I wrote a little something that is more structured like a poem than a fanfiction, but that is because I want to make it into a short comic-like story, akin to the end sliders of the game. I would be really happy if one or two of you would read it and tell me if you think it is worth it to make this into something like a picture book. I'd really, really appreciate it! Spoilers for the end of the game, but I think you could tell that already.
The simplest things make it difficult to forget him.
Not the ever-haunting dreams of the night or the vallaslin burning on her face.
Not even the fact that what is left of her left arm is sending a sharp phantom pain through her entire being every night.
They are but actions that breathe life into life itself.
One day she finds herself near a café in Orlais, the strongest kind of coffee in her cup. Sera was with her but a moment ago, but she went away to prank the ‘stuck up sorry asses’. She sees her own reflection staring back at her, vallaslin in place, mocking her. Then she hears it; nothing more than a simple question from the waiter.
“Would you like some tea, Ser?”
What shocks her is the answer of the customer.
“No, thanks, I detest the stuff.”
And she turns around, but when she sees the man is not him, her face falls.
On her birthday, the Chargers visit her, Iron Bull in their middle. Dorian wished her an elegant and rich whole week – because a single day was not enough to celebrate her ‘herald-ness’. Varric sent a manuscript for his next short story, featuring her. Now, she is about to have the party of her life.
“Hey, boss, we know you have a sweet tooth.”
The Bull laughs and Krem presents an arrangement of cakes.
“They are frilly cakes.”
She wants to thank The Bull for thinking about her, tries a bite, but the cake tastes like loss and heartbreak.
In spring, she strolls through a garden, Cole by her side. He tells her of the flowers, the youngest petal blossoms – and of his girlfriend and how she sings to him. She smiles, enjoys the conversation with her friend. Then he sees a child that runs around, a flower crown on her tiny head, held in place by her elven ears.
“She seems to have a spirit, rare and raw and marvellous and more.”
This pains her, and she smiles sadly as she watches her play in a field of flowers.
“She is not unlike you, Lenalas.”
Almost afraid, he adds another sentence.
“You also possess a rare and marvellous spirit.”
And she finally breaks down.
The simplest things make it difficult to forget her.
Not the seemingly sleepless nights or the pained expression forever burned into his memory.
Not even the fact that what is left of his heart breaks every time he does manage to fall asleep and watch her from afar.
They are but actions that breathe death into death itself.
In winter, he walks through the eternal masses of snow, leaving only footprints in his wake. But even those will vanish soon, as his path drags him across mountains. In a small village, he comes across a couple, the man of elven descent, the woman noble. They are fighting with themselves instead of each other.
“I will always love you.”
The woman looks at her lover, her eyes holding fragments of tears.
“I know, vhenan. But we are running out of time.”
Then he leaves her, and Solas wishes for but a second he could be as tranquil as the rest of the world.
One night, he has an engaging conversation with a spirit of compassion. It flickers around him like an excited youngster, ready to learn more of the world beyond the Veil. He enjoys the simple talk of simple things, until it begins to talk about the elven woman with a missing limb.
“You have not visited her in a few days, Friend of Dread.”
Solas sighs, the spirit is right.
“There are more pressing issues at stake, Compassion.”
But Compassion is strong and does not falter in its nature.
“And yet your eyes betray you, how they flicker across the realm.”
“Meaning?”
“You betray your own heart, Friend of Pride, and yet you search, and dream, and wait, just to see her once again.”
He awakens, then.
He finds himself in the middle of nowhere, once, a small village where children play. For a short time, he even finds himself watching them with joy, as fragile as said feeling might be. One of the children, a girl, elven, with a flower crown on her head, approaches him with a huge smile on her face. Her forehead shows the marks of Mythal, drawn on with paint.
“Andaran atish’an.“
He greets her, too, calls her a child in a voice full of soft intonations.
“You seem to blossom like a blue rose.”
She takes his hand, suddenly, like most children do when they have something exciting to share, and reaches towards something seemingly non-existent. A puzzled look rests on his face, and sadness creeps into his lungs. It becomes hard to breathe.
“There, there is the elven lady with the sad eyes! All the way down there, and she told me my spirit is rare and marvellous!”
She still holds his hand like he held hers so long ago, but he recoils in fear.
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awww
