She tucked her hair behind her ears, fighting the urge to cover them like she had been doing for the past few weeks. She held her head high. She was afraid of all of them, afraid they’d cry murder from seeing her vallaslin and pointy ears. But she didn’t cower.
She is the First to the Keeper.
She is Dalish.
Let them all see her for who she is.
She is Aevina Rhonwen Lavellan.
Before You Wake Up | Before the Dawn Comes | FEAST OF THE SECOND MOON | Like embers to ashes | Fade Tongue | A Blush to Your Cheeks
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King Alistair and his mistress, the Hero of Ferelden/Warden Commander Cousland, on their last tryst before HoF went away on her personal mission to cure the Calling.
TW: a sad fuck, ig. NSFW under the squiggly line.
[Snippet from a short story within the Epilogue. Can be read as a one-shot.]
Alistair finally stopped digging at the drawers of the Knight Commander’s office. “They could have retreated back to Orlais,” he said, disturbing the silence and the dust motes. “I’ll have Oswyn check with the villages along the Imperial Highway. Someone must have seen the templars. Or the Venatori. They didn’t come through the Coastlands. There were no sightings in Jainen. They couldn’t have come through magic; the magister who did that had already died. And Uncle Teagan said there had only been fifty of them in Redcliffe, at most. Hmm. We’re missing something here… What do you—oh.”
Elyse had freed herself of her hooded cloak, gauntlets, chausses, and boots. She was in the process of removing her chest armor when Alistair finally realized that she was stripping her clothes.
“There,” she said, pointing quickly at the adjacent room connected to the office where the light from the braziers revealed the Knight Commander’s bed.
“Really, right now? I mean, I’m not complaining—”
She nodded and tugged the leather strap that held her griffon-emblazoned chestplate. “Help me.”
Alistair moved from behind the table. “I thought you’re still mad at me.”
“I am.” Her fingers looped on each side of her lower smallclothes. She transfixed him with a look. It wasn’t alluring or sweet at all—it was a tired look that wanted to get the job done quickly. “I’m saving it for later. Come here.”
And then she pulled down her underwear and tossed it on top of the pile of her clothes. She was naked save for her upper armor.
He grabbed her arm and pulled her to him; their chestplates clinked against each other. She avoided his kiss and insisted he removed her armor. He buried his face on the crook of her neck, all while guiding her hips to the desk’s edge; meanwhile, she was still struggling with her armor. It was useless stripping completely; years of keeping their affair secret had trained them both to make the most of their stolen time. Sex was mostly clothed, mostly quiet, mostly quick. He lifted her so she could sit on top of the desk. He forced his hips forward so her legs would spread. He felt her push him away but all he could think about was getting the job done, quickly, like she wanted. He could get hard in seconds just with her touch; he knew she could get wet just as quickly. It was painful for her sometimes, he could tell by her grimace, but they’re always running out of time, always rushing.
Stop, she said—a small blip in his frenzied consciousness. “Eight weeks,” he growled. He had not touched her, he had not kissed her, he had not smelled her skin in eight bloody weeks. Her neck was a weak spot that he attacked with his tongue and mouth.
She called out his name and said Stop. Stopping quickly was important because a footfall, a whisper, a lantern or candle light through cracks in doors or walls or floors could spell scandal. But there was no one in the tower, no reason to stop, so he pushed himself to enter her, because they had to be quick.
She slapped him. The pain and shock returned him to his senses. Her eyes and cheeks were wet with tears. “I said help me take this off,” she said in a pained and wispy voice. She was crying as she tugged the last strap that could free her. “Please?”
He took a step back. He could feel himself growing soft, softer by the second.
What for? he wanted to say but she was already crying and he didn’t want to make it worse. Because what could be worse than this? She wanted this, she didn’t want this; she wanted sex but refused to kiss; she was mad at him but she would get naked for him; she wanted to get it done quickly but she wanted to what—slow down?
“What do you want from me, Elyse?”
She cried again and it took a few minutes for her to calm down. In that time, he couldn’t find it in himself to comfort her, not when he couldn’t understand the turmoil in his own chest. He couldn’t recognize himself at that moment, nor her. He could only stand there, growing soft and cold, and stare at her, the steel and leather almost indistinguishable from her bruises and tan lines and pale skin. It was as if he was seeing her for the first time and realizing that ten years had passed and she was now the kind of woman who would drop her pants and bend over for him, whether she was ready or not. How he was now the kind of man who would force himself on the woman he loved. All because they had to be quick.
It was useless; he turned around and restored the front of his braies under the mail chausses. But then he felt her hand pulling his arm and forcing him to face her.
She had freed herself from her top armor. Only a thin chemise remained. She raised her arms and slowly lowered them into an embrace, her body pressing against his cold armor. He wasn’t sure what to do, or what was happening, so he stood frozen and let Elyse do what she wanted.
Her hands traveled to his neck and her cold fingers climbed to the base of his skull and slipped under his hair. As her fingers combed through the back of his head, she pulled him closer and pressed her wet cheek against the side of his neck. She forced herself to calm her breath, and after two long exhales that warmed his ears and neck, her lips pressed on his skin, as softly as the pads of her fingers that stroked his scalp. One hand cupped his jaw and her thumb tilted his chin up and her mouth opened and closed around the ball in his throat, gently, licking and then setting him free. That close, and with their breaths warming the air around them, he could finally pick up the woodsmoke in her hair and the wine in her breath—the kind she had been drinking in the past couple weeks to quiet the Calling and dull the stabbing pain behind her eyes. When her hands found their way to his jaws, she gently pulled him close for a kiss. He felt it like the blow of a maul to his chest, killing him before forcing him alive to become this one rhythmic heartbeat that lived and died with every press of her lips. Maker, Maker…she was giving him back his first ever taste of a woman’s kiss.
His heart was racing when she finally let go. He could finally understand her tears because he could feel them welling up in his chest like the tide, and her eyes, blue-green and reflective, were the moon calling him home to the shore.
“We have time, my love,” she whispered while staring into his eyes. “This time we have time.”
If Alistair died that moment, that would have been enough.
***
Dusk had already fallen when Alistair finally rowed the boat to the lake’s bank. Oswyn and his men were quick to congregate once he was back on land; Elyse, on the other hand, quickly ducked away from the group, pulling her cloak closer to herself and meeting her Warden companion.
Keep your promise and don’t follow me, she had said to him in bed. Do that and I won’t be angry. I will return to you, I promise.
Yes, he’d said. There was no other answer. For Alistair, that promise was enough.
While he spoke to his men, he could see Elyse in the background, gathering her pack, mounting her horse. Elyse urged her horse forward. They had already agreed she would leave quickly and quietly. He pretended to listen to his men’s reactions as he watched Elyse look back at him and nod. Alistair nodded back. Only the Maker knew when they would see each other again.
“Alright,” he said to his men, because if he didn’t distract himself, he would weep that instant for the woman he loved. “I received credible information that we should continue our search in the Deep Roads…”
***
Thanks for reading! I write primarily Solavellan DAI-era canon-compliant fanfic, but sometimes the story follows other characters, like Anora, Celene, Rook, and—in this case—Alistair.
In some whatever AU where Fenris finally moves in to Hawke’s estate after killing Danarius in act 3. I imagine Fenris doesn’t have a lot of stuff and Hawke is pretty much the most important person he has.
so how about solas simping on the herald before they step into skyhold?
There was no moon to illuminate her face nor shine on her scraped and dented armor. There was no wind to disturb her dark hair. And yet…
And yet.
He heard her smile. “Are you really just going to stand there?”
“Herald. I was…admiring the view.”
She let out an amused grunt, which made him realize his mistake: the moonless night. The shadows. The foolish elf who thought he could get away with staring at her openly by employing a sorry excuse for flattery.
There was laughter in her voice. “Next you’ll tell me your visual acuity is ‘above average’.”
One arrow, straight to his chest; what acute pleasure it was to be struck! “You wound me, Herald,” he said. With a smile. Alas, the smile couldn’t be helped.
He took her invitation to sit beside her and was greeted by the aura that he had grown all too familiar with.
Jasmine. Honey. Elfroot.
She was already warm from her own mana, but foolishness, coupled with a man’s pride, did not strike but once; he sent out his own magical warmth to cover them both. Another arrow found his chest when he saw her close her eyes, tip her chin up to the sky, and smile. He imagined her basking in the strength of his aura, for surely, surely by now, she must already know it by heart.
A fool could hope.
He set his staff to his left and they sat just inches apart. She placed her hand on the rock, close to him. He was painfully aware of how easy she was making it, for him and for her. As easy as leaping down the bluff where they sat.
Alas, it was the one thing he couldn’t allow himself to have. He could have the pleasure of her touch or the pleasure of her spirit; anything more would cross a line. He already benefited daily from the joy of her company to still want for more. No more than this, he reminded himself; he pulled his hand away from where it laid dangerously close to hers. The most he’d allow are the little accidents that happen in the course of their duty, for those cannot be helped: his knuckles that grazed her armor, their fingertips touching as they reached for the same cup, the soft press of her body as she squeezed in a narrow space next to him. Accidents, each one of them. He waited in fear for the day fate would conspire to strand them together under one tent. The world would shatter should that happen, and when it shatters, what then, old man?
Ah, but a fool could wish!
“Penny for your thoughts?” she asked. She had pulled her knees to her chest and rested her cheek atop her knees, facing him.
He was thinking how easy it was to reach out his hand…and run a fingertip from the soft lower lobe of her ear, up the velvety edge to the sharp, firm tip where he hoped to elicit a moan.
An old, perverted, foolish, sorry excuse of a man…could still dream.
***
The fic is close to ending: Before the Dawn Comes on AO3
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lavellan heading into a fight with a demon of despair in a replica of Haven:
Suddenly she was back in the forest outside Orzammar. Blood rushed to her face as she stared at Solas. Narrow eyes, long nose…his lips…
how is he so beautiful?
His face turned light and dark by the shadow of the leaves swaying in the breeze, under the midday sun in that faraway memory. It’s a means to an end, Herald; by itself, it is neither good nor evil. She heard him but she wasn’t really listening because he was holding all of her in the cup of his palms, and his eyes, narrow and serious and preternatural in the switching of light and shadow, refused to let her go. Magic is magic; it only matters how it is used.
I know not everyone wants to read the books, but I think more people should read this passage from the masked empire specifically. Especially those who are struggling to understand modern elves being oppressed and the evanuris having been oppressors.
"We had an empire. It was ... everything one thinks of when one hears such a word."
This is such a good summary of the thesis of anti-imperialism—or at least, the deconstruction of the fantasy of empire—that we see in the games. There is no returning to the glorious past, because the glorious past never existed.
Anyone who says differently is selling something.
Also, for Solas specifically:
"No one who [successfully ruled an empire] cedes power. Even if they are wise. Even if it is for the best, in the long run."
That first kiss is woven into the Fade. Spirits return to it again and again, circling the memory like moths drawn to flame. It has become its own kind of resonance - dense with feeling, thick with desire. That should come as no surprise; the kiss belongs to the Dread Wolf and the Herald of Andraste, after all. To He Who Hunts Alone and the Woman Who Blazes Like Fire and Mends the Air. The Fade remembers them. The spirits know them well.
Whenever he allows an indulgence of this memory, even briefly, he is drawn first to the vision of her lips - their shape, the fullness of them. How often had his eyes lingered there, wondering what it might feel like to place his mouth against hers, to let that contact stretch just long enough to catch her breath mingling with his. He remembers that first time - their shared Dream. He hadn’t expected her to find him. Her presence startled him, then delighted him. His curiosity deepening into something more, something dangerous. Even then, desire had made its home in him: painful, persistent, exquisite.
He should have restrained himself. Should never have allowed his emotions to bleed so freely into the Fade. But emotion leaks into it with or without permission, and she felt it - just as he felt hers. The pull between them formed before either of them moved. He sat with it. Let her emotions lay themselves over his own in a tight embrace. He had looked away suddenly, uncertain.
And then - her hand against his cheek. Her mouth on his. That first contact broke something loose in him. She pulled back quickly, eyes wide. Startled by her own forwardness, which he found intoxicating.
He should have ended it there. Forced them both awake.
Instead, he reached for her. Drew her back to him. Even in the Fade, he could smell her skin, feel the warmth of her body pressed against his. Their mouths found each other again - urgent now, no longer tentative. Tongues meeting. His hands seeking familiar curves he had only studied from a distance. Her hips - how often had he watched her walk away, half-tempted to follow, lulled by the sway of them? Now they were beneath his hands, real and solid as can be in the dream, the softness of her body against his undoing him.
He pulled back, panicked by his own lack of control. But another glance - those lips, still parted, her eyes drawing him in - and his restraint faltered. He shook his head, as if it might dispel the madness. But he leaned in again, helpless against the pull of her mouth. She didn’t flinch from his intensity - she returned it, and that captivated him more than anything else. She kissed him like she had chosen him long ago. And in the answering of her kiss, he felt the full force of his own hunger for her - something long buried, now rising to devour them both.
He immersed himself in the pleasure of her. Savoured her. Wondered what she might taste like in the waking world.
That question jolted him.
He surfaced from the moment and pulled away, his voice low, laced with regret.
“We shouldn’t. It isn’t right. Not even here.”
That was why he stopped. The desire still burned, but the Fade had begun to stir. Spirits gathered at the edges, drawn to the heat rising between them. The Fade was responding - shaping itself around the kiss, turning emotion into architecture, memory into permanence. A tether, already begun.
He awakens.
Cursing himself. Again. For returning to a memory he has vowed, over and over, to leave untouched. But each time he yields, the Fade builds more. The moment sharpens. The memory thickens into form - structure layered upon structure, now inhabited by spirits.
He tells himself, each time, that he will resist. That he will give the Fade no more of her and that he will not lay another stone in that memory.
But then her name stirs through him. The curve of those lips. The kiss he never stopped tasting.
His own words come back to haunt him.
I have not forgotten the kiss.
And he hasn’t.
Nor has the Fade.
And it shows no sign of letting him go.
My contribution to Dragon Age Kiss Week 2025 - Day 6 - Reunion. Solas can't help but keep reuniting with this memory and all its permanence in the Fade.
So we all kind of agree that Solas is great in the sack. Nothing this guy does is ever half-assed, and if he gives his mission 100%, he also gives 100% to eating you out and satisfying you in bed!
But hear me out. What if…what if that’s not the case? What if…sex is the one thing he’s bad at? He’s bad at it not because he doesn’t have experience (I headcanon Arlathan to be full of orgies after all these Spirits discovered sex!), but because his experience of it was inferior and mechanical and just…physical.
Enter the Herald—the Inquisitor—his vhenan!—and suddenly, it clicks for him: sex could be more. He realizes why people call it making love. Love is abstract, but for a few glorious minutes one can make it a physical act: love is kissing, it’s sucking, it’s rutting and losing control. It’s nailmarks on the back of her thighs, it’s love bites on his neck. And because it’s new to him—this lovemaking—and he’a mindblown by how it grabs him by his heart and his balls, he is filled by this prideful need to overachieve in making love.
Again, he says. More, he demands. Another? he teases. He’s self-studying this for an exam he wants to pass with flying colors, and you’re his review material, his muse, and the proctor he aims to please. You’re the only subject of his case study. If there are world records to break, he’d break them for you, on your body. His pride won’t allow him to settle for average.
It’s not gonna be healthy for some time because the Inquisitor is always in the public eye and Solas is running out of private places and excuses to have her for himself.
Oh gods. By Halamshiral, he’d become so good at it that he could make a tight space work and a few stolen minutes, and then he’d set her free, flushed and fevered, thighs shaking but all cleaned up. Save maybe for a few strands of hair that escape the Inky’s braids, and maybe a stray one that he finds inside his mouth.
Oh shit. I’m gonna put this in my longfic arent i? This is how it’s gonna go down! 😱😱😱🤌😭🥵
His thoughts are not like the others'. He is a reedpipe whistling a wistful dirge for others he’d hurt a long, long time ago. And when he lies—when he tells them he doesn’t know what is coming nor why—his voice splits, like two voices pressed together in one melody but singing different verses.
The others only hear what he wants them to hear.
-- Cole pov, wip chapter. Couldn't not share. Fic link under the squiggly line.
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People love drawing connections between Solas and classic Greek/Roman mythology. Solas is Odysseus, Solas is Orpheus. But I raise you one more potential…
Solas and Lavellan are Cupid and Psyche
So, if you don’t already know, the basic story of Cupid and Pysche is that Cupid falls for Psyche (sometimes because he pricked himself with his own arrow), whisks her away to his heavenly palace or some equivalent, and then she spends part of her time there falling in love with him. Except, she’s not allowed to look at him. He never appears during the day, and at night he’s (nearly or sometimes completely) invisible in the dark. Sometimes he warns her that she must not look at him, and sometimes he just leaves that unsaid.
(There are several versions of this story and it’s been made into several fairy tales as well. Bear with me.)
Pysche’s sisters tempt her to look at him anyway, and to kill him because they think he's a monster. So she waits until Cupid is asleep and spies on him at night with a candle and knife in hand. The wax drips on him, he wakes up, he feels all betrayed, and he runs home to mom (Aphrodite/Venus).
(In fairy tale versions, like in “East of the Sun, West of the Moon,” he cries out that if she had just waited a year, he would have been free from his curse, but since she didn’t, he’s forced to return to some malevolent female figure that has him enthralled…usually an evil bride, an evil stepmother, or an evil mother-in-law.)
With her lover/husband gone, Psyche realizes her mistake and then embarks on this whole ass quest to find her lover, which includes doing a bunch of tasks for Aphrodite that includes going to the Underworld. Cupid saves her after that adventure but this ain’t about that. We’ll get there.
So what does this have to do with Solavellan? Well, consider this, my friends:
Solas is the Cupid-like figure who is partly under the thumb of this powerful, seemingly benevolent (but often mercurial) female figure that represents both good and bad desire. Lavellan, should she choose to fall in love with Solas and remain loyal to him, is the tragic, curious Psyche who would walk through Hell to get her lover back.
In the tales, Cupid builds this whole fake life with Psyche when he takes her to live with him. She has everything she needs, and she supposedly has this husband that loves her. He's very sweet and affectionate at night, and she can touch him, he's real, but she has never, ever seen him. Her sisters think he’s secretly a monster. She has no real idea.
Solas is similar. He's building this facade of a relationship with Lavellan, partly out of selfishness, but also partly because he just gets swept up in all of it. And he continually conceals parts of himself from Lavellan. He is a monster in disguise, the Dread Wolf, but he’s never going to let her know that. He’s just going to keep donning masks and hope she never follows the thread of her own curiosity.
Lavellan never truly sees him, just as Psyche never truly sees Cupid. Until…she does.
Psyche is tricked by her sisters to uncover Cupid's appearance and true nature, but Solas sort of...leads Lavellan into discovering his identity. It's almost like Solas knows the story, and he knows inevitably his Lavellan will appear with a candle and knife, ready to throw off his disguise and deal the killing blow. He's betrayed her, after all. He deserves the knife. He’s just waiting for the candle. So he leaves before that happens.
Trespasser is the candle-and-knife moment.
Lavellan is finally seeing him for who he is. She’s uncovered all the pieces, or most of them, and suddenly Solas is holding the candle himself, illuminating the truth in all its ugly reality. He's all but guiding her blade to his heart, daring her to strike the killing blow. But his job isn't finished. He's got a mission to complete. He is beholden to his promises and devotion to Mythal, this mother-like, lover-like figure who has him under thrall.
So he leaves again. Back into the service, however misguided, of this once-benevolent goddess.
In a way, he leaves the candle and the knife behind in Lavellan’s hands. She knows who he is, now. She has the means (or the reason) to kill him. Whatever she decides next is up to her.
And that's when Psyche/Lavellan's quest to get him back starts.
That part is a bit vague. Psyche has very specific tasks, and these tasks always change up depending on the retelling/version. It’s easy enough to equate Lavellan’s ten-year search for Solas with Pysche’s trials and tribulations, however. Psyche and her fairy tale sisters are in constant pursuit of Cupid, often just for the chance to see him again. Lavellan is not much different (though, certainly, more nuanced).
The ending to Cupid and Psyche traditionally has Cupid saving Psyche from a trick that results in her nearly dying, but I think the DATV Solavellan ending actually matches some fairy tale versions of Cupid and Psyche tales instead.
In fairy tales like “East of the Sun, West of the Moon” or “The Black Bull of Norroway” or other similar tales, “Cupid” is under an enchantment or imprisoned by some evil witch or ogress that wants to marry him (or marry him to her daughter). When “Psyche” appears wanting to speak with him, the witch figure drugs him so that when she goes to speak to him, they can’t actually converse. All she needs to do is talk to him, just once, to explain everything and come up with a plan to escape their circumstances.
That’s all she needs. One night. One conversation.
So long as she can see him again and talk to him, she can break him of whatever spell is holding him under the power of whatever malevolent female figure has her claws in him
That’s the Solavellan ending of DATV
If Lavellan can just talk to Solas, she can break him of his ties to Mythal. If she can just fight her way through trials and tribulations, break through whatever "spell" deafens his ears to her attempts to get through to him, and finally meet him at last, she can help free him and reunite them. All she needs is one night. One conversation.
Solas expects her to come with the knife still in hand, but she comes with nothing at all save her words. And in the end, her words are part of what frees him.
Cupid and Psyche ultimately has a happy ending (give or take a few disgruntled goddesses). Psyche, a mortal, is allowed to drink ambrosia so that she can be an immortal goddess and have an equal marriage with Cupid (more or less). In some versions, Cupid has a history of provoking mischief in the mortal world, and his marriage to Psyche serves as a redemption that covers these past mistakes.
You can debate whether or not Lavellan, when entering into the Fade rift with Solas, can obtain something like immortality at his side. But the ending is nevertheless similar. Even if only by rumor and word-of-mouth tales, Lavellan achieves an apotheosis like Psyche does. She's the woman who left the waking world hand-in-hand with a god, one who is free of his shackles to his goddess and one who is on the road to redemption at last.
Obviously you can take and run with this in whatever direction you want, but I'm just saying, from a mythos standpoint, there are so many cool parallels between Solavellan and Cupid and Psyche that it would be tragic to ignore them
Ik everyone says that Blackwall is a bit of a redundant character when you have Solas who has a similar twist to his character as Blackwall but just…. better, frankly. But I was thinking about Mythal and Solas and how Solas goes from respecting Blackwall to seemingly really betrayed by the reveal of who Blackwall really is and what he did. And like, idk why but I never really questioned WHY solas was so mad at Blackwall about the reveal, I just sort of chalked it up to “Blackwall did a bad thing so Solas is chastising him for it” but then. Veilguard happened (yike lol) and we got a little more context for Solas and Mythal’s relationship, and specifically Solas’ view of their relationship, and now it’s making sense to me.
At first Solas sees himself in Blackwall, they’re both soldiers who have seen a lot of shit and done a lot of shit in the name of things/people they believed in. Then the reveal happens, and I think Solas is triggered because he realizes, unconsciously or not, that Blackwall isn’t like him. He’s like Mythal.
Like Mythal, Blackwall had a place of authority over the men under his command, they believed in him and trusted him as their commander, just as Solas believed and trusted in Mythal. Like Mythal, Blackwall ordered his men to carry out heinous orders—things these men otherwise would probably never even consider or want to do—because they had faith in their commander and respected the chain of command, as Solas did for Mythal time and time and time again.
And like Mythal, Blackwall wasn’t there for the fallout of those heinous acts. Obvs Blackwall voluntarily peaced out and evaded justice and let his men take the fall while Mythal got murdered, but regardless, in both these instances the person responsible for giving the orders is conveniently absent—forcing the men who were given the commands to deal with the entirety consequences.
Not saying the men given the commands are devoid of blame, but I imagine the betrayal of trusting a commander so fervently that you are willing to do horrendous shit purely because you believe in them, just to be the only person left when the dust settles to deal with the fallout of decisions that you weren’t even privy to making must feel immense. And I think that’s partially how Solas might feel about Mythal in a way, because even though she’s long dead Solas is Still having to pick up the pieces of decisions she made, decisions that we know he was in objection to but did anyway because, well, it’s Mythal. His best friend. He trusts her. Trusts her vision for the People. She must have her reasons, right? It will all be worth it, right?
Wrong. She’s dead and now Solas is the only person left to bear the guilt of what she did, because he did it too, even if for the “right” reasons at the time. Solas never wanted this. He didn’t want to be a soldier, he didn’t want to fight, he didn’t want to be a monster, but he trusted his commander. No wonder Solas has trust issues fr. Imagine having that much faith in a person, doing reprehensible shit in their name, and then they’re just… gone. And it’s like, what now? What was the point? How do you live with the things you’ve done when the person who gave the command isn’t around to? How far does “I was just following orders” get you when no one’s left to share the blame?
Blackwall did to his men what Mythal did to Solas. I think Blackwall’s backstory maybe serves as a bit of context for what Solas and Mythal’s dynamic was (and tbh does a better job of it than anything in Veilguard but don’t even get me started). Solas knows he did terrible things, but when you no longer have the cover of “I did it for the greater good” because said “greater good” is now dead and gone, how do you cope with that?
In Solas’ case you cope with it by doubling down with ur own vision of a better world for the People and continue to do bad things but hey nobody is perfect!!
…jk hes my perfect princess huh what who said that???
“They are children acting out stories misheard and repeated wrongly a thousand times.”
Solas drew first blood. You can show him humility by saying, "Ir abelas, hahren. If the Dalish have done you a disservice, I would make that right. What course would you set for them that is better than what they know now?"
With all due respect, though: fuck that. You can play that as sincere humility but tbh? It comes across as sarcastic. Sure, you can say it's killing him with kindness, but that's manipulative. And I don't like that he falls for it.
I'm not saying it's the wrong response--it's actually the correct one if your aim is to get his approval. I'm just saying my response to that is: fuck that! Here's how my hc played out:
[after a little heated discussion on the Dalish...]
“Your Keeper was not wrong about that, at least. We must mark the occasion of the Dalish remembering something correctly.”
A dagger to the chest, in broad daylight. She was confused for a second. He didn’t seem like the kind of person to jest, nor one to say things he didn’t mean. So where was this thinly-veiled hatred coming from? And why was he directing it at her?
He glanced at her. “Perhaps we should plant a tree to commemorate it.”
“Perhaps you should hold your tongue.”
“Perhaps you should, Keeper’s First.” His grey eyes were bright and clear. And cold. “Remember, I have walked the memories of the Fade. I have seen the history the Dalish imitate.”
“Then enlighten this Keeper, oh wise and learned hahren.” She bowed low, lower than one intended for equals, lower than one reserved for hahren, lower than that used by servants. As low as a person with a debt of honor to pay. When she rose again and met his eyes, she hoped he had been confronted by slaves before, straight into his eyes, all so he would recognize the bow for what it was. All so he would recognize the hatred in her eyes.
Solas is not the only one mirroring others' treatment of him. There's a person behind the Herald of Andraste. But does he see her? Does he realize that? Nope. Because in this version of the world--in the darkest possible world-state--no one's to be trusted. No one. Especially not the mortal who, through ignorance and accident, had stumbled into his power and usurped it so completely, he couldn't fix anything without her help. In the early days of the Inquisition, he is still weak and helpless, his Pride hurt by how things had turned out. This is not the outcome he had fought so hard and for so long to achieve. So of course he is cold: at Lavellan and at everyone he needed to befriend and use in order to fix all this mess.
Lavellan is hurt, too, but she wouldn't know for a very long time how much she'd hurt him with a simple bow.
And I think it's beautiful, no matter how their conflict hurts like nails on a chalkboard. It won't always be like this, but it's important for it to begin like this: both of them naked and afraid, not knowing they were coming to each other for warmth, and misunderstanding that need as a threat.
[Full angsty scene: read it as a 3k one-shot, then maybe stay for the rest of the slow-burn.]
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