade, but it rocks him to his core. It is innocence and purity, everything he is not, and he digs in eagerly. He is suddenly parched, desperate to drink in every gasp and moan she makes. She pulls back gently, rubbing her nose against his playfully, and rises. 

The moon covers her, a blanket illuminating her form. He leans back and looks at her, heart racing as he wills her to return to his side. Wills her to run away. He is unsure which he wants more of, and that is the most terrifying feeling of all. 

“I am scared of falling for you, Solas.” She admits softly. “I fear it is too late, as it is. I can’t stop thinking about you.”

He is silent as his heart beats in his throat. “It would be wise,” he says after a moment, his voice thick with lust and sorrow. “For you to stay afraid. This can only end in heartache, vhenan.”

She smiles sadly. “I never meant to get this deep. With anyone. But gods, I am glad it is you that holds my heart.”

With this, she walks back to the camp, calling out her hellos to those still there. He tracks her all the way back to her tent with his eyes, sees her stop before she enters and looks back at him. They lock eyes and there is an entire conversation between them in that beat of that second.

Run away, he tells her.

I am yours , she replies.

She goes in, and Solas releases the breath he has been holding, his head bowed. She will be the end of him, and he finds that as long as she is there next to him through it all, he will consider the journey worth it. 

Chapter Text

He finds that Lavellan can, in fact, anger him.

Her choices with the Wardens left him baffled and angry as if she had not lived through their mistakes and had to fix them. And yet she gives them another chance, one they do not deserve, and she stands by it. 

He cannot fault her for it; a choice had to be made, and she made it. Or so he tells himself.

Because whenever he thinks about it, he does fault her. It is the first major thing he disagrees with her about, and when he confronts her about it, she bares her teeth at him and snarls a curse. 

“You left a perfectly innocent man in the Fade, Inquisitor!”

Lavellan rocks back on her heels, angrily planting her hands on her hips. “I could not do it, Solas!”

“Make the right choice? That much is clear.”

“Leave Hawke in the Fade!” She shouts, cheeks red and splotchy. “I could not bear to tell Varric that after all of that, I left his friend to die.”

Solas blinks. “Death is a part of life. We encounter it daily.”

“And I carry each death with me,” she responds sincerely. “But this was different. This was someone who has suffered much already, she has bled and wept for her city. She has friends and a lover, and I knew her, so I made a choice. Perhaps it was the wrong choice, and I will carry that consequence with me for the rest of my days. But I could not bring heartache to a friend, not when I could prevent it. I was selfish, and it cost someone their life. You don’t think I know that? You don’t think I will think about that every time I close my eyes?”

“You cannot make choices based on emotion,” he says at last, not giving up. “You lead a movement bigger than you or any of us. You cannot allow your emotions to lead you when the fate of Thedas rests on your shoulders.”

“Like hells I can’t,” she spits angrily, the mark on her hand flaring. “If I am expected to throw myself into the fire repeatedly, I will do everything I can to prevent more heartache. I know what my failure means, I am not ignorant to that. But gods , I am so tired of loss. I am so tired of telling someone that their loved one has passed on. I am so tired, vhenan.”

She sags before him, and he curses softly. He crosses the space between them and holds her, feels her sobbing quietly into her chest. “Forgive me.”

“I was not meant for this,” she whispers at last, her voice hoarse. “I am just a backward elf from a Dalish clan that doesn’t understand the bigger game everyone else seems to be playing. I am not meant to make these decisions, and I anger everyone with my choices. I try not to let it affect my decisions because if I don’t have my choices, what do I have at the end of the day? The advisors stand by my choices, but I know that, more often than not, I create more work for them with those choices. I swear I’ve heard Josephine pray to the Maker whenever I stand before her, and she reads some report about what stupid thing I’ve done now.”

“You are not some backward elf,” he murmurs into her hair, breathing in lavender and cloves that she uses in her bath. “You are doing the impossible.”

“Not well, it seems”. She leans back to look up at him. “You are not the first to disagree with my choice.” 

“Nor will I be the last, I am sure”. He smiles ruefully at this, kissing the tip of her nose, and receives her laughter as a reward. “I am sorry. I speak of emotions not being the ruler of your decisions, and here I am, letting my own berate you for making a difficult choice.”

She is silent, eyes fluttering shut as she lets out a slow breath. “I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t leave Hawke in the Fade.”

“She has become someone you care about.”

“Can you blame me? She is infectious with her humor, life has not been kind to her, and yet she remains as she is. I find her spirit comforting.”

“That is not the word I would use for her,” he laughs. “She is everything Varric said and more.”

“She’s invited me to Kirkwall once this is over. It feels… odd to be making plans with a friend I’ve made.”

Solas raises his eyebrows. “You have many friends here, ma sa’lath”.

“You were all forced to be my friend by virtue of our journey,” she replies with a grin, the grief slowly fading from her eyes. “I did not expect, however, to want to be Hawke’s friend.”

“I am sure Varric is rather grateful you two got along.”

Her head tilts to the side in thought. “Perhaps. Though I swear, I saw a bit of fear in his eyes when he saw Hawke plotting.”

“You were not plotting as well, my love?”

At the look of indignation on her young face, he cannot help but laugh. There is so much riding on her shoulders, yet she cannot help but be herself through it all. “I do not plot,” she says at last with a quick nip to his earlobe. He groans beneath her as blood races from his head. “I plan my actions carefully.”

“Is that what you call it?” He grounds out through gritted teeth.

“It’s what I’m trying to call it,” she murmurs beneath his lips as she grazes his lower lip with her teeth. “Definitely not plotting. Definitely trying to get you in my room.”

Alarm bells, distant but clear, go off in his mind. He takes a steadying breath, or tries to, as her nimble fingers work their way from his jaw to his neck, down his chest until finally-

“ Vhenan ,” he hisses in a breath, colors swimming before him so reminiscent of the world he remembers. 

“ Solas,”   she parrots back, holding him between her hands, his linen pants doing nothing to hide the heat radiating from her hands. “Do not think, my heart. Just for one night, I wish not to think.”

“You do not know what you ask.”

She peers up at him, eyes determined. “I am not a maiden if that is what worries you.”

He thinks of her withering beneath another and chokes back a snarl as if he has any right. She does not know, and he will not take her until she does. It is not right -

“You do not know me,” he moans as she moves her hands into his breeches, eyes floating up to ensure Dorian stays in his alcove. The last thing he needs is for the mage to make remarks about this encounter during their next journey.

As if reading his thoughts, she glances up as well and smirks. “I can be louder if that is what you fancy.”

“Do not-“

She laughs, swallowing his oath with a kiss. She pushes, but it is not intrusive, and he finds he wants to push as well. He wants her - desperately - and knows that if he crosses this line, he will never forgive himself.

“Inquisitor-“

At this, she lets out a curse that causes a strangled and surprised laugh to escape him. “That is not who I am,” she says at last when she comes up for air, eyes blazing and face determined. “Not with you.”

Not with you. 

The phrase rocks him, a chorus of feelings too vast for him to grasp. He takes a breath, his mind drunk on the smell of her, and closes his eyes. It is not his duty that will stop him from doing this with her, he knows this now. She knows but a layer of his life and stories, and he finds he wants to tell her everything. Out of all that is wrong with this world, he has found a spirit within her that he will be lost in. Colors brighter than anything he can put on his walls live within her, and he wants to dig his hands in and pull up the essence of Lavellan to understand how she can be so unchanged by this duty thrust upon her. 

“Solas?” Her voice brings him back to the present, where she is peering at him hesitantly. “If I overstepped-“

“ No ,” he says quickly, running his fingers over her cheek. She leans into the caress gratefully, and he knows that she worries about everyone’s feelings before her own and will question if she finally pushed too far. “It is not you.”

She stills beneath him. 

Solas kisses her again, gently this time. “I fear I am not as good at this as I used to be.”

“Seduction?” She asks with a quirk of her brow, smiling easily. “That I can see. I am basically throwing myself at you.”

From up above, a disbelieving chuckle is heard. 

She glares up at Dorian, a retort ready to fly from her lips.

He places his hand on her chin, pulling her attention back to him before she can let it fly. “Perhaps we can go somewhere more private?”

“I hear she has an excellent room!” 

“You have the ears of a bat, you awful brat!” Lavellan calls out to Dorian, scowling in earnest, before she takes Solas’ hand and leads him out into the great hall and towards her chambers. Dorian’s reply is unheard by either of them, though they can hear glee in it. Her cheeks are flushed and lips swollen from his kisses, and he wants nothing more than to finish what she started. 

Focus, he tells himself sternly.

The memory of his younger days calls back in mocking laughter. When needs came to rise, he took and took without caution, desperate to fill a void he could not comprehend in this body of his. 

It was Lavellan all along he had been waiting for; he is sure of that now. It feels impossible to have this spirit just land in his lap as a gift, and he thinks of all he has done.

He is not worthy. 

She does not care.

“You do not know me, lethallan.” He begins with the most obvious truth, the simplest one, as they cross the threshold of her room. 

Lavellan releases his hand and walks to her writing desk, propping a hip against it. “If that is a requirement for every dalliance, I am afraid I have failed some of them.”

Solas stills. “This is not… just a dalliance. Not to me.”

She takes a breath and holds it. Those eyes search his, finds her answer in them. “I did not mean to imply it was one for me either. I just mean… shit, Solas. The world could very well end tomorrow. Corypheus may end me and the idea that… I might leave this world and not be yours… it actually scares me.”

“You are not going anywhere,” he growls. The very idea hurts . He clasps his hands behind his back before he can rush to her and tip her back, sink into her want for him. “I am yours, vhenan.”

Tears spring to her eyes, and she looks skyward, embarrassed. Her arms cross over her body, protecting herself from a hurt she cannot seem to describe. “If you do not want a physical relationship, I am fine with that. Just… tell me. I hate feeling like I’ve violated some line I am unaware of every time you pull back. That is not who I am, and I don’t ever want to push myself on you. On anyone. You deserve to be yourself, as you are.”

Oh, he melts. It is an odd sensation. Something dislodges within him, an old hurt he has ignored for too long. With every safeguard he has put in place to protect her, she tears down, and she is ignorant of this. “I wish, very much, to bed you.”

“To bed me?” She snorts playfully as her cheeks redden. “I forget you are older than me. Next, you’ll tell me you are courting me.”

Solas levels a look at her and feels a shiver of thrill travel up his spine as she freezes. He slowly walks towards her, hands still clasped behind him. Her breath hitches, coming out in rapid puffs as he stops before her. “We are well beyond courting, would you not agree?” He murmurs as he brushes his lips over hers. He takes her soft whimper beneath him as his answer and smiles against her lips. “I wish to lie with you and linger for days, where the weight of duty fades, leaving only the devotion we owe to one another. There is nothing more I desire in this very moment but to bury myself in you, losing all memory of time as I carry you to your own climax. I want this, and more, vhenan. I am not content with stolen moments and quick couplings. When I have you, I want to be able to enjoy you. Every inch of you.”

“I can have Josephine pencil that in,” she gasps as he trails kisses down her neck to her collarbone before stopping where her heart beats. “I am almost positive that I can call in a few favors to be left alone for several days as the Inquisitor. She would call it self-care or such nonsense. She told me that if I needed to focus better, she would arrange it.”

He chuckles breathlessly against her skin at her words.  “Be that as it may, most of all… I want you to know what you are getting into when I do all these things to you. If I were to do so now, when you know so little of me…”

Her eyes flutter open, somehow both dazed but focused on him as his words sink in. “Is it my permission you need, Solas? Or yours?”

“I am merely trying to give you a way out-“

“Do you see me asking for one?” 

“You do not understand. You do not know me.”

She flicks her fingers, landing a sharp tap square in the center of his brow. It is so unexpected and sudden that he stumbles back a step. Before him, Lavellan is aroused but quickly working herself to mad . “If you say that one more time , I swear to… to… Andraste’s tits that I will open a rift to swallow you whole.”

He is unsure which one is more surprising - her use of Andraste’s name as a curse or her promise of violence via a rift. A startled laugh chokes out, and he lifts his hand in mock surrender. “Inquisitor-“

Another flick, this one so fast he does not see it coming.

“ Vhenan- “ he gasps. 

“I know you . As you are, now, in this very moment,” she snaps at him as she advances on him. “I am sure you have regrets and mistakes in your past. So does everyone else. Pick any one of our companions who does not have a single regret holding him or her back. Wait. Maybe not Sera. I honestly don’t know if she regrets anything. That is beside the point! ” She slashes the air angrily as she ends her own argument with herself. “Vhenan, whatever you have done, or you have failed to do if you ever feel safe enough to tell me, I will listen. I will not judge. I will be there for you, whatever it is because I love you. And whatever that person was back then, whatever they did, they are not you now. I may not know all of you, Solas. But I see who you are now, and I very much want to spend my time with that person.”

There is no sound but that of the fire crackling and her heavy breathing. Her words echo in his mind, words he will treasure for years to come. He knew she had come to care for him, knew it went beyond companionship. He knows Lavellan enough that each of her words is measured against her sincerity, that she would not lie about this. Two gifts, given in the span of a heartbeat.

She sees him as he is.

She loves him. 

He can do nothing but lower his brow to hers, his own breath coming out in a shudder as reason and sanity fly out of his head. She does not approach him now and instead lets him lead the pace. It is only when he takes her hands and places them on his sash that she locks eyes with him, releasing her own breath as he gives her a small nod. While she works on his tunic, he slips her own over her shoulders, letting it fall to the ground around her. He cannot help his groan as he studies her, half-naked from the waist up and looking at him coyishly. “It was a rest day,” she says with as much dignity as possible while one is bare before another. “I didn’t think I needed to bind myself while we were here.”

Solas knows that he will forever wonder if she is bound beneath her tunic every time they are in Skyhold. He buries his face between her bosom, inhaling a scent so uniquely hers that he feels intoxicated and light-headed. She gasps as his lips close around one breast, his tongue teasing her nipple while his hand tends to the other with equal attention.

She does not forget his own need, and she pulls him up gently by grabbing his face, his own tunic now free to fall to the ground. Before he can take a breath and dive back into the banquet that is this woman, she has undone his breeches and moved aside his undergarments to hold his length in both hands.

He hisses out an elven oath he knows she will not understand, unable to speak in common as she lets out a hum of appreciation. She begins to run her hands up and down, purring in delight when a drop of his need materializes. Lavellan runs her finger to the top of his shaft in a lazy circle, collecting every drop and promptly placing her finger - and his seed - in her mouth before grinning wolfishly.

Colors explode within him. Bright, too bright, the feeling of it bordering on painful. He needs more, and he grabs her around the middle, lifting her as he takes long strides to her bed. This kiss is fierce - devouring each other as they place their lips on any area they can reach. He is hard between them as Lavellan curls her legs around his middle, rubbing herself against him as she laughs. She is wet, so very wet, and he wants -

Everything. He wants it all. 

He deposits her on the bed, and she squeals in delight. Her hair is a curtain of brown around her. If he had to willingly pick a god to follow, it would be this very moment, this very woman. He would do so gladly, over and over again, his life given for hers until she no longer wants it. Him. 

“Stop thinking,” she tells him as she grabs his face and pulls him down. Lavellan runs her fingers over the edge of his ears, hissing in surprise when he nips her own in response. Once again, he begins his journey of her body from the top, driving her mad below with his fingers. 

She is warm and tight and wet . 

Her breaths are quick now, the rise and fall of her chest an indicator of how close she is. He finds nothing he has ever done in his life will mean as much as this, as much as every moment after that he will share with her. By the time he reaches her inner thighs with his mouth, her cries are wordless, and her back is arched. He pulls out his fingers, and she gasps, peering at him over the valley of her breasts indignantly. 

With a smirk of his own, he waves his fingers at her, slick and glittering with her own need on them. She watches, unblinking, as he does as she did, and places them in his mouth. 

“ Solas-“

It is ecstasy, it is madness, it is beyond his wildest dreams. It is nothing that he could conjure on his own, the taste of her on his lips, tongue, and mind. He must have more; that is the only thought that rushes fiercely through his body, and he dips his chin to her center and waits for her to look at him before he feasts. 

Her cry pierces through him, his arousal throbbing painfully against his skin as her approaching climax only seems to intensify his desire. He feels her trembling beneath his hands—one cupping her breast, the other gripping her hip—while his tongue circles her most sensitive spot, drawing her closer to the edge.

She comes. 

It is sudden, and he is ready for it, drinking at the well to quench this new thirst. He groans against her, and she calls out his name again at the sensation. She is still so sensitive that this small vibration coming from him has her squirming beneath him. 

When he finally emerges from her legs, she is as flushed as he has ever seen her, and her eyes are focused on him. Letting him set the pace once more, he knows, and he finds he is unusually touched by this. His ever-thoughtful vhenan, worrying about him as if he has not just caused an explosion within her.

“I am going to bed you now,” he says softly, smiling when she laughs. 

“About damn time,” she replies and sighs happily when he positions himself at her entrance. She takes his hands in hers, fingers interlocked as he pushes past the folds slowly. 

There are no words for this feeling—this all-encompassing sense of rightness. It is like returning home after a long journey, stepping through the door to find everything exactly as you left it. Like the first step onto solid ground after months at sea, a grounding certainty that all is well so long as the earth remains steady beneath you. This moment is the light in the deepest night, softly and surely leading him back where he belongs.

She wraps her legs around his middle, cradling his cheek with her hand. “Stop thinking.”

“I assure you,” he grinds out as he is frozen above her. “The last thing I am doing at this very moment is thinking.”

“Good,” she says cheerfully. “Then, if you please, go ahead and take me, Solas.”

With that, Lavellan arches up to meet him, propelling him into an entirely new realm of ecstasy. He thrusts deep, a guttural groan tearing from within as he withdraws, forcing himself to open his eyes and take in the face of the elven girl who was never supposed to matter.

She has changed everything.

It is with this thought that he begins to move, slowly at first, until they both find a rhythm within each other. She grasps at his back as he leans over her, covering her body with his. Lavellan’s lips roam over his lips and his face. Anywhere she can get a purchase, she is there. Her hands roam his head, moaning as the rhythm changes. Faster now, for both of them, and her eyes slam shut as her head tips back. 

This is what he will remember for eternity, he thinks as he feels his own release circle close. This woman, wild beneath him, flushed and satisfied while his own need runs rampant. “Thienna,” he gasps at last, and her eyes fly open. He calls her by her given name so rarely that he can see the worry in her eyes, already scanning his face for any discomfort she may ease. “I need you to know. Ar lath ma. I love you too.” 

She had been close, and this is her undoing. Lavellan clenches around him while his kiss swallows her scream, and as he spends himself within her with his own shout, he tries not to think of the consequences that await him once this night is over. 

After all, the mistake has been made. The night is young. He will have her again.