#ozy writes

Sera laughed.  “That's all right, because I meant boring. The elf always takes the elf so that banging bits will mean something.” 

He heard Ellana let out a slight wheeze—whether from amusement or shock, he couldn’t be sure.

“It is not a topic for discussion,” he insisted. 

“Oh, come on,” Sera taunted him. “Drop 'em and rebuild the empire. Phwoar!”

Ellana’s laughter rang out louder this time. She gestured to Sera. “Oh, stop,” she begged her friend. “You won’t get anywhere with him.”

“We’ll see,” Sera said.

“You’re ridiculous,” Ellana teased.

Hands on her hips, Sera insisted, “Not me. It’s him! And you.”

“Only one of us is looking sad and foolish, Sera,” Solas said.

“Oh, go twang your ears!” she snapped. 

Sera sulked for the next half hour, and she didn’t speak to him for the rest of the day. Solas was thankful that her odd fixation on himself and Ellana seemed to have passed, but he wondered at her uncharacteristic pouting. And there was also the look she had exchanged with Blackwall.

Something was afoot. 

The next stage of their scheme struck the next day. While Solas had anticipated more nonsense, he hadn’t expected its source. 

Blackwall looked thoughtfully at him. “Solas, I have a question,” he said, then admitted, “It's probably going to earn me a fireball to the face.”

“But you're going to grit your teeth and work through it?” Solas asked.

Unfazed, Blackwall continued, “You make friends with spirits in the Fade. So... um, are there any that are more than just friends?” He paused, then coughed. “If you know what I mean.”

“Oh, for... really?!” Solas burst out. This had all the marks of Sera about it. 

Still feigning innocence, Blackwall said, “Look, it's a natural thing to be curious about!”

“For a twelve-year-old!” Solas was indignant, but he admired Blackwall’s entirely deadpan expression. 

“It's a simple yes or no question!” Blackwall insisted.

“Nothing about the Fade or spirits is simple, especially not that.”

That earned a chuckle. “Aha! So you do have experience in these matters!”

“I did not say that.”

Affecting a conspiratorial tone, Blackwall assured him, “Don't panic. It'll be our little secret.”

Solas snorted. “Ass.”

Blackwall roared with laughter. “Now who's twelve?”

Whatever results the conspirators were aiming for, their efforts seemed to have left them unsatisfied. While they had succeeded at annoying Solas, that didn’t seem to have been their primary goal. It left him on-guard against the next series of awkward questions.

The next day, Cassandra arrived from Skyhold to join the Inquisitor’s party. One of the targets from her list of enemies had camped nearby, so she came to eliminate them. She arrived just before dusk, barely in time to eat dinner with the rest of the group. 

As they ate, Cassandra glanced at Solas. “You look more somber than the last time I saw you, Solas,” she observed.

“Dirthavaren is not much of a place for merriment, Seeker. My people suffered too many wrongs in this place.”

She looked as if she regretted her words. “I am sorry. I only thought of the last time I saw you at Skyhold. You looked happier than I’ve ever seen you. Ellana had just passed by with a handful of flowers, and I believe you had one tucked behind your ear.”

“I—” Solas felt his face burn red. 

“Shit!” Sera swore unexpectedly.

Blackwall coughed, and muttered, “well that’s that, I suppose.”

Ellana turned a suspicious eye on them. “What have you two been up to?”

“I just lost a bet,” Blackwall admitted.

Sera grimaced. “We wanted to see if we could get old Fade-Face to blush. I figured teasin’ him about you would do the trick easy enough, but I guess you just have to mention flowers.” 

“You two should be ashamed of yourselves,” Cassandra chided them.

Solas groaned with embarrassment. 

“I’m sorry, vhenan,” Ellana said, laying her hand on his. “But you really do turn the loveliest shade of crimson.”

“I almost suspect you of colluding with their little conspiracy,” he said, not meeting her eyes.

“This was all them,” she protested. “Although the results were. . .informative.” 

“You sound upset.”

He took a minute to reply. That was usually a sign that he was holding back his temper. “Hawke, it’s no time to talk about this. I know it’s not. But I’m not sure it can wait.”

Hawke tried to roll over to face him, but her body wouldn’t move. The pain radiated again. “I would at least turn over to look at you, but I’m, uh, stuck,” she rasped.

Varric looked like she had stabbed him. “Oh, Hawke,” he said. “You’re a wreck.”

She let out the pathetic wheeze that currently served as her laugh. “Tell me something I don’t know. And don’t look at me like I’m dead.”

Varric took a deep breath, then stared down at his hands, laced tight in his lap. “Hawke, what was that duel?”

“Other than our best chance to stop the Qunari from taking the city?”

“No, that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“You’re gonna have to spell it out for me,” she told him. “I’m not in much shape to think.”

“I’ve seen you fight,” Varric said. His voice was full of barely-restrained emotion. The same voice she had heard him use once before, with Bartrand. “I’ve seen you fight mercenaries and burglars and Qunari. Hell, I’ve even seen you fight a dragon.”

“Living the dream,” Hawke murmured.

“Okay, there, Chuckles. Less joking, more listening. I’m serious this time.”

“I know,” Hawke wheezed. “You sound like you’re about to pull out Bianca and turn me into a pincushion. I’m hoping my jokes might save my hide.”

“Don’t quit your day job,” Varric advised. “My point is, I know how you fight, Hawke. And what I saw three days ago was nothing like that. You egged him on, left yourself open too many times, took too many hits. Worst of all, you looked like you were enjoying it, every time he landed a blow.”

“Varric, I—”

“Listen to me. I know you’re hurting, I know losing your mom hurt you worse than you’ll admit. But Hawke, I can’t keep doing this.”

“Doing what?”

“Watching you try to kill yourself.”

“I thought you supported the duel with the Arishok.”

“I did! Because I knew you could take him! Shit, Hawke, you could’ve wiped the floor with that blowhard. But when you walked in there, I could tell you didn’t want to walk out. I don’t know what kind of crazy death wish you’re carrying around, but you need to let it go.”

She closed her eyes, wishing for a minute that she could just go back to sleep again. But Varric had found her out, and she knew it was pointless to try and hide anything now. “Was it that obvious?” she said. 

“To the others? Probably not. But you’re my best friend, Hawke. Shit, I never thought I’d care about anything in this damn town. And then I met you. I don’t have any family left that will claim me, but you and the others are more family to me than Bartrand ever was. And—you—you matter to me too damn much for me to sit by and watch you destroy yourself.” He seemed to be wrestling with what he was about to say next. Finally, he soldiered on. “Andraste’s ass, Hawke. I love you. I never thought I’d say that to someone again. But you walked into my life and settled in like you owned the place. I love you, and you drive me crazy. You get into more scrapes than anyone I’ve ever met and you probably should’ve died ten times over by now. Which is why I can’t stand to see you give up. Not like this. So, whatever problems you have, tell me next time. Or, shit, tell whoever you want. Daisy or Blondie are probably way better listeners than I am. Whatever it takes, just don’t throw your life away.”

If Hawke hadn’t been in her current state of severe injury, she absolutely would’ve had a stronger reaction to everything Varric had just told her. But considering her head still felt like a half-mashed potato, she wound up gaping at him like a cod someone had just hauled out of the harbor. 

“You are sad,” a quiet voice came from beside her.

Nessa shied back. Her torch revealed Cole standing near Andraste’s altar.

She raised a hand to her cheek, realizing that tears had traced a path there. 

“I suppose that’s true,” she murmured. “Telana’s story was not a happy one.”

“You brought flowers for her,” Cole observed.

“An offering to Ghilan’nain. It seemed the least I could do for her.”

“You want to help her, but her story has ended. Help her, help yourself, spirit lost, wandering, waiting for her lover, vhenan, I’m dreaming, banal’abelas, banal vhenan.”

Nessa felt her heart trying to pound its way out of her chest. Hearing Telana’s heartbroken words bleeding into her own only made their shared pain clearer. Her words at Crestwood, harsher than she had meant, torn from her in the wake of so many other losses.

She was Ameridan, and she was Telana, caught in the stranglehold of destiny. 

But Nessa’s own lover had abandoned her. Why, Ameridan, why? Telana’s spirit had pleaded. 

That was the question Nessa so desperately wanted Solas to answer. Why not this one? Anger and sick sorrow twisted in Nessa’s gut.

Telana had stayed by Ameridan’s side until he left her behind to die alone. Was that what Solas feared? His gravestone in the Fade had said as much. Perhaps that was her answer, after all. Perhaps he feared the fate of the last Dreamer who had followed in the footsteps of the Chantry’s Inquisitor. 

“I’ve spent too much time thinking about my own problems,” Nessa said. “I guess looking for the last Inquisitor has me worrying about what sort of death comes with the job.”

“You did what you could,” Cole said. 

“It’s not enough. It never is. Too little too late.” She couldn’t stop the Breach, couldn’t save her clan, couldn’t even make Solas stay.

“But you gave her flowers.”

From The Cult of Fen’Harel, Chapter 4, The Bard and the Bees. This is probably my favorite passage I’ve written so far. I love the idea of Solas getting desperate enough to try recruiting Sera. And it goes as well as anyone could expect. 

Sera made a face. “Don’t want none of your elven glory shite. Did you forget, my people are the friends of Red Jenny? Ellana’s my friend, and you hurt her. My people look out for each other, don’t team up with nobs who hurt us. Besides, it’s all stupid. Your magic and ancient rot, you’ll just burn the world down to get what you want. Couldn’t make me be part of that.”

“Please, Sera, think of what you could be, what you could do.”

“I could be dead, workin’ for you! Can’t you hear my no? Let me say it louder for you: NO.”

“Don’t you see that the elves are just the type of people you claim you want to help? The little people you fight for could finally have something of their own, instead of being relegated to the dregs of society.”

That seemed to set Sera off. She was on her feet and in his face in seconds. “Solas, you nug-sucking, piss-brained, moldy-arsed wanker! Don’t talk to me about little people! I’ve seen your altars and shite, you think you’re some mercy-giving god? Fuck you! You never see anybody ‘cept your elfy elves! You don’t give a shit for anybody but your people!”

Her tirade went on for several minutes. Solas remained as still as stone while she harangued him. Truthfully, he feared for his life. He had seen what a powerhouse Sera was on the battlefield. He was only grateful she was too close to shoot him. When she seemed to be winding down, he opened his mouth to speak again.

She stuck a finger in his face. “No!”

He gently pushed her hand away, then tried to speak again.

She repeated the gesture. “No! I’m leaving, and my lot had better not hear a peep outta yours!”

Sera started walking away. Solas took a step in her direction, one last futile attempt to persuade her, and was hit in the chest with a jar of bees.

~

From Daisy’s Garden: This conversation between Merrill and Keeper Marethari is based heavily on my own experiences with an abusive parent. Marethari struck me immediately as someone who gets away with treating Merrill like shit by burying her viciousness in concern for Merrill. Slight verbal/emotional abuse cw.

Merrill couldn’t get her breath between her sobs. She didn’t want Marethari so near, didn’t want to be touched, didn’t deserve to be touched. Here she was, crying without a reason, and delaying her lessons, and babbling about nothing. When she did manage to speak again, she simply choked out another, “I’m sorry.”

“What are you sorry for?”

“I’m sorry for being a fool,” Merrill said miserably.

“That’s a terrible thing to say about yourself, da’len. You’re a capable, intelligent, beautiful young woman. Just because you take these silly notions is no reason to torment yourself. You simply need to be more careful about not saying every ridiculous thing that enters your head.”

~

From The Cult of Fen’Harel, Chapter 5, Fresh Brewed Trouble. This is the first time Solas actually asks Ellana about the cult. It was fun to write him having a complete meltdown about his opposition being. . .less well-organized than he expected.

“What is the Cult of Fen’Harel?” he demanded.

Ellana grinned mischievously. “Enjoying your reading material?”

“Brother Genitivi,” he spat, “seems to think that they are a Dalish fertility cult.”

“That’s been the most popular theory, based on ‘the proliferation of crude phallic imagery’ found at the sites where the cultists have gathered. Although Brother Burbadur has some unique ideas.”

“That hack?! They still allow him to publish?!”

Ellana giggled. “So, you know about Brother Burbadur? I’ve sent you a copy of his latest book. It’s all about your cult.”

“With his Snake-Kings and lunatics? Mythal enaste, what have you done?”

“You mean Moon Men?” Ellana corrected. “Don’t you realize, Solas? I don’t have to instigate everything. It’s like Thedas itself wants you to fail.”

~

From The Cult of Fen’Harel, Chapter 6, The Mirror’s Secret. I love, love, love any instances of Solas interacting with an old Keeper Lavellan. So of course I had to send him to Clan Lavellan to bargain with Ellana’s grandmother. (For clarification, Keeper Deshanna Istimaethoriel goes by Mae in CoFH.)

Solas coldly repeated his question: “Again, what do you expect me to do here?”

Mae put her hands on her hips. “Well, I don’t want you to join the ‘rituals,’ if that’s what you’re afraid of. Your followers have been nothing but a nuisance lately. I’d like you to put the fear of their god in them.”

“How exactly?”

“You’re the Dread Wolf. Figure it out. I just want you to chase them off and scare them enough that they’ll stop trashing the altars and stealing the clan’s statues. I won’t mention what we had to clean off those statues last time.”

Solas shuddered.

Boisterous laughter and torchlight from the clearing signaled the cultists’ arrival.

“They’re here,” Mae whispered. “Get to it. Just don’t hurt any of them.”

“You should go now,” Solas warned.

“Before you become too terrifying for my mortal eyes to behold?”

Solas looked at her pointedly.

She snorted. “I’m not missing this show. But you’d better get out there before they start stripping.” She peered around a tree. “They’re barely wearing anything as it is.”

Solas shuddered again. Then, feeling more than a little embarrassed with someone watching, shrugged off his mortal form. The howl of the giant, six-eyed wolf echoed to the ends of the Free Marches.

~

From Of Mages and Moon Men. I desperately want Solas and Dorian to be friends, so writing them having fun together makes me happy. 

Dorian chuckled and looked at Solas. “It seems you aren’t such a wet blanket after all. Just present you with silly books about ancient elves and you’re downright companionable.”

Solas ignored Dorian’s attempt to bait him. “You are not such bad company yourself, Master Pavus. I would not have expected it.”

Dorian made a face. “Solas, I will promise never to insult your wardrobe again if you will promise to never refer to me as Master Pavus.”

“Does it irk you so much?” Solas couldn’t stop the smile from tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I hope to be old and grey before I’m forced to go by Master Pavus.”

“Fair enough. I suppose we can consider this a cease fire between us?”

She had somehow gotten closer to him than she realized, as she stood staring down into his warm brown eyes. Cassandra took an abrupt step back, thankful that the smug expression on Varric’s rugged face kept her from freezing under his scrutiny.  

“As if I’d encourage your thievery!” she snapped, hoping that Varric attributed her red face to her temper.

“It’s not like you have to, anyway. You left your book in the courtyard.”

Cassandra sat down heavily in her desk chair, hiding her face in her hands. “How did you know it was mine?”

“I’d like to say you’re the only person who reads that tripe, but the truth is, I recognized your bookmark.”

She sighed heavily. “I suppose I owe you thanks for sparing me the embarrassment of having someone else find it.”

“I suppose you do. Better keep it under lock and key as intended next time.”

“Thank you, Varric,” Cassandra said through her hands.

“You don’t have to sound so despondent, you know.”

“Imagine me having to thank you after you bullied me about my books,” she countered.

“I’ll just have to let you read about Princess Floralbutt and Hairyman Bearcock in peace, I guess.”

Cassandra let out a wheeze, which blossomed into a full-fledged laugh. She looked at Varric, who seemed all too pleased with the prospect of making her laugh.

“You know,” she said, “I wouldn’t have to read that sort of ‘drivel,’ as you call it, if you would show me your chapters.”

“This is true. Which is why I’m sure you’re dying to get your hands on the next chapter of Swords and Shields I’m keeping in my own locked drawer.”

“I thought you had it with you!” the words burst out of her, and she went redder than ever. “Damn it all,” she breathed.

“So, you are excited.”

“Of course,” she said miserably.

“I’m sure we could work something out, if you’re that invested.”

Cassandra wasn’t going to give in that easily. “Does it resolve the dispute with the Baron?”

“Of course.”

“Does the Knight-Captain visit the prison?”

“Maybe.”

“Is there a duel?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know?”

“Varric! Stop torturing me!”

“You’d like that too much,” he snarked. “But you still owe me an apology for accusing me of breaking and entering.”

She stared him down. “What do you want?”

“Oh, not much. I just want you to give an absolutely glowing review of. . .what was the Baredcock novel?”

“A Tender Caress.”

“That’s it. I want you to convince our dear Sparkler to read it. And then listen to his review.”

“Then you’ll give me the chapter?”

“As soon as I hear him swearing about tender caresses, the chapter is yours.”

As his brush illuminated the cataclysm of the Breach, Solas considered the events of the last months. Nothing had gone according to plan. Not in a very long while. At first, Solas had been furious. Corypheus was meant to have died. Instead, the Fade was torn open, bleeding demons across the waking world. The Chantry scrambled to make superstitious sense of the disaster, and in the midst of everything was a fumbling Dalish elf with his own magic branded onto her hand. 

He tried everything he knew to remove the Anchor. She was too weak to bear it. No mortal could without dying. But his powers were too weak without the orb. He managed only to siphon off some of the magic of the mark, stabilizing it and preventing it from killing its bearer. The elf woman who had been led from the Conclave in chains was raised up as a hero, the chosen of a god she did not follow. 

The next stretch of the fresco revealed the way Solas had perceived the Chantry’s new Herald in those days: transfixed by the staring eye of the Chantry’s military and hemmed in by wolves. A weapon forged by the servants of Andraste, held tight in their grip. 

And yet she had managed to surprise him. “You came here to help, Solas. I won’t let them use that against you.” She had reassured him as if it were an obvious thing—as if there were no doubt she would defend him against the Chantry. 

“How would you stop them?” he had asked her. It had been a struggle to disguise his cynicism. What could the Chantry’s captive do to defend an unknown apostate?

“However I had to,” she had stated. The edge to her voice surprised him. Suddenly, she did not sound like the sort who would give in to whatever the Chantry demanded of her. 

As Solas drew black paint across the wall, he realized just how strong the Inquisitor had proven to be. The figure he outlined cast a long shadow across the world. Alexius, that snake out of Tevinter, who had altered the very flow of time with his greedy, foolish magic.

And the Inquisitor, not even bearing that title yet, had dared him to strike her down. She stole the mages right out from under the magister, then rewrote history to save the world. 

The scene Solas filled in showed the dark split of time—two castles at Redcliffe, one marred with red lyrium, the other mundane in the sunlight. When Nessa—the Inquisitor, he corrected himself—had asked him if he remembered the dark future at Redcliffe, Solas lied. It was better if she believed that future existed only in her fading memories.

The rebel mages were welcomed into the Inquisition as allies—something Solas had considered impossible. As unlikely as it had seemed at first, the woman the Chantry had chosen to lead them would not be swayed from what she believed was the right course of action. And Solas could only describe his feeling at watching her defy them as. . .awe. She was not at all what the Chantry was looking for. But they had no choice to follow her. It was that, or leave the world at the mercy of the shredded Veil. 

Solas chuckled to himself. What a fix the Chantry was in, led by a stubborn, sharp-tongued elf. It served them right. And as for Nessa. . .she had proven herself to be far beyond what Solas had expected, when he had sat by her side, cursing her for taking the Anchor. Perhaps he should speak with her, tell her the truth of how deeply she had impressed him.