#solas fic

“Is this what you looked like, before you gained a body?” Lavellan reached out, lifting her finger towards one of the delicate phantasms. Thin tendrils of gossamer light brushed and delicately intertwined with her seeking fingers.

“Of the same ilk. I was much larger, far more sentient than these wisps of intelligence.”

She lowered her gaze to his. The blueish glow illuminated her face, casting her features into sharp relief against the dim backdrop and the orbs of dancing light above her head. “I saw what you once looked like, I think. In one of your frescos.”

“I imagine you did.” He hesitated, reaching up to tuck a lock of hair behind her ear, his touch lingering. “May I ask your thoughts?”

“Beautiful. You were beautiful. Luminous.” She traced a fingertip across his cheeks, connecting the freckles that lay upon his fair skin in little constellations. “You still are.”

He sat up, enough to touch his nose to hers and give her an affectionate kiss.

She felt the curve of his smile as their lips brushed. She placed her hand against his abdomen, feeling the muscles shifting beneath his tunic. “I’m glad you decided to gain a body.”

Solas watched her, half amused, drinking in each graceful movement, the strands of her long hair cascading down her back and falling over a shoulder as she leant forward. “As am I.” Another light kiss. “Now more so than ever.”

She beamed at him. The radiance of her beauty dimming the waltzing lights above. Solas tucked a finger beneath her jaw, stroking her chin with his thumb. His eyes a dark amethyst as he regarded her, his thumb moved to caress the plump flesh of her bottom lip, watching as her mouth opened slightly in response.

He loved her.

How he loved her.

Every beat of her heart echoed within his own soul. His own spirit, once unbound from notions such as love and lust, now clothed in flesh.

He had never looked at her in such a way, not even in their stolen moments back in Skyhold. She saw his eyes drawn magnetically to her lips, the touch of his fingers causing her blood to quicken.

Drawn by the electricity between the two perhaps, a wisp alighted on Lavellan’s shoulder, tangling soft strands of essence in her hair. Solas released his hold on her chin, grinning as he chuckled quietly. “They seem to be drawn to you.”

“Maybe it’s the energies left over from the anchor.”

“Mm, I postulate more readily it is your aura that draws them.” Solas coaxed the wisp from her shoulder where it obediently drifted into the palm of his hand. He raised it back up and allowed it to float once more amongst its brethren. “Your own spirit is a rare and marvelous force, vhenan.”

“I seem to remember you saying something along those lines long ago.”

“Ah…yes.” Solas’ face fell slightly, the act of remembrance for him eternally bittersweet.

Lavellan slid her touch down his shoulders, taking his hands, speaking softly. “Do you remember our first kiss?”

His lips tilted upwards at the well-worn memory. “Every detail.”

She watched the movement of his lushly curved mouth, studying with loving awe the beauty of his features. “How you said it was ill-considered and impulsive?”

She moved in and pressed a kiss to the healing skin under each of his eyes. Kissed all the freckles scattered across his cheeks like stars.

“Yes.” Solas leaned into her, closing his eyes, inhaling her warm breath as it ghosted across him. He pushed aside the guilt still gnawing at him for what he had done to her, allowed it to be consumed and burned away by her persevering love. “I remember it all.” He caught her chin again, moving her so he could see her eyes. “The way you looked at me across the campfire, ‘lingering’ as Madame de Fer aptly described. The rise and fall of your chest becoming more pronounced whenever I would brush against your body in passing, or when healing your wounds.”

“Solas…”

But he continued. “The ache of wishing to forsake all my plans and just be with you. How much that inferno of desire frightened me.” Solas drew her closer, their noses almost touching. “The scent of your hair, the warmth of your skin, the curve of your body, it all threatened to undo me. Undo everything I had worked countless years towards.”

“Do you still think of us as ill-considered and impulsive?” Lavellan had to ask the question, even if she could see how deeply it affected him, the slight wince and tensing of his features.

Read More here

“This is your fault. I —.” 

You snarl in elven, “Dirth ma, harellan! Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din!” 

The man in front of you — Solas, remains as stoic as ever, only the slight twist of his lips gives way to his anger. 

“You have made it so I will never die,” he replies, voice buttery smooth. 

Once, that voice made your heart skip a beat. Once, his voice was the only thing that could quell the devouring storm in your head. 

Now, his voice only brings rage to you. Solas is the reason everything went wrong in your life. Still, you had come to love him. 

And maybe some part of you still does. But that part is currently buried under six tons of pure hate, and when Solas disappears, only to reappear behind you, you whirl around to fling a fireball at him. 

Your magic thrums beneath your fingertips, and hot fire travels through the still air before simply… vanishing, before it can even get to Solas. He scoffs. You almost curse how good he looks, his violet eyes simmering with amusement. 

“Did you think you could hurt me here, in my domain?”

“Ir emah’la shal!” You growl, running towards the ancient elf. 

Solas side steps you, hands behind his back. He’s poised, ever elegant, and entirely infuriating. You scream, frustrated tears welling up in the corner of your eyes. It’s minuscule, but you can see the way Solas falters at that. His lips part, and his brows raise. 

And that’s when you make your move. You twist with the grace of a dancer, pouncing on him and knocking him to the ground. He grunts on the impact, and you grip his throat in your bare hands. Solas glares at you, lips curled to bare his teeth. 

He looks like a wolf ready to strike, and you almost curse the way your cunt pulses. Solas glowers at you, and you can see the unbridled hatred in his eyes. 

“You honor your patron well, Rook.” 

You absentmindedly touch the Vallaslin depicting Elgar'nan's thorny vengeance on your face. 

You open your mouth to speak, and then —. 

And then his lips are on yours, teeth clashing against your own. It’s a mess of knocking teeth and tangled tongues, his hate searing into your very soul. It’s addicting, and you press your crotch closer against his, the sizeable bulge there knocking the wind out of you. Solas bites your lower lip hard enough to draw blood, and you pull away to scowl at him. 

“Draw my blood once more, I dare you.” 

It’s a challenge Solas is all too happy to accept. With a sharp and powerful buck of his hips, he takes you unawares and flips the tables — literally. Suddenly you’re under him, his big hands gripping your wrists above your head. His armor clinks against yours in a deadly melody. 

Solas’ thumb comes to smear the blood on your lip, dipping just the tip of it into your mouth, so you can taste your own lifeblood. 

“Do you know how much you tempt me, my Rook?” Solas growls, tightening his grip on your wrists. You wince, but your nethers sing with arousal. 

“I am not yours. Dirth ma banal, Wolf.” 

Desire sparks within Solas’ eyes, and he leans closer to your elongated ear, hot breath fanning across the sensitive skin. 

“I shall show you what it means to be taken by the Dreadwolf.” 

With that promise whispered into your skin, Solas places one of his hands on the middle of your chest, a faint blue glow emanating from underneath. And then suddenly, your armor is disintegrating. 

“What the —.” 

Solas cuts you off with a searing kiss, his tongue thrusting inside your mouth. He caresses your tongue, before his own retreats. He sucks your lower lip into his mouth and bites — but not hard enough to draw blood. 

His lips trail higher, kissing your cheekbone with  a softness you don’t expect. Solas darts his tongue, tracing the curve of your long ear. You whimper, eyes squeezed shut as your cunt flows with arousal. 

“Solas…,” you whine, grinding your bare hips onto his clothed ones. His armor clinks against your clit, and you tense in pleasure. With a flourish of his wrist, his armor evaporates, and you’re suddenly flushed with his bare body. It’s glorious, the feeling of his warmth and skin on you. His cock is erect, pressed against your lower stomach, and you can feel the wetness seeping from its tip. Your hands twitch in his grasp, aching to run your fingers all over his form. 

Solas’ lips are suddenly on your neck, where he bites the delicate skin, drawing blood. He laves the blood with his hot tongue, moaning at the taste of you. 

“Had I known this was all it takes to get you to be quiet, I would have done this sooner,” Solas mumbled against your heated skin. Despite the fact you despise this man, your heart aches at his admission. When this began, and he was so attentive and kind and had you falling so fast, so hard, was it all a trick? To get you to trust him unconditionally? To use your love for him against you? You suppose it didn’t matter now, as you’re trapped here with him for all eternity. Still, the thought causes your anger to reach a crescendo, and in retaliation, you shift so your lips are pressed against the slope of his shoulder, and you bite. 

Your teeth pierce his skin, drawing blood. His hips lurch against yours, and he grunts. You smirk against his skin. Solas’ left hand trails the length of your body, rubbing over your taut nipple before traveling lower. He lifts his hips just enough so he can run a fingertip over your throbbing clit. You moan, and Solas smirks. 

His hand guides his cock, rubbing the tip up and down your slit before —. 

Before he’s thrusting into you and sheathing himself in one go. You cry out in pain, tears pricking the corner of your eyes. But you don’t let them fall — that’s what he wants. Your cunt clenched tightly around him, but that doesn’t stop Solas from pulling his hips back, only to piston further into you. This isn’t soft lovemaking — this is pure primal need fueled by mutual hate. 

It hurts, but as he keeps thrusting and — mercifully — rubbing your clit in firm circles, the pain begins to ebb away until all that remains is firey pleasure. You’re quickly chanting the elven man’s name, scratching his back in euphoria. 

“Solas, Solas, fenedhis!” You cry out, canting your hips sloppily to meet his. Solas grunts, lifting his head from your breasts to stare at you. His eyes are filled with lust, and it makes your cunt clench with need. 

“Sahlin garas,” Solas cooes, thrusting particularly hard. The way he speaks elven is flawless, and it never fails to make your heart stutter. With another erratic jerk of his slender hips, and pinch of your clitoris, you come undone — just like he demanded. 

“That’s it,” Solas grunts, and with a bite to your neck and a quick thrust, he’s spilling his seed inside you, moaning into your skin. 

He’s quick to slide out of you, making you whimper at the loss. He stands, and stares down at you. With a flick of his wrist, you’re both clothed again. 

He relishes the way the moonlight dances across her freckles and vallaslin. In the beginning, seeing those markings on her had only brought him a detached sort of sorrow, having seen them adorn the faces of many Dalish over his long, endless centuries. If there existed a vallaslin for Fen’Harel, he wondered what he would feel if she had chosen it. Would she choose him now, when she knew the truth of her peoples’ Old Gods?

Over time, as he came to know her, those markings had tapped into a deep well of rage within him- and shame. Unbearable shame. He was the reason she wore those markings on her face with no idea of the heinous past they truly represented. He was the reason she bore an ancient magic upon her hand that would eventually kill her. He was the reason her sky was torn open and every day of her life was a fight to survive now. He was the reason and she deserved so much better. 

Thus, she was the reason he was standing in this glade about to make a choice. A choice that would forever change his trajectory. A choice he cannot decide if it is brave to make or incredibly selfish of him. 

But she changes everything. He tried to resist it but with her every curious question about the Fade she worked her way into his heart. With every act of compassion she showed towards spirits, she embedded herself deeper until he found that she had lodged herself next to that well of emotion he had not drank from in centuries. Suddenly he felt. He felt fear and anger, joy and hope, grief. He felt it all, with her, for her. Solas realized it like a bright, clear sunrise dawning on him after centuries of clouded night. He loved her. And if he loved her, the only way to show it was with the truth. 

That truth, well, it may be the last conversation he is ever privileged to have with her. But she deserves it and he needs it. He needs to know if he has been…wrong. If there is another way that his pride prevented him from seeing. The path he walks, the Din’anshiral. It is one he would protect her from at all costs. But perhaps…it is not one he needs to walk at all. What if… What if this feeling blossoming in his heart… What if this seed of possibility sprouting roots inside of him… What if it meant everything was allowed to change? What if he was allowed to water it, nurture it into a future he had never considered before her?

“I was trying to determine some way to show you what you mean to me,” Solas says to her. 

“That’s not necessary, Solas. You’re my…” She trails off, a question in her eyes. Her brows scrunch together and his fingers ache to reach out and smooth them down, to remove any weight of doubt from her mind about what she means to him. 

“That is the question, is it not? For now, the best gift I can offer is the truth…” Solas braces himself against the spike of fear. Would she still want to name what they are to one another after this? Would the only name to suffice be monster or enemy? 

“You are unique. In all Thedas, I never expected to find someone who could draw my attention from the Fade. You have become important to me - more important than I could have imagined.”

“As you are to me,” she responds, her eyes sparkling. 

“Then what I must tell you… The truth.” 

She watches him expectantly. Her fingers reaching out to lace with his own. Her touch sets off a sparking current of desire through him. He forces himself not to pull her closer and to look into her eyes as he says, “I am not who you think I am, vhenan.” Her lips part in confusion. “Or,” Solas continues gently. “I am not only who you think I am.” 

“Solas,” her fingertips brush his cheek. “What do you mean?”

Solas briefly clasps her fingers against his jaw before drawing her hand away. He swallows hard at the look of hurt that flutters across her face, but she did not know whom she touched. Not yet anyway. 

“I have spoken to you of the knowledge I have learned of through spirits in the Fade. And that is the true origin of some of my knowledge. The rest…” She nods slowly up at him, encouraging him to go on. “I was there, vhenan. Many millennia ago, when what your people call the Old Gods walked the land.” 

“Solas, I don’t…” she shakes her head, takes the smallest step away from him that threatens to shatter his resolve into panic. 

“Solas came first,” he says. “Fen’Harel, the Dread Wolf, came after.” He watches her so closely, studying her reaction like she is the Fade he has spent centuries of his life devoted to understanding. 

“Fen’Harel,” she whispers the name, his name. Then she takes another step, this time towards him, and it is the most important step in Solas’ long life. “Tell me, Solas. Tell me everything.” 

And so he does. The words spill from him, painting a picture of his life across a canvas that she watches with the curiosity and compassion that he has come to love her by. She does not flinch away when the colors grow dark and the shapes become jagged. Does not reach out in grief to shred the portrait of a false god that undoes every single thing she has been taught. 

When he tells her the truth of the mark upon her hand, she squeezes his own with it, the mark pressed between them like an oath to own this mistake as one. When he finally lifts his brush, his words running dry, she steps into him. Her hand lifts to cup his face again. Tears glisten in her eyes, falling silently down her cheeks. 

“Ma vhenan, we will carry this together.”

There is a fire in her voice that warms the icy waters of numbing grief Solas has drowned in for so long. It is a gift, her words. A gift Solas cannot believe he is worthy of receiving. A magic he did not know if he dared to wield. But she changes everything. And she can, they can.  

He reaches out, wraps an arm around her waist, pulling her to him. “Ar lath ma, vhenan,” he tells her. One last truth, as he weaves his hand into her hair, tilts her face up to his. 

“Ar lath ma, vhenan,” she responds, a glorious smile alighting her features.

Solas captures it in his mind, then with his own lips. A hunger breaking free of the reservoir he has kept it bottled within, eager to be quenched. She meets his passion, her arms winding around his neck. His hand roams down her back, pressing her tighter against him. She gasps his name, Solas, against his lips and he is undone. She exists and she sees him and she is choosing him. 

He pulls her to the forest floor with him. As her hands brace against his chest, her hips bracketing his own, his hands tangle in her hair as she hovers over him… As her lips crash down over his and Solas experiences a jubilation he is not sure he has ever known…

The Dread Wolf wakes up. No weight against his body. No warmth against his lips. The frigid well of his regrets, his shame, his grief, are his only company and absolutely no relief for the thirst her absence parches him with.

This dream comes to Solas often. Haunts him with the ghost of a choice he almost made, but did not. In another world, perhaps he would have known her love like that. She would know all of his names and he would give all of his heart. Despite the pain this dream afflicts him with, he cannot bear to will it away. He does not believe Fen’Harel deserves her love, because she does not deserve the hurt it would lead her to. Solas had a choice once to envision a different path. This dream reminds him of that. Though it tortures him, he believes this, Fen’Harel, does deserve. He had planned to tell her everything then, regardless of whether it was brave or selfish, because she deserved to know. He did not, so perhaps he deserves to suffer for it. 

Solas stares into the darkness of his room for a moment more. Letting the memory of her lips whisper a what if against his soul. What if he had chosen to trust her? What if he had let himself love her? What if he had let her love him? What if he was not so alone? What if he had done what she deserved from him? What if he was wrong?

When she stepped into the Fade, hand in hand with her love, Sulah had no preconceived notion of what to expect on the other side, nor did she spend a moment speculating about what it could possibly be. She was with Solas, after all, and there was no use in trying to predict his actions. It was funny, really—how she found him predictable and surprising all in the same. No, there was little use trying to guess where in the Fade he would lead them. Nonetheless, she wasn't sure she would have ever expected this.

The pocket of the Fade they walked into was dull and gray as stone. In fact, most of it was stone. Fragments of buildings and debris floated slowly through the foggy sky above. Tendrils of winding roots grew up through cracks in the stone. There were staircases that seemed to lead to nowhere, and twisted, barren trees clinging to broken columns and walls. The air was so still it felt stifling in Sulah’s lungs. And Solas, downtrodden and bruised, looked like he belonged there. Like he was part of the backdrop. As if he could hear her thoughts, he spoke.

“It is a reflection of what I am. What I don't want to be.” He paused, dropping his head. “What I don't want to face.”

“This is how you atone?”

“I told you it would be terrible.”

“And I told you forever.” Sulah turned to him, heart aching for the bloodied mess of his face. “I meant it.”

Solas lifted his head enough to look at her through glassy, violet eyes. “I don’t deserve you, vhenan.”

“I think that’s up to me,” she said, wiping away a stray tear on his cheek. “Let’s talk, my love. Before you start making your amends.”

They sat with their backs against a nearby stone wall. Solas’s eyes alternated between being heavy with sleep and haunting despair. He looked so much older than she remembered him—not physically, really, but in the way he seemed to be held down with millennia of burden. On the other hand, he had the heartbreaking demeanor of a child unable to emotionally grasp the multitude of his feelings.

“I don’t know… where to start,” he breathed. With one look at her, a hint of hope glimmered amongst the sadness in his eyes. “I have missed you. Desperately so.”

“I’ve missed you, too.” Sulah’s voice cracked as she spoke, a stream of tears steadily falling down her cheeks. She brushed them away and smiled sadly. “So let’s start there, shall we?”

His kiss tasted of salt and metal. She didn’t care about the wounds on his face or the small gash on his lip still swelling with blood. It had been a decade since she tasted him, touched him, spoke to him. Even though she knew he visited in her dreams, he never made contact—only watched, a dark figure in the distance. How she longed to reach out for him every time, to pull him close and find solace in his arms like she used to. Sulah crawled in front of him, her knees aching as they pressed into the cold stone, and wrapped her arms around his neck. After a brief hesitation, Solas rested his hands on her waist, his touch timid at first, like he was afraid of doing something wrong. But his touch grew more confident by the second, and soon his arms were wrapped around her so tight she could barely breathe. It felt as if a missing piece of her heart had been restored, held in place by molten gold.

“I don’t know that I can possibly tell you all of it. Perhaps I could… show you, instead.” With a single thought, Solas willed into the Fade a blue crystal statuette of a wolf, not unlike the one Sulah found when his ritual failed. He held it, concentrated on it, and its core radiated bright blue magic. He held the figure out to her. As Sulah took it from him, their destitute surroundings swirled and dissolved, leaving her in front of a young Solas. His face was not quite so worn with pain and exhaustion like the one she knew. Long, auburn hair cascaded down the center of his head, falling over his shoulder as he turned to face the other elf in front of him.

“Solas, how could you?” the other elf asked. His skin was tan, his hair was dark, and his face was marked with Mythal’s branching vallaslin. The same branches that Sulah had tattooed underneath her eyes.

“I do not expect you to understand, Felassan,” Solas said, standing tall and proud as ever. “It was necessary for the enemy to believe we were committed. A heavy sacrifice, but one that gave us a real chance to end the war.”

“You knowingly sent those spirits to their deaths!” Felassan shouted. “We’re supposed to be better than this.”

Felassan spoke to Solas with the intimacy and confidence of a close friend, unafraid to confront his wrongdoings. Sulah could make out a hint of remorse in Solas’s eyes before his face hardened into a scowl.

“I did what had to be done.”

The scene dissipated. Ruins were replaced with the glorious landscape of ancient Arlathan, sprawling greenery among grand, floating palaces. Solas argued with an elven woman who Sulah now recognized as Mythal. She was identical to the spirit fragment she had seen before stepping into the Fade with Solas, only solid and real. The words they spoke were jumbled, as if Solas couldn’t remember the exact things said when he transferred the memory to the statue, but Sulah knew what they were discussing all the same: the Blight. Solas protested, pleaded with Mythal, before finally giving in to her demands.

“I will follow you always,” he said. Sulah had never heard him sound so defeated. A distinct and overwhelming sense of shame settled over her as the scene faded.

The memories continued like this, one after the other, each one brief but enough to show her the actions that haunted him. And enough to leave her with thousands of questions. She saw his regrets from centuries ago—memories of Mythal, Elgern’an, Ghilan’nain, the other Evanuris. She saw him destroy the legacy of the titans, and the corruption that introduced the Blight to the world. She saw his sorrow at the creation of the Veil, the loss of the world he knew, the unbreakable tether he had to Mythal, similar to a commandeering mother and a child eager to please her, desperate for her approval. She saw his plans to give Corypheus the orb go awry, the conflict raging inside of him as he fell in love with Sulah, the way he almost told her the truth that night in Crestwood. She felt the guilt he carried afterwards—that he still carried. She saw him devise his devious plan to mold Rook into someone the prison would take in his place. His betrayal and desperation.

She saw the despair in his eyes when he killed Varric.

Sulah stood on the raised platform where Solas orchestrated his ritual, watching as Varric climbed the stairs in an attempt to stop his friend. Even in a memory, the air was charged with powerful magic, culminating in a swirling wind that blew her hair into her face, obscuring her view. She could only make out fragments of the argument.

“You need to listen—”

“You have come a long way and made a valiant effort, Varric—”

“—able to give me a straight answer—”

“—rather than admit this is mine to solve—”

“—who are you trying to convince here? Me or yourself?”

Varric’s last statement stung like a knife. His words echoed as time slowed. Sulah felt the heavy burden of self doubt imbued in Solas’s memory as the two men locked eyes, their argument hanging in the air between them. In a chaotic flash, several things happened: Solas turned to continue the ritual, Varric attempted to pry the lyrium dagger from Solas’s hands, and the monuments of the Evanuris surrounding the ritual site began to fall. Somewhere in the chaos, while wrenching the dagger back from Varric’s grasp, the blade pierced through his chest. The sound of ripping flesh. The gasp from Varric’s mouth.

“NO!” Sulah shouted. Time had slowed, and she rushed to catch him as he stumbled, forgetting that it was no use. Her arms moved through him like a ghost.

Solas watched his friend fall to the bottom of the stairs, regret bubbling up inside of him at what he’d done. And still, the sense of doubt from Varric’s words lingered, sullying Solas’s certainty as innocent blood seeped through the fabric of his gloves.

He steeled himself with cold resolve and turned away.

The gray of the Fade prison came back into view. Sulah felt like she had been in Solas’s memories for hours, but neither her body nor his had moved from the ground against the wall. He watched her with bated breath, his jaw clenched, eyes glossy with fresh tears. Moments ago, she watched him command a rebellion, steadfast and resolute and proud. A powerful god among mortals. But the Solas in front of her now held little of the immense ancient spirit she’d seen. He was only a man, broken from the weight of his regrets.

“I cannot ask for your forgiveness, vhenan. Not even your understanding.” His voice broke, his next words spoken through a sob. “I am so sorry that I let you fall in love with a monster.”

Solas hugged his knees to his chest. His hands shook and his body trembled as he cried. It was pure, raw, searing emotion—and it was the first time she had ever seen him lose control of himself. Sulah had been lonely for years, yearning for the man who felt like home while sleeping cold in an empty bed, but she’d never felt as alone as she felt now, sitting in the vast emptiness of the Fade with a god shedding centuries’ worth of repressed agony that she could never possibly comprehend. He was the one who always seemed to know what to do, who had a plan for everything. He was the one more familiar with the Fade than the waking world. But he was also the one who had to face his regrets. His pain. And he had already proven that he couldn’t do that on his own.

“Solas,” she said, quiet and sad. “You killed Varric.”

“I’m sorry,” he choked through tears.

“I… I knew he was gone, but no one…” she trailed off, thinking back to the letter she received from Morrigan shortly after she met Rook and the others. Varric was gravely injured in an altercation. He did not make it. I am sorry you have to find out this way. “No one told me it was by your hand.”

“They were protecting you,” he said. “From the truth of what I am. Perhaps they shouldn’t have done so.”

Sulah sat in silence, trying to piece it all together in her mind.

“I never meant to hurt Varric,” Solas whispered. “I have harmed so many people, innocent people, and Varric… Varric….”

He stopped speaking and rested his forehead on his knees, letting the tears fall on his armor.

“My love—”

“How can you possibly still love me, Sulah?” he snapped, a wolf showing his fangs. “I deserve whatever cruel fate awaits me here. You do not.”

“Solas—”

“Would you truly—”

“Let me speak,” she said, stern and commanding. Her Inquisitor voice, the other members liked to call it. It worked. Solas nodded for her to continue. “To heal from your past, you have to confront it. It will be painful, but you must. Tell me about Varric.”

Solas sighed and let his head fall back to the wall, the apex of his throat bobbing as he swallowed.

“Varric was a good man. He was my friend.” He closed his eyes and Sulah watched as a single tear ran down his bloodied face. She tried to hold back her own tears, but they streamed warm down her cheeks nonetheless.

“What would you say to him if he were here?”

“That it is one of my greatest regrets, one that I desperately wish I could take back. That I enjoyed his company on our journey years ago, and that I have missed him in the years since. And that I am terribly, terribly sorry.”

Like a prayer, the final words escaped Solas’s mouth in a despondent whisper. In the distance, a structure resembling the skyline of Kirkwall crumbled. Sulah recognized it from her visit several years ago. She had only made it to Kirkwall once in the time that Varric was viscount, a position he reluctantly accepted, but one that she always suspected he secretly enjoyed. He took her to the cliffs of Sundermount, where Dalish sometimes set up camp. It looked remarkably like the area of the Free Marches her clan frequented before she left.

“I thought it might remind you of home”, he had said.

“I came here to see* your *home, Varric.”

“We’re doing that too.” he pointed across the water to the silhouetted, square buildings.

She smiled at the memory and let herself cry as the Kirkwall replica became an avalanche of stone plummeting into the abyss. When its final, broken pieces fell, Solas turned back to her and took a long breath. She looked at him, attempting to reconcile the Solas she knew and loved, the Solas in front of her now, with the Solas she saw in his memories. There was a cruel pride deep inside of him, one he tried to keep from her for so long. She could see it now, and it was fractured.

How could she possibly come to terms with all he had done? He had taken Varric away from this world, a man who, despite his faults, brought hope and friendship and humor into the world around him. She could feel the empty, aching shells of all the hearts who missed him—including her own. There were more adventures to be had, more books to be written, and Solas took it away. Away from Varric, away from the world. Sulah couldn’t bring herself to consider the even larger things he had done. The man she loved was responsible for the Blight. He tranquilized the Titans. He murdered his friends—sometimes on accident, sometimes for what he considered betrayal.

Sulah steadied her breathing and closed her eyes, focusing on the rhythm of the air flowing in and out of her lungs. She let the world fall away until she could feel nothing but the essence of her soul spreading into her limbs, making her weightless. If Solas was a spirit of wisdom, what was she, deep down? A word stirred somewhere in the depths of her heart: patience.

“This is going to take a long time, vhenan.” Solas’s words roused her from contemplation.

“Yes,” she said. “For both of us, I think.”

For the first time since reuniting, he touched her of his own accord, studying her prosthetic arm with gentle fingers before resting his hand on her thigh beside it.

“It’s a good thing time doesn’t exist in the Fade, then.” Sulah placed her remaining hand on top of his. “To answer your earlier question, I choose to still love you despite your mistakes, Solas. I love you because I tried to move on, to meet other people, but none of them could touch whatever piece of my soul that you do. Every person I tried to give my heart to was a flimsy bandage over a gaping wound. And I had to reconcile with myself that I love someone who would tear the world apart for his own stubborn pride. I know your heart, Solas. You are more than your mistakes.”

Sulah felt as if a small part of the rift between them had stitched itself back together; a fragile scar translucent and deep, but healing nonetheless. For a moment, the insurmountable hurdles she would have to help him overcome fell away. It was just the two of them, together in the Fade like all those years ago. She knew how the world would see them: the lovestruck Inquisitor and the Dread Wolf. The cautionary tale of a Dalish girl who fell right into the jaws of Fen’Harel himself.

“Sulah,” Solas reached for her face with both hands, holding her like he had to be sure she wasn’t a mere reflection of his desire. “As long as you will have me, I swear to you: I will never abandon you again. You will have me, always.”

His kiss was soft, but charged with intention. Devotion. As they broke apart, he pulled Sulah into his arms, resting his cheek on the top of her head.

He assumed it would be simpler. A nudge here, a wisely proposed idea there. Solas was not new to the art of spying, infiltration, and betrayal. But the problems began piling up right from the start, with no solution in sight.

The first, was when she fell from the breach. No orb, a dead divine, and the Seeker breathing down his neck about the conspirators health. It was easy enough to dissuade the Seeker from anger, speaking of foreign magic and the green pulse in the woman’s palm.

He sat vigil, and it was easy enough. Wiping the sweat off her brow, monitoring the rhythm of her breathing, the swirl of magic now imbedded in her limb was not as finicky as they all feared it would be.

When she wasn’t twitching, panting or murmuring under her breath as the sweat dripped down her temple, she would lay almost perfectly still. Peacefully, even.

Under the candlelight and the light of the moon shining past the cracks of the deteriorating dungeon, Solas would let himself admit he found her beautiful. But it was a point of pride for him to not get distracted, such thoughts would be dimmed and cast out as soon as they arrived.

The second problem arose when she did. She had awoken, and the blight had spat out more darkspawn than all the soldiers and volunteers combined could handle. And although Cassandra had cast doubt on her story, the moment she saw the woman’s palm glow green and close a fade rift, she resigned to calling it divine intervention.

The Seeker, and the Chantry behind her, scrambled to hoist her up into the role of messiah. The chosen one sent down by their Gods to save Thedas.

Solas bit his tongue, held back his scoffs and opinions. He did not come this far to foil his own plan over what the humans thought of their magic, their orb. And it seemed the elven woman shared the same sentiment. The glint of apprehension and cynicism in her eyes.

They had shared a few sparse words on the battlefield, he’d learned her name. Gan’freya. A peculiar name for a peculiar woman, he reckoned. They had not spoken since their triumphant return to Haven.

Their eyes would meet across the base, and she would greet him cordially, with a nod. No more, no less. Until of course, he’d find her going through his rucksack, no sign of remorse in her features as he confronted her.

“Just curious is all.” She’d said. “I went through Cassandra’s things too, and a few others’. Although, you’re the first one to catch me red-handed.”

She shrugged, and said nothing else before sauntering off.

The third problem arose not soon after, when they marched to scout the Hinterlands.

He had found her beautiful and perplexing. But Solas did not intend to tangle himself into the relationships of these mortals more than he had to, nor did he wish to anyway.

Through their long treks, she’d proven herself to be more than capable in battle, but also sly. Varric and Cassandra bickered more than they cared to babysit their Herald, but it was Solas who would catch the deftness of her palm sliding across a merchant’s stall. Her fingers gently prodding the items, as she talked their ear off. It was obvious she was very adept at this.

At first, he’d written it off as one of her peculiarities. An impulse she did not care to control or curb even whilst wielding a title, and the peoples trust at her beckon call. But when a refugee had stopped them by the side of the road, pleading for food or water, she had murmured something to them and handed over the stolen goods.

It had stirred something within him, a curiosity he could not satiate or curb.

He had resigned himself to be a spectator, a silent manipulator as his own spies gathered the intelligence hidden behind the walls of Haven. It seems the universe, or perhaps Gan’freya herself has chosen to force his hand.

Solas argued with himself, he was an intelligent man, resilient. He would not be easily swayed by a woman who bats her eyelashes at him. He would not waver in his plans because of the warm, long forgotten yet oh so familiar feeling blooming in his chest.

Gan’freya had spun his mind in circles, and she had been none the wiser.

She had felt foreign, alienated even. Cassandra looked at her with the hopeful eyes of someone clinging to their faith, Varric would cast sly glances and write down notes after every sentence spoken, and Solas. Well, Solas avoided looking altogether.

She preferred roaming the Hinterlands. Haven felt suffocating, a person on every corner waiting to grasp her hand, to sing her praises. Yet what she felt was not divinity coursing through her veins, but a dull throb. A looming threat that was eating her body from the inside.

It worried her, this power. For now, the power of the mark responded to her, but how long until it tore through her? No amount of flowy words from the Chantry and the people leading her dissuaded the thoughts of herself as a ticking time grenade.

Gan’freya resigned herself to foraging during their down time, aimlessly wandering the forests and digging her hands into the roots of plants. A reminder of home, almost. Back when she was just the obnoxious rogue of Clan Lavellan. Sent out to collect supplies and speak with merchants just so she wouldn’t lead the young ones astray.

But now, she was not allowed to wander far alone, and she always preferred Varric or Solas to accompany her. Cassandra had been kind to her, but even in the quiet moments she’d corner her about the Maker, Andraste, and what it means to the people joining them.

Solas would keep two feet between them at all times. Partly to keep an eye out for any possible danger, and because he sympathized with her wish to be left alone. He would give her the illusion of privacy, and when they’d return to camp she’d always squeeze his palm in a silent thank you.

And so, the fourth problem was entirely of his own doing.

A battle hard fought on their way to Redcliffe. As the Apostates and Templars tore each other, and everyone around them to shreds.

They’d saved a few refugees, lost a dozen. And earned their own scrapes and bruises in return. The scouts and guards of the camp had looked on in sympathy, offering health poultices and bandages upon their arrival.

Cassandra had waved them off, retiring to her tent. “I do not need to be coddled. I’ve experienced worse.” She spoke.

And Varric, well, he’d taken the poultices graciously, then asked if there was a fine bottle of Fereldan wine to soothe his aches.

But most curious was their leader, who ran off to her tent immediately. They could hear the sounds of rummaging and rustling, but no one dared to intrude. By the time she’d reappeared, everyone had retired to their guard posts or tents. Sat by the fire, Solas had eyed the delicate jar in between her hands.

His gaze met hers, and there was a glimmer of something in the way she looked at him. He felt hot under his collar, quickly turning away as she started moving towards the campfire. His ears perked up at the sound of a jar being unscrewed, but his gaze remained firmly on the crackling embers and flame.

Fingers, gentle but slightly calloused, circled his wrist and turned his palm flat side up. Solas eyed her curiously, as she graciously smeared what he recognized to be a healing salve onto his palm.

“Frostbite.” Her voice gentle, hushed almost. “That’s no good.”

“It’s merely the after effects of a spell. No grievous harm would come from it.”

She’d smacked his palm at that, a hiss escaping his lips. “No grievous harm my ass.”

“I meant that the injury would not kill me.”

The corners of her lips ticked up, “The salve does not prevent death.”

Solas huffed humourlessly as she continued to massage the salve into his palm. In the quiet, he studied her. The sun had begun to set, casting a soft glow behind her. She seemed ethereal in this moment. Her honey blonde hair no longer neatly plaited, stray hairs sticking out of place. Her brows, set in a furrow of concentration, and her bottom lip trapped between her teeth.

Solas wondered when was the last time someone had fretted over him. The last time someone had stopped to soothe his aches, to bandage his wounds. He dared not to daydream of what it would be like for someone like her to look after him, through thick and thin.

“I must admit, I did not come here without ulterior motives.” Her voice reverberated inside his head, and his gaze met hers.

The colour of amber and gold staring back at him.

Absentmindedly he flexed the hand still gripped between her fingers. “How so?”

Gan’freya had turned her body towards the fire slightly, showing the marred flesh of her shoulder. The blood had been cleaned meticulously, but the skin still showed signs of irritation.

“The arrow went clean through.” She remarked. “It’s the back of my shoulder I cannot reach, I’m afraid.”

Solas dipped his fingers into the jar, now sitting neatly between them. Clutching her hand with his injured one as if to steady her through touch alone. He tries to be as gentle as possible as he rubs the salve onto the wound. She hisses and squirms, and there’s the unmistakable sound of a giggle.

“Sorry.” She chuckled. “I’m ticklish.”

Her skin is soft to the touch, despite the jagged wound. Solas wonders what the rest of her feels like.

No. Such thoughts have to be quelled, snuffed out, cast aside. He will not get distracted.

“Would you not have preferred the Seeker helped you?” He questioned curiously. “She seems much eager to be your aid”

Gan’freya hummed, as if she herself did not know why she didn’t approach Cassandra first, or Varric, even.

“Cassandra means well, but she’s overbearing. Besides, she hates when I offer to help her. Did you see how she barked at the scout a few days prior when he inquired about her poultice needs? Nearly bit his head off.”

A beat of silence. “Besides, you’ve been more understanding than everyone else. Even if you did catch me investigating your intimates.”

Solas choked on his own spit at that, and she had burst into laughter.

As her laughter died down, she cast her eyes back onto the fire, and Solas continued to tend to her wound. He gently tapped his fingers against her flesh, signalling that he’d done what she had asked. Neither one was eager to get up first, though.

His eyes trailed over her skin, the freckles covering every inch of her, the scar on her jaw and above her brow, proof of her survival of their first attempt at stopping the breach at the ruins. She smelled faintly of lavender, and verbena.

A rustle by the entrance of the camp had startled them both. A scout returning, message clutched in hand, quick strides made towards them. Gan’freya sighed, whether from fatigue of the day’s events, or because she had grown tired of the role thrust upon her. She stood tentatively, casting one last glance at Solas, a thank you mouthed as she met the scout halfway.

They had grown close at Redcliffe. She had chosen to meet the mages first, claiming their aid would be detrimental in sealing the breach. Of course, her own inner circle chastised her for such a choice, weary of the apostates.

That was when Gan’freya began seeking his opinion before anyone else’s. Whether that was because she genuinely valued what he had to offer in terms of guidance, or if it was an act of rebellion on her part he could not say. But she sat with him for hours, asking about the fade and magic.

She had shared small tid-bits of her own life during those talks. Remarked on how her father was a mage, how he left the Clan in pursuit of knowledge, and vanished. She spoke of her mother, a healer. The very reason for her constant foraging and picking of leaves, the reason for the salve, safely sat in her rucksack.

Solas had exchanged his own secrets in turn, though they were more thinly veiled half-truths than outward ones. He would not outright lie to her, but he would keep his cards close to his chest nonetheless.

There was a mutual understanding between them. And something else blossoming in its cracks. Solas would argue that he is not a man easily led astray by something as trivial as attraction. Lesser men have sacrificed their goals in pursuit of passion, he was not one of them.

Or so he had thought.

Something had shifted that day at the camp, but it was easy enough to cast aside when they were journeying in search for allies. But now, they were back at Haven, laying down plans of their next move, it seemed that Redcliffe was under siege of a Magister, and to infiltrate his stronghold was not as simple as knocking on the doors.

She had begun cropping up in the back of his mind, a constant in his thoughts. Haven offered the safety of distance, when they returned she was swept right up into the shuffle of politics. He had admired the way she would not waver in her choice to help the mages, even when Cullen tried to argue that perhaps they’re a lost cause for the time being.

All of Haven had heard that argument.

“You ask me to lead, yet you try and undermine me at every corner.” Gan’freya had exclaimed.

Cullen had pinched his nose bridge between his fingers. “I am not undermining, I am simply trying to offer you alternatives.”

“I did not ask for them.” She was furious, fists clenched, brows furrowed. “You cannot possibly believe we may end the blight through steel? Our men are not Grey Wardens.”

“You must understand, although the mages offer an advantage, it is who we choose to align ourselves with which will be detrimental to how the rest of Thedas sees us.”

“There will be nothing to see if all of Thedas is dead.” She seethed.

Cullen had tried to reply, but she merely waved him off and stormed off towards her makeshift home. Solas had followed her, kept a safe distance if she had slammed the door shut it’d be a signal not to bother her. But it remained ajar.

He peeked through the crack, watching as she shuffled around her items before sitting down in her cot.

“You’re not sly, you know.”

Solas cleared his throat, pushing the door gently to step into the home, he closed it behind him. “I was not trying to be, my apologies.”

Gan’freya made a noncommittal hum. “I didn’t ask for this, you know.” She clenched and unclenched her fists, a frown on her features. “They all depend on me, yet it seems no matter my choice they’re all wrong.”

“You cannot please everyone. The situation we are in is fickle enough without delving into the politics.” He stepped further into her room, shoulder slumped against the door frame. “Do not let your council sway you into making choices you would regret.”

“My choices are my own.” She affirmed. “But I do not think of them as choices of a Herald, I do not wish to be one. I wish they’d understood that.”

Solas stepped closer to where she was sat, motioning to ask if he may sit. Gan’freya nodded, sliding a bit to give him some room. Once he sat next to her, he reached for her hand, grasping it firmly in his own.

“It is merely a title. You needn’t twist your very own nature to fit it. With time perhaps, they will see different. If not, their faith is their own, their beliefs of who you are do not make it truth.”

He felt his body shudder at the touch of her cheek against his shoulder. If she noticed, she made no comment, sitting there silently hand in hand.

“You are wise beyond both our years, Solas” She spoke with a smile. “I just hope you’re not being kind to me to try and acquire my mother’s secret balm recipe.”

Solas huffed out a breath in amusement, offering nothing in reply other than his thumb drawing circles on her hand.

It became more difficult to argue that he had not grown attached to her. He sought her out just as much as she him, if not more. After the mess at Redcliffe, and her stories of the future that should not come to pass, he had made himself a permanent fixture by her side.

She had told him every sordid detail of her and Dorian’s travel through time, had spoken with such anger and conviction towards the Magister and Corypheus’ followers, it seemed that the incident had reinvigorated her.

They had made travels through the Hinterlands once more, searching for a Grey Warden that Leliana had spoken of. The man seemed harder to track than expected. They made camp by a nearby village, the people had offered their homes for shelter as thanks for everything the Inquisition has been doing, but she had made it clear she would not abuse their kindness.

Although, she did ask them if she could use the empty stables for sparring practice, the people spared no thought before agreeing. Solas watched on as she sparred with Cassandra, soon they would march on to close the blight, hopefully for good.

“Be careful there, Chuckles, or your jaw will break off.” Varric joked.

“I do not know what you mean, Varric. I am merely keeping an eye out, we are after all in unguarded territory.” Solas would not look at the man, gaze shifting between Gan’freya and the horizon.

Varric chuckled. “You think no one noticed the way you two are attached at the hip? The glances anytime someone proposes an insane idea, the constant hovering in her space after a fight, and who can forget the nights by the campfire talking on and on about the fade.”

Solas had tried to interject, argue, but Varric continued on.

“And I mean, that weird balm she slathers you in, asked her about it and she got all cagey, said it was an elven thing but when I asked around other elves at Haven, it became very clear it was a you and her thing.”

“You know not of what you speak, Varric. Have you grown tired of writing your romance novels you’ve decided to project them onto your reality?” There was humour in Solas’ voice, but he could not deny he had felt like a child caught doing something they shouldn’t have.

The dwarf crossed his arms, looking from Solas towards Gan’freya. “Knew a guy like you once, he was all mysterious, reserved. Trailed around Hawke with puppy dog eyes even when he swore he didn’t want to be with them.” He raised his arms as if in defense. “I’m just saying, I know things.”

Solas hummed, arms crossed behind his back, casting one last glance and moving towards his tent. Perhaps Varric was right, he was too obvious, too close. But pulling away now would send alarm bells ringing not just to her, but to their fellow companions.

He slinked back into his tent silently, drawing it closed.

He reasoned with himself, there was nothing wrong with their friendship, were she the one to pull away he would gladly let her. But then a pinprick of something else swirled in his brain. Was it friendship? Or perhaps was it something more.

He would not deny it to himself that perhaps his glances, lingering touches were not just rooted in cordial intent. At first he had been un-phased by her, but the behaviour she has shown those past few weeks have planted something inside his mind he could not uproot. She had shown grace, and courage, and most importantly wisdom and kindness, when the people surrounding her had clamoured for power and good political standing above the wellbeing of the people.

It was her who divulged to him that she had no intention of lying to the people, of seizing power under her new moniker. She had given all this up freely, and she had in turn cherished every piece of information, every form of advice he had given to her.

But then his thoughts started to drift. Past the emotional, past the budding sweetness of admiration, into something more physical, more carnal, desire.

Solas thought back to the first time she had held and bandaged his hand by that campfire, her fingers calloused from wielding dual blades, yet her palms remained soft. He thought of the skin of her bare shoulder, the hitch of her breath when he had bandaged her wound in return.

And then he thought of her today, the way her toned arms were moving with swiftness, blades piercing through targets. Her firm midriff slightly exposed during her sparring session. Even drenched in sweat and gore she was the vision of fairness.

In that moment he wondered what it would feel like to have her pressed against him, her mouth on his, to have her clutching onto him, writhing, grinding.

It seemed that he had lost all sense of control over himself, as his hands drifted down to palm himself through his breeches, searching for friction. It was no use, he had thought to himself, hand dipping inside the waistband. He could not, would not deny himself any longer.

As he stroked himself, it felt as though the air in the tent became too stuffy. He had bit down on his free hand to keep himself from making too much noise.

Solas tried to reason with himself to finish this up quick, he did not have the privacy of four walls and a lock on the door. Anyone could just barge in and catch him in such an indecent position.

At that, his mind drifted further. How would Gan’freya react if she had caught him like this? Would she chastise him? Or would she move towards him with a helping hand? Perhaps she would make the first move, smack his hand away from himself to finish what he had started.

Too lost in his own ministrations, he could not hear her voice echoing throughout their camp, questioning where her friend had disappeared off to.

As he was getting closer to his peak, he’d heard the familiar rustling of his tent flaps, hand quickly moving from inside of his breeches, as if he’d been burnt. He heard her voice before he cast a glance behind his shoulder, cheeks flushed with embarrassment.

“Are you alright?” Gan’freya inquired, hand clutching the fabric of the tent, not daring to invade without an invitation. “You look… flushed.”

Solas’ voice felt caught in his throat, yet he managed to cough out, “I’m fine.”

Her brows furrowed in worry, sucking her lip between her teeth. “You don’t look fine, should I inquire about a medic in the village?”

He turned towards her hastily, wiping his hand down on the fabric of his pants before reaching for her. “No, I’m quite alright, honest.”

Gan’freya studied him for a moment, inspecting him as if she herself were a medic. She observed the pinkness of his cheeks, the slight quiver in his hands, shallow intake of breaths, and most obvious was the remains of a tent in his pants. Her worrisome gaze shifted, a twinkle of mischief replacing it.

“Oh you’re naughty.” She exclaimed under her breath. She knew he’d heard her, his gaze deciding to look anywhere but her.

“I do not know what you speak of.” Was his hushed reply.

A hum, followed by a snort. “I’m sure you don’t. Although, I would recommend next time to do your dirty business when everyone’s asleep.”

Solas jumped to defend himself. “It’s not- It wasn’t- It is perfectly normal.”

“Of course it is. I wasn’t saying it wasn’t.” She spoke, tone getting louder. “I’m just saying, you don’t want there to be rumours flying about that the Herald spends her time with an apostate who can’t keep his hands out of his own pants in broad daylight!”

His hand smacked over her mouth, trying to contain the words she just spoke. She made no noise of discontent, simply biting down on the flesh of his palm to provoke him.

As Solas’ hand fell away, she wiped her mouth. “I didn’t think that one through. I sincerely hope that wasn’t the hand you were making yourself happy with.”

He had a retort locked and loaded, but it died on his tongue as he looked at her. No malice or disgust in her gaze, the corners of her mouth ticked up in a wry smile. Their eyes met and neither one moved. She had made a tentative step forward, hand grazing his stomach, her mouth opening and closing as if she were looking for a way to speak the words.

In the distance, a sound of a horn being blown. A signal of a scout’s arrival. Gan’freya smacked her head on his chest, exhaling deeply. She toyed with the fabric of his tunic, gazing behind her before she detached herself.

“Well, carry on as you were.” She snorted. “Hang up a banner while you’re at it.”