dannie: â tell me weâll never get used to it. â
throughout the course of his life, he had never felt so grounded.
not as he was now, with her.
he had spent his teenage years in lies and disguises, strained laughter and forced smiles. things that intrigued him he refused, things that enraged him he condoned. the only time he felt like he could breathe was when he was back to that little cottage he called home, his little sister dragging him to the meadow with a smile that shone like the sun. but that was two months out of twelve, the other ten he barely felt like himself. hell, he barely remembered himself. his disguise had become as attached as skin, and he had become a stranger to himself.
it was not until he crossed paths with her, the eccentric ravenclaw that enraged him to no end. whose fire he admired so much, whose bravery brought him to his knees with shame. she maddened him, yes ( to a degree that no one had yet surpassed, and he was sure no one will ), just as much as she enamored him. there was more to their conversations besides the snark remarks and blatant eye-rolls â something in her smile that he could not put his finger on, a sort of unmissable warmth that radiated and melted the frost that resided in his chest.Â
she reminded him of life. of pure, undisguised liveliness. ( so much that his glares had turned into gazes, gentle and full of awe, even when she was yelling at him ). even after he had grown used to the dark, she reminded him that the light was still there no matter what the demons whispered at night ( he did not know he was worthy of tenderness before her ). and he knew without a shadow of doubt that he would never get used to it, of falling in love with her, all over again every morning he woke next to her. now they were in their late twenties, nearly ten years after they first fell in love, their firstborn wailing in the nursery a thin wall away in their tiny apartment in the absurdly expensive heart of the wizarding world theyâd moved to seven years ago, and he still wasnât used to any of it. of this incredible life he got to live with her and their family, of the exquisite woman he had the improbable luck to call his wife.
âwe wonât.â he beamed, bringing her hand to his lips, sleep-hazed eyes brimming with naught but affection, âi promise.â
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(I was asked to do this with prompt in Solas' POV by @bearlytolerable for @dadrunkwriting) Just fifty more steps. The metal tip of my staff hit against the stone steps sending a few sparks in the air at our feet. Beside me, Varric yelped, jumping back to avoid them. "Careful, Chuckles, or you'll burn up all of Skyhold." He parted his crossbow's handle to make sure she was unscathed. "Stone isn't that weak to catch fire, surely you know this Durgen'len." I shot him a wry look. "According to Orzammar, stone topside is as weak as surface dwarves and therefore more prone to accidents." Varric said, trying unsuccessfully to keep a straight face. "Maybe you're the dwarf to find out why that is. During one of your tavern excursions, perhaps." We were halfway to the top and I quickened in pace. "I just have a urgent matter I'm anxious to return to." If he said anything my pace outmatched his and I was in the Stronghold, up the main staircase to the Keep before the rest of the party reached theâ portcullis. Without a glance behind, I cut a path to my rotunda, not caring how many pairs of eyes watched me. Once I crossed the threshold, I peeled off my soiled tunic and breeches, pulling a soft pair of lambskin leggings on. The Inquisitor would have meetings to attend and no one else frequently sought my company than her so I would be free for hours. My body sagged against my desk covered in parchment feeling the weight of traveling to the Western Approach. I glanced at the faint sketch I outlined in the wall to keep from giving into my body's desires. I should work on it... Before I registered my movement, my hands were already wrist deep in paints and I guided the colours along the rock wall. A gentle hum worked it's way to the surface, and I felt my heart a notch lighter. Colours turned to designs, designs flushed out into full landscape as I worked my feelings and thoughts into a still life. Ellana's face faded into view, her nails leaving trails of fire along every inch of my bicep she touched. The curve of her lips puckered and bowed beginning to be kissed. My hips bucked and -- I smacked my head hard against the rock feeling wet, sticky paint cling to my brow. I grimaced and massaged the new bump that would grow, adding more paint to my skin. Sighing, I pushed off from the wall knowing my chest and abdomen smudged the mural, and I would have to fix it. Later... Turning, I shuffled my heavy body toward my feather bed pushed against the far wall, and sank into it with a loud, rumbling sigh. So much better than the damp, fenedhis bedroll I'd been using for the past month. The mattress conformed against the stiff frame of my body, hugging me snug and I wrapped the thick furs over me. The paint would rub off, but they weren't the first splotches of now drying paint nor would they be the last. A growl caught at the back of my throat, pushing out into a moan with the release of theâ fur's heat. It was good to be back in my bed. I closed my eyes, shuddering in the comforting earthy and herbal smells, slipping deep into Fade walk. The last coherent image before I past through the Veil was of an elven mage dancing between a group of bandits, lightning sparking from her fingertips and sweat coating her brow. A wonderful and damnable sight.
thanatos and alexa: â love, for you, is larger than the usual romantic love. itâs like a religion. itâs terrifying. â
they have spent enough time together that she has gained a grasp on his habits, the sudden appearances that no longer startle her as much, the low voice that emerges from nowhere, the unexpected weight his words often carry. usually about things heâs realised about the human condition from dwelling with the mundane, then there are moments like this, comprised of uncomfortable truths that no one ever talks about. things that people either keep to themselves, or preserved for the corners where gossipers wait to be entertained. he does none of that. instead, he voices them out with the faultless candidness of a child, who announces his latest observation with a clarity that informs and intrigues.Â
( the fact that it endears her so much should worry her. )
it is not the first time heâs made a commentary about her that comes out from visibly nowhere, but this one stands out from the rest. perhaps it is in human nature to be so reactive to this topic. after all, isnât everyone sensitive when it comes to love?
âwhere did that come from?â she turns around, curious eyes boring into curious eyes, ones that keep persuading her that he knows her better than most, and perhaps he does, in a strange and incomprehensible way. love to her is more than what it is to most. more than sugar-coated tales and knights in shining armours, rotten lies and hollow promises. love is her fatherâs voice escorting her to her dreams. love is her motherâs stories told at midnight by a gentle voice slowed with melancholy from a wound that has never started to heal. love is visiting her motherâs grave the beginning of each spring, driving out of town just to get flowers that always brought her to her smile, having ballads written that never got to be heard. love is falling in the arms of the ocean not knowing whether youâll float or sink. love, to alexa, is more than glimpses of happiness that are taken too soon. having known that love can be so gratifying and destructive at the same time, how can she be anything but terrified?Â
âhave you ever seen people in love?â she asks, her eyes now fixated on their echo in the mirror. with their bodies basked in the rays of the falling sun, sweat-veiled skin glistening under the light, they look almost like a painting â they look like they could live forever. of course, he is the only one who knows what it feels to be immortal, to be among the devils and the gods. they donât exist for mundanes like her. there is no heaven or hell, only what makes one feel alive and what doesnât. for her, itâs to dance and sing under the spotlight. for others, itâs to love and be loved. she has not felt this herself yet, but she has seen it happened to those around her, and itâs left her stunned and frightened all at once. âpeople in love would do anything â no matter how insane. theyâd give everything just to be with their lover again, even for merely a moment. theyâd kill themselves for love. doesnât that terrify you? it frightens me. it terrifies me to my bones.â
This is the first chapter in my Solas x Lavellan fanfic that is on AO3. Here's the link: http://archiveofourown.org/works/10213937/chapters/22667927. I do have the chapter here is well. It is in Solas 1st person POV.
Chapter One
Darkness swallowed up the world â cracking its structure into fragments â and the Fade cried out. The sundering shredded along my skin, blood and nerves, bringing a prickling of warm liquid to the corners of my eyes. In a snuff of a candle, lives beyond counting extinguished, reminding me of another day similar to this one in its passing.
The Veil stretched out before my eyes as a puckering scar still within the first hours of its making.
A sharp green glow stung my vision, drawing me toward the dead, and â on wobbly legs strained against a crudely shaped staff for support â I cut a path to the base of the mountain. Seeker Pentaghast would be waiting there with her soldiers just in case the Conclave went awry; though I doubted her forces could repair this. Echoes reached out first from the dead, and then the living, as I crossed the stone threshold into Haven.
âFollow.â The Seekerâs bark tore at my senses, and I caught her armored form tearing through onlookers in a mad dash. âBring her.â
A small contingency of soldiers â no more than five â carried a lithe, limp body clad in ill-fitting clothing meant for comfort as much as camouflage. I stopped to watch them make their way to Havenâs Chantry and found myself rooted in two directions. Pressed one way toward the spirits drifting through the new vortex in the sky, and yet drawn to see who it was the Seeker and her men carried. A whimper tore at the back of my throat, more wolf than elf, but I forced my feet through the ankle deep snow. Numbness had replaced my uneasy relationship with the cold long ago until all I wore were the foot wraps, and not shoes, thankfully.
In the Chantry, people huddled â many in fervent prayers â both elven and human, while others wept openly and rent their clothing before the statues of a woman. I caught husky tones calling out her name as well as the name of their god â her lover â in supplication. Always the same no matter the era. In tragedy there was no division between race and class, just oneness in grief. Heavy smoke and incense from lit braziers of Andraste, and priestesses swinging pendulums belching fog permeated the room, deadening my senses further. In the haze, I could just barely make out the forms of the soldiers by the parting of the gathering crowd.
Seeker Pentaghast led her group down into the dungeons, and I slipped through the door behind them keeping to the shadows. Curiosity spurred my body despite still reeling from the sudden shock in the Fade. It happened while I visited the battle of the Hero of Ferelden against the former cultists who claimed Haven for a time. When the Fade buckled, I was shot out of the memory as if I became ice water thrown onto a blazing fire.
With the harsh reality of the living temporarily dampening my connection, I warred between terror and relief before resigning myself to present events. So many lives lost in a single second threatened to overwhelm me, and I touched my temple where I felt the tender blossoming of a headache beginning. It fluttered in tempo with my heartbeat â accelerated and shallow.
âSolas.â
Cassandraâs clipped tone as she spoke my name jarred me from thought, and I noticed her gaze hovering through the darkness in my direction. No reason existed adequate enough to excuse my hiding in the shadows like some Darkspawn Hurlok. Somehow I knew she was aware of that too. Curling my calloused palm tighter around the worn, leather binding of my staff, I took a tentative step into the torchlight. Cool eyes followed my movement, narrowing as I drew closer, but I dropped my gaze to regard the Seekerâs quarry.
A brow twitched and my jaw ticked as I saw a bloodless face, strained and slick with sweat. Gaunt from a lifetime of rationed meals and hard work. Refined, delicate features lay beneath a thick layer of blood and gore â most of which did not appear to belong to them â seized and jerked in pain and fevered dreaming. Curiosity gripped me again, and I knelt beside the prone figure careful not to touch them. Yet.
Precaution and, perhaps, warding were needed before I proceeded.
âWhat happened, Seeker?â I asked, wincing slightly at the hoarse whisper of my voice, though I doubted the human saw anything past a crease of my brow.
The question, however, sparked something in the womanâs eyes. Anger? Hatred? And she stabbed a finger upward â presumably at the sky beyond â her nostrils flaring. âAre you daft, elf? Did you not just see what happened to the sky⌠to all thoseâŚâ
People. I finished silently but said aloud, âEven the blind can see the sky now, Seeker. I ask after the condition of this person.â
Pulling herself to her full height, Cassandra folded her arms just under the indent of the breastplate she wore. The way she puckered her lips into a frown tore at the scar down her cheek, as if opening the old wound, though only in illusion. âMany are dead or wounded so it shouldnât surprise you that I bring one into the Chantry.â
I gave her a flat stare, letting her know I would neither back down from my inquiry nor fall for her baited trap. She couldnât place the blame of whatever happened at the Conclave on my shoulders. I wasnât even near the mountain top when that magic rent the sky asunder. Instead, I thumbed at my temple again, feeling the dull ache now throbbing. âCassandra, I am only surprised you chose the cell of a dungeon as your base of operations when your patient requires healing.â
The ichor in her eyes simmered, and I felt the heat of her emotions fan over me. I braced for the inevitable boiling that usually accompanied her tirades, but her face softened to show a momentary lapse into sorrow. It hardened just as quickly.
âSave her, Solas.â Cassandraâs command was tinged with a warning. âShe is the only one who survived the explosion at the Conclave. I want answers.â
Again my eyes slipped down to the unconscious woman, and feather light shivers ran down me as I saw the strange curls of greenish mana lacing her tattered body â congregating particularly around her left hand. It felt so familiar and nauseating. Wrong. Reaching forward â knowing what I would find, but needing confirmation all the same â I picked up the hand and turned it over, tracing a dispassionate gaze transversely on the glowing fissure carved into her palm. I forgot about the want for wards the instant the puzzle pieces fell into place.
Mine. There was no mistaking the Markâs origins or how it came to be on this womanâs flesh. Now, however, was not the appropriate time to explain my knowledge of it. Not when admittance would beset the fangs of these rabid dogs down on me. I couldnât fend off their onslaught in my current state. Soon, butâŚ
Setting down the hand, I looked up to see the Seeker sneering, but with a questioning gleam in her eye. âYou would do well to get a mage who excels at healing magic, perhaps Adan. My magic is better suited--â
âBy the Maker!â Cassandra grasped her hand around my bicep and jerking me upward, the metal from her gauntlet biting through the cloth of my tunic to the skin underneath. Her face was mere inches from mine and â when she spoke â her breath clung to me hot, and damp. Uncomfortable. âThis isnât a request so you better succeed, Solas. Not just for her sake but yours.â
A growl pushed its way out of my nose, and I yanked my arm free, more annoyed that it would bruise, than angry about how she handled me. If our positions were reversed, I mightâve done the same thing were I a millennia or two younger. I didnât blame her for her brusque manner. Fear laced behind those dark eyes not used to having the situation ripped from her control.
I pinched the bridge of my nose to ward off a crashing wave of dizziness from my newfound headache. Then gave a soft sigh. âI can promise nothing but to try.â
Gesturing to one of the soldiers with a slight nod of her head, the man slipped out a sword from the scabbard at his waist, and pointed it at me. Inches from my chest. A part of me laughed at the act. If I was a little stronger I would have actually laughed out loud, but I just rocked back on my heels, and returned my attention to my new charge.
âSee that you do, apostate.â Cassandra seethed through clenched teeth then turned on her heels, and left me with her soldiers â swords trained on me â and the pitiful, collapsed creature on the flagstone.
A sick feeling washed over me. Underground, the voices of the dead and dying â of the torn Veil and Fade demons spewing from the green hole in the sky â all were muffled and niggled at the edges of my suddenly weary mind. Except one. I sidled the woman's limp body onto my lap for better access, and called forth what healing magic I possessed.
The mana itched to the surface of my skin through veins and nerve endings alight by the rush of raw energy. All at once sensations of dread and arousal blanketed me as it did every time I summoned up my magic. Maybe it was the Veil filtering and dampening my connection that brought about these unpleasant emotions because they were never present before the Veilâs creation. But now I found I couldnât deny my body the urgent addiction the very act of magic brought. Pushing down the ill-conceived thoughts into the precipices of my mind to pick apart later, I concentrated on the matter at hand.
Grasping onto the mana with a sharp, calculated tug, I guided it into the unconscious woman, watching her body pull onto the streams of faint light like it was dying of thirst. Working through the intricate system of a living creature came with some resistance, but in such a weakened state, I batted it aside with little effort.
The Mark on her left hand flared to life, and I felt it reach out trying to choke me. I cast a barrier around myself, and continued grafting the healing magic onto the areas she hurt the most. Her body was scorched and dry in so many places, and the healing soaked her like a wet balm along her desert planes. I hummed gently under my breath as I worked to knit flesh and restore blood. And when the blood and gore receded from her face, I looked upon her as if truly seeing her for the first time, and I gasped.
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I would love either a ⧠for Lisbeth Salander or a ⸠for "but he who dares not grasp the thorn should never crave the rose." ( or both, but one / the other is fine. ) and major congratulations on getting two thousand followers, you deserve them!
