#solasmance fic

This was not Solas’ plan. It was never his intention to bind Rook to himself, to be trapped in a prison of his own making. The bond was thin, a crumb of a thought floating through the fade, it wasn’t much to go on.

The last thing he’d heard was that Rook was intending to meet a possible ally somewhere in Minrathous. His patience was wearing thin. Had it not been for their meddling, the veil would have been torn, nature restored to balance. And perhaps, Solas could… No. He won’t dwell on that treacherous thought, on the impossible.

The Cobbled Swan is empty, save for Rook sat at a small table. The situation weighs heavy on their mind. They’d been anxious about this, more so when Morrigan and Harding had started speaking about utmost privacy, just you two, we shouldn’t be here for this.

Rook seems to be incapable of sitting still, bouncing their leg as they look around the empty pub. How curious. What kind of person would have an entire establishment shut down? They glance through the window, eyes studying the movement of people living their day to day. A sigh escapes their lips.

A cold hand creeping up behind their ear and down their neck.

“Boo.”

Rook jumps in their seat, hand clutching onto their chest. Their head swivels in the direction of the voice, and they’re even more taken aback. They bow their head in greeting.

“Inquisitor.”

A sound of a raspberry being blown. “Wrong. The inquisition’s been disbanded. It’s Gan’freya now, or Lavellan if you wish to be formal. May I?” The woman gestures towards the chair in front of Rook, and they motion for her to sit.

Gan’freya sits down, folding her arms across her chest, her gaze bears no steeliness and yet it’s not entirely kind. She studies Rook for a moment. Their face, their outfit, the way they hold themselves. Rook notices the glint of metal on her hand, a prosthetic.

“You’re not entirely what I expected.” Rook speaks.

Gan’freya has to hold back an eye roll. “I suppose you expected a saviour, someone who invited you here with words of encouragement.” Her arms slip down to rest on the armchairs. “I’m afraid I don’t have any to spare. If you think what’s going on here in the North is horrid, you have yet to see the scourge released on Southern Thedas.”

“Why ask to see me then?”

“Morrigan and Harding had asked so politely, and what with Varric hiring you on my expense, well.” Her voice trails off, eyes looking out the window. A snort escapes her mouth. “Apologies, I think we both expected something different when you went to disrupt that ritual.”

“Do you think I failed?” Rook’s mouth runs dry, knee bouncing faster and faster.

Gan’freya looks at them, and there’s a hint of pity in her eyes, it’s gone as soon as it had arrived. She reaches her hand out to clasp Rook’s. “No.” She says, voice firm. “Nobody could’ve predicted the consequences.”

There’s a warm roll of familiarity that washes over Rook, but they can’t pinpoint why. They’d heard tales of the Inquisitor, and the stories had brought comfort on the long days chasing the Evanuris and the Venatori. The very stories Varric regaled.

But this felt different. As if a foreign mind had bled into theirs, trying to reach for her through Rook. They zero in on her speaking, shrugging off the sensation. She tells them of a statuette, and in return Rook tells her of what they’ve found.

It’s a glimmer. A foggy window, but Solas knows that figure better than he knows himself these days. Surely, the prison mocks him. Every move, every plan made in his lighthouse, buried under secrecy until Rook seeks him out. But now, the fade ripples and opens itself as if arms outstretched, daring him to confront himself.

Her hair is shorter, and there are bags under her eyes. She is both how he remembers her, and more. Yes, he had watched over her in her dreams, even before the night of the ritual. But seeing her, physically seeing her, through the eyes of Rook, it makes his heart leap into his throat.

The humour in her voice, quick to deflect Rook’s questioning. Always so perceptive to what others want from her, always ready to keep them at arm’s length.

He did not want this for her. Did not want her to follow him, to resign herself to a role she never wanted to begin with.

Herald. Inquisitor. Martyr. A symbol larger than life itself.

When she reached for Rook, when her hand had touched theirs, it’s as if that warmth washed over him too. How he wished he actually did bind that fool to do his bidding, if only to feel the softness of her hand in his once more, even through a proxy body.

The image becomes clearer upon her touch. And the punishment continues. Her pained cry, from when he’d removed the orb from her arm, echoes through the fade. The very sound mocks him, as his gaze falls on her prosthetic arm. He’d saved her, had given her another chance at life, or so he told himself.

His hand reaches for her, and the view ripples in between his fingers like water. His heart hammers in his chest, as if trying to break through skin and flesh and crawl out from the fade into her arms.

The prison echoes with more cries of anguish, the hiss of words in anger, mistakes that had been made before he’d met her. Solas dares not acknowledge them, their very existence a heavy weight upon his shoulder.

So he closes his eyes. His ears tuning into her voice as if it were a guiding melody. Everything else is just noise.

Rook scratches their temple, it feels as if a fog has fallen upon their mind.

“Are you alright?” Gan’freya inquires.

She’s no mage, not well versed in anything arcane, and her brother has been no help what with his speciality being healing. But something about Rook’s behaviour feels odd.

Morrigan had sent word, updates after the ritual was disrupted, when blight had descended upon Thedas once more like a disease. Harding had urged her to meet with them, to alleviate their fears now that Varric was gone. And through Morrigans eluvian she went.

She knew of Rook, in a way. Varric had written enough letters for Gan’freya to make sense of who this person was, what they could do. Yet something about their eyes fighting not to glaze over as they scratch and prod at their temple, fingers moving towards the back of their head, makes her eyes zero in on them with an analytical gaze.

“I am. It’s just…” They place their palms on the table, as if willing their body to still. “Ever since I hit my head when we disrupted the ritual, it’s like there’s this buzzing in my head.”

Her eyes give them a once over. “A concussion, you mean?”

They shake their head. “No it’s like, like something crawling around in there, biting on my brain.”

“What like something controlling you?”

“No..” Rook trails off, eyes cast down at the table, fingers scratching on the surface. “It’s more like... Something’s watching me, or at least trying to.”

“And by someone you mean…”

“Solas.” Rook finishes. “But it’s not constant, sometimes it’s a dull throb, but right now it’s like… Like my brain is on fire, in a way.”

Gan’freya hums, eyes giving Rook a once over. She rises from the table, approaching Rook as her hand reaches for their scalp, a questioning look in her eyes.

“May I?” She asks.

Rook simply nods. Unsure of what her fingers carding through their hair might achieve. Her touch is soothing, in more ways than one. It seems she’s inspecting their wound, fingers gently prodding the scab.

“I’m not oozing, am I?” They jest.

Something between a laugh and a snort escapes her mouth. “No, no you’re fine. No oozing, no bleeding, no tentacles or horns.”

Their body stills, and they hear the rustle of a bag, and a smear of something wet on their scalp. It’s cooling, relaxing almost. They listen to her hum as she layers whatever she’s smearing over their head.

Solas wonders if smell can travel into his prison, the scent of lavender and verbena overwhelming him. He cannot feel her touch, nor feel the balm she’s generously slathering Rook in. But he remembers, remembers how she used to tend to his wounds and his scrapes, how she used to bandage him and place soft kisses upon his scars afterwards.

And now all he has is this. A memory. A faint touch that cannot reach him.

The sting of tears in his eyes, his throat closing up, fists clenched at his sides.

“You’ll be fine.” Her voice, hushed, reverberating through the fade.

A part of him hopes she knows he’s listening in, another doesn’t dare to assume this kindness is aimed towards him.

It’d be so much easier if she had come to the lighthouse. The veil is thin there, he’d have more opportunity to reach out, to engage. But he cannot, he’s resigned to being a backseat passenger.

Solas watches her pull away, a solemn expression on her face, lips downcast in a frown. He’s always hated seeing her like that. The view grows foggier as Rook begins getting up, Solas watches as Gan’freya’s hand slip the jar of the salve she rubbed on them between Rook’s palms.

“You need it more than I do. Whenever you feel an itch just… you know, smear away.”

But there’s something in her voice, a tone that’s indecipherable to Rook, but all too familiar to Solas. There’s no bite, no sadness, but there’s a lilt of knowing. Her eyes catch Rook’s gaze, but it’s as if she’s staring through them, right at Solas.

When they bid their goodbyes, the image blurs altogether. As if it were never there with him to begin with.

And when Rook comes to him in the fade, he tries his hardest to bite back the upturn of the corners of his lips as the all too familiar medicinal smell wafts into the air, paired with something far more familiar, and sweeter.

Just as Rook pretends they did not meet with her under secrecy, Solas pretends he did not watch it through their eyes, hands folded behind his back. Their conversations clipped, filled with jabs and insults. But when they leave, and Solas is alone in his prison once more, the smell remains.

She learns that a body is a terrible thing.

It is a needy thing, it needs to be sustained and fed, it bleeds and it aches. It dulls the senses, the pathways of emotion become blurry and difficult to navigate. It is unforgiving.

The first time was all wonder and sensation, the whispers of endless possibility in the physical. Her knees buckled under her, unused to the weight of carrying oneself.

Her limbs feel foreign more often than not, phantoms that move on their own accord. Perhaps that is how she dissociates herself from her corruption. One cannot grieve being twisted from their purpose if they see themselves as merely a possessor of a foreign body.

When Elgar’nan came to her, he came with sweet words and speeches that people cannot live without hope. That her presence would squash everyone’s fears, she is a necessity to the new world. They couldn’t create anew without expectation, without hope.

Hope is a sweet thing, a kind thing. It was in her nature to trust him, to expect the best of his intentions.

Her body was crafted with utmost care and tenderness. Honey blonde curls of hair cascading down her back, her soft full lips and aquiline nose, her eyes the colour of the sun.

Elgar’nan does not mar her face with vallaslin.

His hands tenderly cupped her jaw as he spoke, “Hope should not be chained.”

But she does not need marks on her face as proof of her subjugation. Elgar’nan does not give her a wide breadth of freedom. At first, she is merely decoration. The image of her bathed in light, a proof that even the most sensitive of spirits have chosen to join the new world order.

And what could ever go wrong if hope is there?

So Elgar’nan flaunts her as a paragon of the ideal future. The people who bare his mark clutch her hands and speak in reverence. They speak of the inevitable domination of this earth in his name, they invoke her name when they stand in judgement in front of the Gods, when they venture forth in the name of their leaders, and do not return.

The corruption is gradual. It starts with a name.

“I don’t want a name, I already have a body.” She spoke, wringing her hands nervously.

Elgar’nan tutted in disappointment, “We all chose names. No second in command of mine will walk around nameless. The people need to know who they pray to.”

“I do not want them to pray to me.”

His hand petting her head, fingers playing with the tendrils of hair cascading down her face, “They will do so anyway, da’len.”

Gan’freya. It feels odd in her mouth when she introduces herself now. As if she speaks of someone else. Elgar’nan said it was a name fit for a warrior, and so with a name came a title, with a title came weapons. No general of mine shall be walking around unprepared. The words echo in her head anytime she wields the twin blades.

So badly she wanted to say but I am not a general, I am not a warrior. I am a spirit.

But Elgar’nan is ambitious, and he plots. And when Mythal brings wisdom to court as her advisor he will not be made a fool. He will not let his consort parade herself as above the rest of them, heeding the words of a dog instead of her peers.

He will not let his own creation be unseated by the wolf.

So he seeks to harden her, flowy gowns and gently clasped hands turn into leather armours, daggers strapped to her belt, hands crossed behind her back. The sun in her eyes sets. Hope turns to despair, and across from her wisdom turns into pride.

The people are not allowed to clutch her palms in prayer. They are not allowed to cast their gaze upon her if it is unearned.

The first spill of blood seals her corruption. A part of her thinks this did not mean to happen; I am not made for this. Another part of her feels a sense of freedom at the metallic smell in the air, if the rest of them can die, surely somebody would eventually put her out of her misery.

It had all happened so quickly, an elf proclaiming they will not bend, then a reach of their hand into their pocket and she had flung the dagger before anyone else could react. A gasp of air, then, a spurt of blood onto the beautiful marble floor. Her dagger buried to the hilt in their chest. When she approached the writhing man, their hands reached to grasp hers, muttering something as she stared in disdain.

Elgar’nan was biting back a smile, trying terribly to show indifference. But he was proud of her. Mythal had cast her eyes down, whether in horror or equal indifference as her beloved she would not show. And the wolf stared blankly at the blood pooling on the floor. Gan’freya rolled her shoulders and stepped back into her place next to her creator. She did not dignify anyone else in the room with a glance.

Later, in her chambers Elgar’nan visits her and sings her praises. He speaks of devotion and dedication, of strength. He promotes her, to a sworn protector now. But she must protect him and him alone.

Gan’freya’s actions bring Elgar’nan to an understanding with Mythal. The people need something to fear and somebody to guide them. Hope and wisdom shall nudge them into the arms of their Gods; no one wants to be left to rot after all.

Their presence brings a resolute knowing that the Evanuris will not be challenged.

They do not speak to each other. They do not spend enough time outside of their respective duties to ever have to. What they know of each other in this world, they only know from the lips of their creators. Elgar’nan despises him, and Mythal says she is an example of loyalty.

“Her devotion runs deeper than mere words of encouragement, she does not lecture him, she guides him. As you promised you would guide our people.” Speaks Mythal.

“He seeks to depose us both, he thinks I am a tyrant and you are the harbinger of doom. Even Mythal’s short leash cannot contain him forever. Be wary of him, da’len.” Speaks Elgar’nan.

Yet there is something in their words that is so carefully practiced, so beautifully crafted to poison their minds that it plants something else entirely. Hope and Wisdom did not cross paths often. One brought aspiration, the other knowledge. But they remember each other. Two guiding lights in the dark, for entirely different purposes.

Solas knows better. He knows her destruction is a by-product of her physical being. The same way pride twists and wraps itself around his every action, despair hangs in the air whenever her hand reaches for her blade.

They were not built for this. To pay the price that having a body entailed.

When he took the mark from Mythal, he had reasoned it was a show of loyalty, of devotion. He had carried it proudly, and had wondered how Gan’freya could forsake her maker by not carrying his vallaslin on her body.

Solas quickly realized being bound came in a myriad of forms.

The clothes she wears, tailored and chosen by Elgar’nan. Her hair always cascading down her back, she does not dare to put it up, because Elgar’nan does not like her hiding the gifts he has given her. He takes credit for her very existence, never mind that Hope has existed long before Tyranny. It does not matter to him. He seeks to control her in every way possible, and through her, he will control everyone else.

She is both his shield and his sword. When she strikes down the nonbelievers, she reaffirms his power. When his ambition is called into question her essence is what is used to defend him from his crimes. Would Hope stand beside Tyranny? Would Hope doom the world? No. But the light that hope carries is starting to dim. And the dark fog of despair rolls across the horizon like a grim premonition.

He’s too proud to admit it. Solas is no better.

He may not spill blood in Mythal’s name, not yet, anyway. But his very being feels like it is being burned alive. The subjugation of their kin, the war with the titans, and the endless travels to take siege over another plot of land. It eats at him. Solas may not raise his hand against the people, but his knowledge and the twist of his mouth brings just as much decimation. He tries not to think about it. The sun dimming in Gan’freya’s eyes, the way their sad gazes match each other.

Tries to pretend he doesn’t claw at his face, his forehead feeling like a throbbing scar even though the mark remains. The same way Gan’freya pretends she does not dig her fingers in her own wounds after hard fought battles won in the name of their Gods.

With court politics comes proximity, comes the unavoidable fact that the sword of tyranny and the guard dog of benevolence shall cross paths. They will break bread together, toast to each other’s success, all the while pretending their spirits aren’t screaming underneath all the flesh and bone.

They will not acknowledge each other’s pain, shall not speak of the kinship born of servitude, the guilt and horror clawing at their skin. They will grin and bear it, as the always have.

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.”