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[RoraM]

Author's Note:  Work under constant revision.  Alternatively, this story may be read via AO3.  Text and dialogue found in game shall be in blue.  Warnings regarding subject matter of suspect virtue dutifully applied in red. 

 

 

Screencapture courtesy of captaincaranis

 

     Fen’Harel had warned them.

 

     “Fall back!” 

 

     Clutching the All-Mother’s weakened, bleeding body to him, the Sentinel smoothly nocked another arrow before letting it fly.  Fifty paces.  Fifty paces until they reached the bridge to safety.  Fenedhis lasa!  He was no healer and nearly battle-drained of mana.  Where was the Dread Wolf?

 

     As if in answer, wolves, white and eyes blazing red, poured out of the periphery of his vision, launching themselves against their enemies.  Forty paces.  He flicked his wrist and the arrows he had loosed wrenched themselves free from the bodies they had pierced to fly back into his waiting hand, ready to be fired once more.  The Void take Ghilan’nain for creating those giants! Their hurled boulders continued to decimate their forces.  The Sentinel smiled grimly as one of his blazing arrows sunk into a large, single blue eye, sending the giant flailing among the enemy. 

 

     The long red trail they had left behind them had dwindled to nearly nothing but he would not allow himself to dwell on it.  He was only thankful she had not remained in dragon form, even if that meant her orb was lost.  She had miscalculated.  She, the incarnation of love, could not comprehend she might not be loved.  She, the Protector, could not fathom needing protection.  Thirty more paces.

 

     Enemy rangers made quick work of the white wolves.  The Sentinel looked over his shoulder.  Their path to the bridge would soon be cut off as their attackers closed around them.  Suddenly he felt cold and his mistress was no longer at his side.  His breath came out in clouds and his armour now bore the twisting, delicate patterns of frost.  Walls of ice had formed on either side, blocking the flanking forces’ advance while flaming meteors thundered down upon them.  Fen’Harel had heard him.

 

     “To the bridge!”

 

     They just needed to get past her temple’s stone guardians.  He was glad he had heeded the Dread Wolf, even when his mistress had not.  Ten paces.  There.  He felt the song of the defensive enchantments wash over him, searching for the bloodwriting that bore her magic.  He looked triumphantly at the oncoming waves of Elvhen whose faces did not bear her mark.  It took the incineration of their forward troops in a blinding blue blaze of light for them to understand they would cross no further.  His jubilance once they were out of range was short-lived.  Behind the golden doors of the temple he found where the Dread Wolf had Fade-stepped:  the young lord was kneeling, clutching the pale, still body of Mythal, his forehead bent to hers while his tears fell into her sightless eyes.  It was from that day the Sentinel called himself Abelas. 

 

***

 

     “It is done.”  Abelas saw the anguish in Fen’Harel’s eyes, saw him anxiously run a hand through his long dark hair. A gold earring had been ripped from its lobe, leaving a trail of dried blood down his neck that stained his tattered silken robes.  The Sentinel watched as he absently touched his ear, sealing the tear after humming the briefest of notes. With all his power, he might have been one of Mythal’s own children.  Abelas doubted Sylaise could have done it quicker.  Yet for all his power, he could not stem the tide of vengeance that now engulfed Elvhenan.  “Soon word will reach the barbarians of the north. The Vir'abelasan is no longer safe.”  They felt the ground shudder as the air rang with the sound of crashing crystal spires.

 

     “We will guard her.  Vir suledin nadas…bellanaris,” Abelas said fiercely.

 

     “Halam’shivanas. ”  The Sentinel nodded.  Unlike those whose faces showed fealty to other noble houses, Abelas had taken the mark of Mythal willingly.  All who remained in her temple had.

 

     “And you, Dread Wolf.  What is to become of you?”

 

     “I will guard the shining paths.”

 

     “Alone?”

 

     “Halam’shivanas. ” Abelas could not miss the ring of irony in his voice.  “But I am never truly alone.”

 

     “Ma era.”  It was a statement, not a question.  Abelas saw the younger man nod.  “Dareth shiral, Fen’Harel,” he said as the Dread Wolf disappeared through the eluvian.

 

***

 

     Tala did not know what to make of the hahren.  He was a barefaced apostate, but he was no elvhen’alas.  Not when he towered two hands above any other elf she had seen.  His carefully shaved head made him look older than he was, but there was no mistaking the authority with which he spoke and acted.

 

     She remembered the Seeker driving her towards the rift as they cut down every demon in their wake while the painful spasms from her mark increased in magnitude and frequency.  She remembered screaming as power not her own surged through her.  Then she heard someone shout, “Quickly!  Before more come through!"  A soothing coolness emanated from her wrist: magic blue-green and gentle, formed a conduit around the raw energy wracking her body and guided it outward.  A beam of blinding greenish light exploded crackling from her hand, which had been thrust toward the rift.  Her arm shook, only the gentle grip of cool fingers closed firmly around her wrist kept her from recoiling.  And then the rift was closed. 

 

     I did nothing, he had said.  The credit is yours.  There had been no other mage present to dispute this fact, but Tala knew this had not been entirely true.  His magic had called to the magic in her hand, urging and shaping it into focus.  It had answered eagerly, following the direction of his will, then their will, for, at the last, he had pulled Tala through the white-hot pain and allowed her to join her magic to his.  When he released her, she wondered why his touch had felt so familiar.  The name he gave, Solas, certainly was not, but she could hear the truth of his words and be grateful for them when he said, “I am pleased to see you still live.” The dwarf, Varric, soon answered her unspoken question: 

 

     “He means, ‘I kept that mark from killing you while you slept.’” 

 

     So it had been he who had watched over her, as a Keeper might his First.  Her dreams in the Fade during that time had been fragmented. A woman, bright and golden reaching for her.  A three-eyed— or was it six-eyed?—dog, no, wolf, with blood-spattered white fur standing over her, the blood spots darkening and spreading until it was completely black while it licked her hands just before biting both off at the wrists.  She vaguely remembered thinking it should have hurt more.  When she awakened, she had not known how long she had been out, only that her wrists throbbed with pain as the too-tight manacles cut into her skin.  Her magic, too, had been bound.  Later, she would learn this was the Seeker’s talent at work.  If it wasn’t the mark sending spasms of electric pain through her, it was the Seeker, setting what lyrium still lingered in her veins afire as she questioned her.  Had it not been for the shemlen spymaster, Leliana, reminding Cassandra of Solas’ theory, Tala, whose answers had increasingly frustrated the Seeker, might not have survived to seal the rift.

 

     She was certain this hahren was both wise and clever and deserving of his name.  What other elven apostate could have convinced the shems of the value of his knowledge, could have gotten them to place their faith in the postulates of  a ragged stranger and so quickly?  She doubted many, if any, elves raised in shem Circles could have managed it.

 

      She wondered if he had returned to her bedside after she had attempted to seal the Breach and fallen lost to the Fade that second time.  The scars from the manacles had completely disappeared when she had awakened.  As skilled a healer as Adan was, and despite Solas' assertions that magic was magic, regardless of who wielded it, the traces left on her skin felt elven.  The idea should have unnerved her, him watching her as she slept, but it did not for she realized that any interest he had shown in making her acquaintance was in service of learning more about her mysterious mark; although at times, a phrase could break through his brusqueness, such as when he had told her of his intent to stay until the Breach was sealed. 

 

     “You came here to help, Solas,” she had said, “I won’t let them use that against you.”

 

     “How would you stop them?” he asked bitterly and she remembered the manacles.  But there were no manacles around her now and in her hand was a staff worthy of any Keeper. 

 

     “However I had to,” she promised, her voice even as steel.  He looked back at her, startled.  He paused.

 

     “Thank you,” he replied, and although he did not say it, in his voice she heard the familiar note that accompanied every lethallan uttered by her clansmen.  From then on, she found herself thinking of ways she might hear it again.

 

     She had already learned so much from him. Keeper Deshanna had managed to steer the clan from combat even with the Mage-Templar war raging across the Free Marches.  Her techniques were best suited to defending a fleeing caravan.  Solas, on the other hand, had clearly known battle.  In combat, Tala quietly observed then learned to mimic his technique of drawing together threads of the Fade to increase the speed of her attacks while allowing her to maintain a barrier that didn’t consume all her mana at once. He had merely raised an eyebrow following their next skirmish, but afterward began offering suggestions and it never failed to surprise him when she followed them.  His instruction was far easier to stomach than that of the self-satisfied First Enchanter Vivienne. 

 

     Tala told herself she sought his company for this feeling alone:  the exhilaration of learning and correctly executing a magical technique, a feeling she had missed since being separated from both Keeper and clan.  She told herself it was not because he smelled of clear streams and fragrant moss, for that would be admitting she had ventured close enough to know his subtle scent.  And it certainly was not because she admired the curve of his bottom lip, nor the tautness of both thigh and calf as he strode beside her.

 

     He was the closest thing she had to a clansman in the shems' Haven.  He was unlike the flat-ea—she would have to stop using the word—the servants, who cowered before her while using the title that invoked the bride of some long-absent shem god.  He was unlike Dalish, the Charger, who denied wielding any sort of magic, unwavering in her claim that the enchanted stone in her bow simply focused her aim.  He was not like Minaeve the former Circle apprentice who, abandoned to die by her clan when her magic first manifested, spat out the word lethallan like it was a curse.  And although both he and Sera insulted her people, at least Solas had not forgotten the soft cadence of their nuanced language, nor did he eye her magic with fear.  

 

     No, she did not like the shems' Haven, though she conceded a soft bed of her own was far more comfortable than winter-hardened ground or the crowded confines of an aravel.  So far, she had been able to come and go as she pleased, but she was still careful to give both their Templars and the dark-eyed Seeker a wide berth.  Commander Cullen, for all the Inquisition's posturing, did not believe she was the Herald of anything and did not like mages wandering through their base unchecked.  

 

     Close to sunset, she had gone in search of a logging site outside Haven’s main encampment when she came across him sitting cross-legged with perfect stillness in the snow, his undisturbed wards around him humming in soft vibration. 

 

     He had grown up in a village to the north, he had told her.  “There was little to interest a young man, especially one gifted with magic.  But as I slept, spirits of the Fade showed me glimpses of wonders I had never imagined.”

 

     She mused over what wonders he was seeing, perhaps even accompanied by Wisdom and Purpose.  She had always feared the Fade, worrying that, one day, she would meet the spirit who would successfully tempt her into abomination.  She admitted, had they come to her in a form like Hahren, she might have let them possess her.  Once, he had spoken to her of the nature of such spirits  and the image, immediate and unbidden, flashed in her mind of him biting into a ripe, red fruit, the bright, sweet juices spilling from his lips, dripping down his chin and his fingers, fingers she then longed to take into her mouth and… Fen’Harel take her!  Had it truly been that long since she had been with a man? Tala quickly banished the thought from her mind.  She was glad to not be in the Fade where he might have seen that desire given form.  She knew she was only felas da’len to him.

 

     But she was not always slow to learn.  Did he not recently refer to her focus as “indomitable”? “I have yet to see it dominated.  I imagine that the sight would be…fascinating.”  Had anyone else spoken those words, she would have cringed.  But this was Hahren, whose gaze never strayed from her eyes when he spoke to her, who looked at her as a subject of study because of the mark she bore and not once as a potential lover eager to learn what it might be like to- Fenedhis, Tala!  

 

     “Herald?”  Only then did she realize she had sworn out loud, disturbing his slumber.

 

     “Ir abelas, Hahren.”  She quickly murmured in apology, hoping he did not see her blush in the fading light.  She always lowered her eyes in respect when addressing him, but this time, her eye caught a barely imperceptible wince at her greeting.

 

     “It is nothing…Da’len.  Andaran atish’an.”  Once more she wondered why he hesitated before calling her “little child".  Was he sensitive about his age?  True, he was not quite old enough to have been her father but Solas did not strike her as a vain man.  Sense took over.  Travelling alone as he did, it should not have surprised her he would be unused to endearments.  Still, the nagging voice at the back of her head insisted, he had not hesitated with Mihris, another First they had encountered, when he had caught her in a lie. Ma harel, Da’len. “Are you surprised to find me here?”

 

     “No.  I am unused to the confines of human living, myself, but,” she said, dropping down beside him and peering at him closely, “that’s not the whole of it, is it?”  The glint in his eye told her she had hit the mark.

 

     “You are correct.  You recall that blood magic makes it more difficult to enter the Fade?  Haven still echoes with it.  It is far easier to dream here, near the water.”

 

     “Blood magic?  In sleepy little Haven?”

 

     “Don’t let that Chantry fool you.  Once altars ran red with the blood of adventurers and soldiers taken by those who worshipped a high dragon believed your namesake reborn.  Later, the tunnels ran red with the blood of dragons and cultists alike as the Hero of Ferelden carved her way to the Temple of Sacred Ashes to save a dying Arl.”

 

     “I thought you couldn’t dream in Haven.”  At this, Solas laughed, and while chagrined, Tala was more intrigued by the note of almost riotous joy she heard in his laughter.  She wondered what such a laugh might have sounded like in his youth.

 

     “Not all my knowledge comes from the Fade.  Your Inquisition’s spymaster told me the tale.”  Tala did not know whether it was guile or charm that had convinced the former bard to impart that story.  Perhaps it had been the dimple in Solas’ chin.  Tala, the Herald of Andraste, who possessed neither dimple, nor, it seemed, sufficient guile or charm, had been referred to a library.

 

     “You need not go back, should you wish to continue dreaming, Hahren.”  Tala hoped she hadn’t blurted out the invitation.  “I spotted a logging site not far north from here.  We could build a fire and I could keep watch for giant spiders and extra vicious fennec.  Or, if you’re hungry now, I have a skin of Chantry wine and a loaf of shemlen bread as well as some hard cheese.  Of course, if you had something more substantial in mind, between the two of us, I suppose we could take down a druffalo…”  That earned her another of his rare smiles.  Solas shook his head.

 

     “I would be happy to share your meal with you, Lethallan."  Lethallan, not Herald, not Da'len.  It was the first time he had called her that and it felt like a caress.  She shivered.  "We travel soon to Redcliffe to enlist the help of the rebel mages.  We must take advantage of these moments of quiet and contemplation when we can.”

 

     She watched as he rose with long-limbed grace to feet, which, like her own, remained half uncovered so they might feel the terrain beneath them.  Together they walked northward, the stars sleepily making their appearance one by one in the darkening grey-blue sky.   Only when she happened to glance backward did she notice his steps barely indented the snow.

 

(To be continued…)

[RoraM]

    Solas watched as Tala summoned a flame to her hand after gracefully tracing the glyph for fire in the air with her delicate fingers. Had it only been a fortnight since they had stabilized the Breach?  She had come near death twice now.  Both times, saving her life had been secondary to preserving the mark in her hand.  He had not expected to discover a woman, who, once fully healed, had a spirit that blazed like a beacon in the Fade.  He recalled when he first laid eyes upon her.

 

     He thought he had ceased to be surprised.

 

     Yet here was a mystery:  how had she not died?  Even yet the power of the mark threatened to consume her and he had spent the last several days and nights at her side, exhausting his mana so that she might live another day.

 

     When the Seeker first permitted him to see her, he sent out a tendril of magic to see how much damage had been done.  The brain had been bruised, knocked back and forth from the blast, the inside of her skull stained with blood.  Coursing through every fibre of her was the mark’s power, burning as it went, drawing somehow on the Fade energies that still clung to her.  With a shock, he realized she must have physically been in the Fade, breathed its air, felt its changing planes beneath her feet. 

 

     For the first time in a long time, Solas had need of lyrium potions.  His request for more had been met with suspicion, as were his requests for writings on the Fade so he might best know where to travel in dreams to find a cure.  Wisdom had been driven away by the Breach.  Like the others, she had no wish to be ripped away into the unchanging world. 

 

     “I will execute you myself, apostate, if she dies before I can question her,” the Seeker had growled after the prisoner had almost died choking on her own blood. 

 

     “And will you execute me, too, Seeker Cassandra?” Healer Adan had snapped.  They had both been up with the prisoner through the night.  “Do you have another mage willing to help?  Maker knows I couldn’t do this on my own.  No?  Then let us work.”

 

     Solas shot the healer a grateful glance.  He had seen the dangerous spark in the Seeker’s eyes and had briefly considered leaving the human camp to search for his own way to close the Breach.  Even as he thought it, he knew he would not.  He looked at the sleeping prisoner beside him.  She was the key.

 

     Small, even for one of the People, she must have been thrown several feet.  At some point she had met with fire, for where it was clear she once had an abundance of dark hair, much of it had been singed off.  Somehow, she had managed to protect her face, for her brows and lashes remained intact.  As he had held her head, what hair remained came away as hanks in both hands.  Once she had been cleaned of ash and blood, when he finally managed to tear his attention away from the mark, he saw she was beautiful.  Unlike the ethereal southern elves, who kept  to the forest canopy, she clearly belonged to one of the northern clans with golden skin that called to mind the sunlit fields of summer. Across the delicate high bridge of her nose extending in curving, branching lines was the symbol of Mythal. 

 

     Solas snorted.  The Dalish.  How many times had he crossed paths with their clans, offering knowledge, only to be attacked for nothing but their foolish superstition? He noticed the vallaslin did not extend below her high cheekbones.  More recent variants of the symbol forewent the forehead markings or extended down the lips to the chin.  A line down those lips would have spoiled them.  She was a traditionalist, then; yet she had uncharacteristically been away from the rest of her clan.

 

     She must have been sent.  Her presence at the Conclave spoke of a Keeper who took an interest in human affairs, a shrewd move for a clan navigating its way through the Free Marches.  Or it would have been, had things gone according to plan.  If she ever woke, this young one would find herself at the heart of events that would shape the world and although he had no love for the Dalish, he pitied her. 

 

     But the feeling was fleeting, for when he reached out with his magic once more, he found something he had not noticed in his preoccupation with the mark:  her own magic, bright and steady, a faint song sweet and clear amidst the cacophony of raw power raging for release.  This was how she had survived.  And she was Dalish.  Solas laughed, a surprisingly joyful sound in the dark confines of a dungeon illuminated only by the eerie green light of a dying girl’s hand. 

 

     Perhaps the All-mother still protected her own.

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  The Autocorrect strikes again. Somehow, "sex worker" does not have quite the same effect.  

 

The fable, "Fen'Harel and the Tree", told by Felassan in The Masked Empire, initially struck me as absurd.

While understanding the story was intended to be allegorical, tying someone up and forcing them to be one's sexual slave for a year and a day because they didn't ask for permission to hunt your animals seems like an odd punishment.  Perhaps it was yet one more thing the Dalish got wrong.

I briefly mention the events of the fable and do not go into graphic detail, but PLEASE SKIP THIS CHAPTER IF YOU ARE TRIGGERED BY NON-CONSENSUAL SEXUAL TOUCHING.

"In the story, Fen'Harel was captured by the hunting goddess, Andruil. He had angered her by hunting the halla without her blessing, and she tied him to a tree and declared that he would have to serve in her bed for a year and a day to pay her back. But as she made camp that night, the dark god Anaris found them, and Anaris swore that he would kill Fen'Harel for crimes against the Forgotten Ones. Andruil and Anaris decided that they would duel for the right to claim Fen'Harel.

He called out to Anaris during the fight and told him of a flaw in Andruil's armor just above the hip, and Anaris stabbed Andruil in the side, and she fell. Then Fen'Harel told Anaris that he owed the Dread Wolf for the victory and ought to get his freedom. Anaris was so affronted by Fen'Harel's audacity that he turned and shouted insults at the prisoner, and so he did not see Andruil, injured but alive, rise behind him and attack with her great bow. Anaris fell with a golden arrow in his back, badly injured, and while both gods slumbered to heal their wounds, Fen'Harel chewed through his ropes and escaped."

     “Lethallin…Lethallin…”

     Fen’Harel heard the voice calling to him in the Fade. It had been so long since someone else had called him that. The memory of that time began to coalesce around him in gentle, fluid waves until he saw her face once more.

     Andruil. He had left her until last.

     “Lethallin! Little brother! You can't do this!” she had cried, her expression shifting from disbelief to anger. He had bound her. Several times over. He could not risk her escape this time.

     “Am I once again your brother? I think we’re past that.” he answered coolly.

     “I admit I was wrong. I was driven mad…the Void…” She must have been truly desperate to mention her greatest fear.

     “No. It is in your nature to give chase, to spend each moment of your life pursuing the next trophy. You see a life as something to be taken, to belong to you. You cannot be allowed to continue on this path.”

     “And you shall be the one to correct me," she sneered, voice dripping with acid once she realized pleading was futile, “when not even mother-”

     “Yes,” he said quietly, his throat tightening at the mention of Mythal. “This world must be allowed to move forward. Ghilan’nain saw this.” Andruil suddenly thrashed out with renewed violence against her magical bonds, which strained but continued to hold.

     “I wish I had never laid eyes on that wh*re!” she howled. Behind her, the eluvian shook in its frame.

     “You do her great disservice. Ghilan’nain loves you still. I was merely a distraction in her loneliness while you sought another conquest. She would spend eternity at your side.” He did not understand why. He did not possess Ghilan’nain’s gift for seeing goodness and beauty in everything, even the monstrous. He would have sent Andruil away long ago if he had not known the others would have intervened.

     “I should have cut your balls off when I had the chance, foundling!” she shrieked, as vicious and vindictive as the day she had tied him to that tree. He could still recall the oppressive heat of her breath as she whispered how he had never been her brother, never truly one of them, her nails, filed to talons, moving cruelly between his legs. Only luck and his wits had stopped her from going further.

     “Vengeance is not the answer. Sleep and dream of another way,” he said grimly, as he sent her stumbling backward into the eluvian.

***

     “Lethallin…Lethallin…”

     Solas looked in the direction of her voice, which, at first, had seemed to come from the other side of the Fade but was now discernably closer. Panic rising, he sought a place to hide. Too late. In the next moment, the Fade twisted and folded on itself and she was now only a few paces away, her sun-bright presence burning away every shadow in sight. He had thought himself familiar with the Fade and all its vagaries. He had not expected that she could find him so easily, especially when he had not wished to be found. Her voice echoed with wistfulness as she spoke to him in the Old Tongue. How was this possible? He had thought the high language of Elvhenan largely lost to the Dalish clans.

     “Solas, if this is truly you, do not tell me.  I had to watch you die for me in an aborted future before I acknowledged the truth: I would rather claw my eyes out than see you dead at my feet again. Grant me this. Let my eyes not meet yours in the morning only to discover a witness to my foolishness.” Then the light around her dimmed and he could see she had changed her appearance. She was taller and her hair cascaded over her golden shoulders down to her waist in a mass of black waves. She wore nothing. Between breasts, down to belly, over thigh and behind knee spread the lines that marked her as Mythal’s, lines he wished to trace with hands and lips and tongue. He had almost forgotten what it was like to desire a woman, but this went beyond desire. Her magic and spirit pulled him to her as if each of them were halves of the same lodestone.

     “Tell me I please you,” she murmured, looking up with ever-changing eyes that shifted from grey to green to blue. For the first time in the Fade, Solas was unsure. Was this his dream or hers?

     “You do, Lethallan," he whispered, "You are both rare and beautiful.” He reached out and caressed the side of her face and she turned to kiss his fingertips. Let her believe this was simply another trick of the Fade. He dared not hesitate and risk recognition.

     “You do not know how much I have longed to touch you. To taste you. Kiss me?” She asked, raising her face and he found himself bending his head, pressing his mouth to hers. Her lips were soft yet insistent and as she deepened their kiss, he discovered her tongue tasted of spiced honey. He did not stop her when she pressed herself more tightly against him. He knew he was acting recklessly when he allowed his tunic to dissolve so she might feel his skin against hers. He felt the magic pulsing and building between them, their joined mana drawing in energy from the Fade to envelop them and heighten every shared sensation until he was near-bursting, every nerve aflame.

     Only too late did he realize how ill-conceived his plan had been. He had not anticipated the intensity of his reaction to her, this undeniable loss of control in the face of a single kiss. They would not be safe from the demons for much longer.  He was the one in conscious control.  He had to leave the Fade. He broke their embrace mid-kiss as he awoke.

     Solas looked across the campfire in the direction of the Inquisitor’s bedroll. She turned restlessly, though still asleep, a frown on her face. She could never know. He would have to be a lot more careful next time. In the moment that swiftly followed, he realized the true precariousness of his situation: he had already entertained the possibility of a next time.

(To be continued...)

[Nefi87]

I'm glad u started to write there again ))

[RoraM]

Glad you still find my writing worth reading, Nefi!

[RoraM]

     Tala peered at herself in the dirty glass of her window in Haven.  The hair that had started to grow back was no longer the black of crow or wolf.  It was white, white as…O Creators.  When she returned, they would call her Tala the Halla.  She comforted herself with the thought that at least this change in her appearance was certain, unlike the glimpse of green she saw flashing in the eyes of her reflection every so often.  She leaned closer to the glass.  Thank the gods they were a reassuring blue-grey today, though the woman she saw looked far older than the one who had arrived at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.  Would her clan recognize her if they saw her now?

 

     Of course they would, she chided herself gently.  The mark hadn’t changed the shape of her features, nor her vallaslin, which still ran uninterrupted, pale as moonstone, across her light brown skin.

 

     She ran her hand over her scalp, the short, fine hair feeling like velvet beneath her fingertips. Tala sighed.  She had to admit to herself she was vain.  She missed the thick, shining waves that had caught the eyes of young men.  Perhaps if Solas had seen how she was before the Conclave…

 

     Or perhaps it would have changed nothing. 

 

     It had only been a few days since they had returned from Redcliffe castle, from a future so horrific in its scale, she had been forced to remind herself to breathe when she had first been thrust into it. 

 

     The Elder One had sundered the Veil across the whole world.  When she finally did breathe, the choking air was thick with the smell of burning and blood. She saw no spirits, only demons: monstrous, sadistic, and brutal. What had happened to Solas? To Sera?  She prayed to the Creators that it had been as Dorian had said:  the other elves were where and when they had left them.

 

     By the time they had fought their way to the lower cells, she and Dorian were both half-blind with headache from the inescapable red lyrium that jutted glowing and menacing through the castle walls.

 

     “Is someone there?”

 

     Her heart had cried out in recognition:  Hahren!  Lethallin!  Emma lath!  I’m here! 

 

     It almost broke when she set eyes upon him.  Wan with strange, shimmering red eyes, he spoke in a voice rasped and distorted. 

 

     “You’re alive!  We saw you die!”

 

     “The spell Alexius cast displaced us in time.  We just got here so to speak,” Dorian explained quickly. Solas rose to his feet, agitated.

 

     “Can you reverse the process?  You could return and obviate the events of the past year! It may not be too late!”

 

     Of course Solas would immediately grasp the situation, no matter what time they were in.  He turned to her, his expression laden with sorrow.

 

     “You would think such understanding would stop me from making such terrible mistakes.  You would be wrong.  But you know nothing of this world.  It is far worse than you understand.”

 

     The empress assassinated and Orlais in chaos.  The south overrun by a demon army.  And Solas was dying.

 

     “We can’t do this without you,” Tala had said.  I can't do this without you.

 

     “If there is any hope, any way to save them, my life is yours.  This world is an abomination.  It must never come to pass.”

 

     He was true to his word.  She remembered the grim look he had shared with Sera, knowing what they must do for her to escape with Dorian.  When the Elder One’s demon forces broke down the door, they tossed his broken, lifeless body before them. 

 

     “You move and we all die!”  Dorian had cried, seeing her stricken look.

 

     When she finally saw Solas again, she wanted to weep with relief and throw both arms around his neck.  The curious, detached expression in his clear eyes stopped her.

 

     In this world, she was felas da’len, she reminded herself.  Only in her dreams was she more, where she could speak the forgotten ancient language of the elven gods, feel the insignificance of time, and, most wondrously and painfully of all, know his touch.

 

     When they were alone, she told him of the red lyrium future she had seen with its shattered Veil.  She watched his face carefully for his reaction.  He had once told her of what the world might be like without the Veil, where spirits could coexist like forces of nature and she had imagined a kindly spirit moving gently among the trees like the wind, whispering ancient wisdom.  But she had forgotten fire and flood were also forces of nature and part of her wondered if Solas had forgotten this as well.

 

     “You are certain you experienced time travel?  Could it have been an illusion, a trick of the Fade?” 

 

     “I’ve been to the Fade before.  I’d know it!”  Tala cringed, even as she spoke.  She sounded like an indignant child.

 

     “Point taken,” he conceded.  “What an amazing gift!”  Tala stared at him.  If she were truly to behave as a child, she would have brought both of her fists down upon him.  She had seen him dead in a nightmare world of chaos and ruin and it had been no gift.  But he had been uninterested in knowing his fate in that future and she could not tell him how she had felt her heart wither inside her or why it came alive again.  Felas da’len.  She took a breath.

 

     “Most people have trouble wrapping their heads around the idea.”

 

     “I am not most people.”  It was not merely an observation.  There was pride in his voice.

 

     “I appreciate you talking to me about it.  And…” she dared to add, “not being most people.”

 

     That night, they made camp in the Hinterlands.  Once more, she dreamed of him, but his touch felt different.  She realized it was their mana pooling the energies of the Fade between them, allowing them to flow over and through them.  It gave them an awareness of each other that went beyond the normal senses.  Pulling, pushing, instinctive and untamed, then, without explanation or warning, he suddenly left her mid-embrace.  When she awoke, she was shivering.  She looked across the dead embers of their campfire.  His bedroll had been neatly packed and she heard movement just beyond the camp, likely Solas gathering breakfast.  That he had been awake for some time while she still dreamt was reassuring. As real as it had felt, she had yet to encounter anyone else in dreams.  The Fade was both deceptive and infinite. 

 

     Thank the Creators.

 

(To be continued…)

 

Screencapture courtesy of captaincaranis

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  Content of suspect virtue, in keeping with submissions to The Randy Dowager Quarterly.  You have been warned.

 

     “We shouldn’t.  It isn’t right.  Not even here.”  Ghilan’nain said with a low laugh. 

 

     Fen’Harel was slowly advancing upon her.  He heard her breath coming quicker and could see her pupils had dilated to darken her eyes.  Even as she spoke, she had slipped the robe from her shoulders.  He closed the distance between them.

 

     “I came as you asked, Lethallan.”  His robes joined hers on the floor.  “Would you have me leave to join the hunt with the others?  I hear it is to be particularly thrilling this year.  Something called a varterral, created to Dirthamen and Andruil’s specifications.” He reached for the Fade with his mana, drawing wisps of energy around her to caress her skin.  He saw her shiver.

 

     “Making it venomous was your idea, Lethallin.” 

 

     Fen’Harel chuckled.

 

     “A minor contribution.” He began kissing her neck.  “Are you certain you want this?  It could lead to trouble.”

 

     “And since when have you shied away from trouble, Dread Wolf?” she said, then gave a satisfying gasp as she felt the pulsing of magic from his fingertips while he moved them in gentle circles over her breasts.  He had made slow steady progress down the length of her body.  Now he knelt before her.

 

     “How long has it been?” he asked and then he began to use his tongue for something other than talking.

 

     “Too long,” she breathed, her fingers entwined in his hair.

 

***

 

     What had possessed her to kiss him?  It was one thing when she knew she was dreaming, another when she believed herself to be in the real world.  She had not expected him to kiss her back so hungrily, as if he might not get enough of her, as if she might disappear.  Tala remembered the feeling of his mouth on hers as he pressed his body into her, the familiar feeling of magic building within her, seeking him and drawing him to her while the energies of the Fade danced across her skin.  Her heart skipped a beat.

 

     It had been familiar. 

 

     His taste.  His touch.  The feeling of his thigh pressing between her legs, making her ache with want.  Creators. 

 

     No, she shook her head.  Such was the nature of the Fade: at times, canny and prescient.  And it was unlikely he would kiss her again, either in the Fade or the real world.  Afterwards, he had called their encounter impulsive and ill-considered.  Her cheeks had burned as she apologized for misreading him. 

 

    He had asked for time to think.  She told him to take all the time he needed.  Now it was weeks later and while she still burned with the memory of his kiss, he had kept a polite distance.  She had ceased to see him even in dreams.  He had once told her the Fade reflected the imagination of the dreamer and after his weeks of silence on the matter, she could no longer imagine him wanting her. 

 

     She was surprised when she received his request to meet.  As she made her way to the rotunda, she wondered what could have prompted him to seek her out. 

 

     She had not expected her breath to be taken away when she arrived.  Colours bright and brilliant adorned the soaring walls, while bold, purposeful lines depicted the choices that had shaped the Inquisition up to that point.  Her choices.  All these weeks, she had thought herself removed from his thoughts.  The murals told her otherwise.  She turned to him and was grateful that he spoke first, for she had been struck dumb.

 

     One of his oldest friends, a spirit of wisdom, had been forcibly brought into this world and had cried out for his help.  She instantly saw what it must have cost him to entrust someone else with this information, to seek aid.  She would do everything in her power to save his friend.

 

     They mounted the swiftest harts in the stables and raced to Enavuris where the two rivers joined, as he had seen in his dream. As they neared, they found bodies burned unrecognizable along the banks, their faces clawed away.  For the first time, she saw Solas' carefully controlled expression give way to fear and rage.  They found Wisdom, her form twisted and warped into a pride demon, fighting against the mages who had perverted her purpose.

 

    "No. No, no, no," she heard, each word punctuated with anguish.

 

     As Solas confirmed the mages had summoned the spirit to fight bandits, her own anger rose with the realization they must have had a significant amount of lyrium on them at the time, enough not to need blood magic.  They had chosen to summon a demon, not as their last, but as their first resort.  Fen’Harel take the shem Circle mages for their idiocy and arrogance.  

 

     She turned to Solas.  “I’ve studied rituals like this.  I should be able to disrupt the binding quickly.”  Thank the Creators she could at least do this for him.

 

     But she was not quick enough. The demon managed to land a blow to her chest, sending her flying.  By the time they had shattered the last ice pillar, it was too late.  She watched helpless as Solas, his eyes twin pools of grief, listened to his friend ask for him to end her suffering.  Even when wracked with pain, the spirit had a sweet, gentle voice.  Unselfish to the last, she used her final words to comfort and advise him. 

 

     "Ma melava halani.  Mala suledin nadas."  Tala could see why he loved her and now understood why he spent so much time in the Fade.

 

     She did not stop him from striking down the mages who had tortured and killed his friend.  She would have done it on his behalf, had he asked.  She was not surprised when he left.  The rest of them would stay behind to burn the bodies.  The Exalted Plains were rife with demons and they could not risk the mages returning as arcane horrors.  Through the rising flames, she watched him disappear into the distance, wondering if he would ever come back. 

 

     Her thoughts were interrupted by an arrow ripping through her right shoulder, quickly followed by another.  A Fade rift had opened and corpse archers were attacking them.  It had been so long since she had taken an injury in battle, she felt almost indignant that she should feel pain.  Solas always put up their first protective barrier.  Over the months, they had learned each other’s rhythms, their battle magic moving and flowing in synchronicity.  And now, as she hastily threw up a barrier, it was as if she had lost half of herself. 

 

     Potion.  She drank quickly then sent fire and lightning flying from her staff.  She looked at the rift and watched a revenant and arcane horror emerge.  Thank the gods. No rage demons. 

 

     “To me!” she cried, getting Cole and Cassandra to concentrate on the revenant, giving her a chance to focus past the pain in her shoulder and use her mark.  She watched it banish the creatures back to the Fade before sealing the rift.  Then the world turned black.

 

(To be continued...)

 

Author's Note:  The last battle actually happened to my Inquisitor.  Fortunately, we had plenty of potions.

[RoraM]

     “You really oughtn’t make a habit of this, you know.”  Dorian said, as they dined on the west balcony of her quarters.  “You’ll have people lining up to test your immortality. Oh wait.  They already are.”

 

     Tala, who was grateful she could finally get out of bed and outside into the air, laughed, eliciting a smile from the Tevinter mage who had become her friend.  Traveling through time together to prevent the death of their world had cemented the trust between them.

 

     “Have you heard from Solas?”  She saw him looking at her carefully.

 

     “How would I-"

 

     “Forgive me.  I had thought- never mind.”  In dreams.  He had thought Solas might visit her in the Fade.  Whether it had been the poison from the arrows or Helisma and Adan’s antidote, she did not remember her dreams of the past several days.

 

     “Varric and I have a bet going over whether he’s coming back or not,” she said brightly, hoping to keep back her tears.  “You may join in on the fun, if you like.”

 

     “Then I’d be interested in which side you were on.  Betting against you seems to be a losing proposition these days.”  She saw in his expression she had not quite managed to keep the pain out of her eyes.

 

     “He’s grieving.  He lost someone he…loved.”  She did not know whether she struggled with the word because she might betray her own feelings or because it was acknowledgement that Solas loved someone and it was not her.  “We’ve sealed the Breach and the orb’s whereabouts are unknown to us.  He has no reason to come back.”

 

     “Doesn’t he?  Those frescoes won’t finish themselves and he doesn’t strike me as a man who takes commitments lightly.”

 

     “You didn’t see his face, Dorian.”

 

     “Hm.  That is true, but you know what?  I believe I will take that bet.  I could always do with another silk scarf.  I’d like it to match my eyes.”  She shook her head.  “Shall we take a walk and start a fresh round of rumours?”  She smiled and took his arm. 

 

     She had to pause to rest.  They had descended halfway down the staircase leading from the main entrance of the great hall when they saw Solas enter through the gate.  She hadn’t realized she had clutched Dorian’s arm tighter until she felt the reassuring squeeze of his hand over hers.

 

     “Courage, my love.  Wait here.  I have a few words for our elven apostate.”

 

     Dorian took him aside where ears other than her own would not hear.

 

     “And what would you know of it?  Spirits.  Slaves.  They’re all subhuman to you,” she heard Solas say, his voice cold and disdainful.

 

     “I know that even if she weren’t my friend, I wouldn't have left the Inquisitor vulnerable to attack.  I know, as I suspect you do, that she is all that stands between us and Corypheus.  Without her we will fail and you abandoned her.  You may be many things, but I never took you for a fool, Solas.”

 

     “That is your mistake, not mine,” Solas replied bitterly.  “But you are right.  She has acted as a true friend.  And I…”  He sighed.  “Would you allow us a moment?”

 

     She saw Dorian look up at her.  She nodded before making her way down the stone steps.

 

     “I will meet you in the tavern,” he said as he passed, “and I’ve changed my mind:  red.  Definitely red.”

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

Inquisitor Tala Lavellan:

 

[RoraM]

     “Slavers!  You must go now, Lethallin!”  Dirth’ena urged.

 

     They had been exploring the ruins near the village when the soldiers arrived.

 

     “What about father and mother?”

 

     “Taken.  There were too many, even for them. Retreat into the forest!”  The boy immediately became aware of the smell of burning.  He could see flames rising from the thatched roofs of the village and heard screaming.  Those who had locked themselves in their homes would be forced out or would die.  He ran across the fields towards the trees as fast as he could until he thought his heart might burst from his chest. 

 

     The nights were cold, but he dared not light a fire.  Dirth’ena found him a small trickle of fresh water.  She pointed out which berries were safe to eat, which mushrooms to avoid, and where the dawn lotus grew with its sweet, succulent roots.  When she was certain it was safe, they returned to the village.

 

     His fingers traced the fire glyph that had been burned into the door of the house once belonging to the baker, its lines slightly different from another he had found at the house of the herbalist.  His friend had been right.  Gifted though he was, with their trained mages, he would have been no match against the slavers.  Those villagers who had stood their ground had been cut down and left to rot.  But not all the bodies were familiar.  The boy looked at the markings across one dead soldier’s face: branches striking out from a third eye above the brows.  It was the symbol of the dragon-lord Falon’Din, whose temple fortress floated over Arlathan.

 

     The boy went about the grim task of burning the village’s dead.  He said no prayers.  Taking his pack and staff, he turned his sights southward towards the capital to find his family.  

 

***

 

     “Don’t know how you can eat the stuff.  Too sweet for my tastes,” Blackwall snorted as Tala tested the temperature of the roasted dawn lotus root with her fingertips.

 

     “More for me and Solas, then,” she smiled.  They had returned to Dirthavaren with gifts to thank Keeper Hawen and his clan for tending to her injuries in the immediate aftermath of her battle with the rift revenant.  She looked across the fire to their elven companion, who was sitting still and quiet, once more claimed by the Fade.

 

     “I’m going to take advantage of the waterfall.  You humans can keep your baths.”

 

     “I’m not entirely sure Blackwall knows what those a -“  Dorian was interrupted by a flying object hitting the back of his head.

 

     “Turns out I like lotus root after all.” Blackwall said drily.  “I think I’ll have another.”

 

     Tala grabbed clean clothing before heading down to the water.

 

     The cold invigorated her.  She always felt so clean after bathing in running water.  She raised her face to feel it rushing over her.  A statue of a resting wolf overlooked the falls, its expression vigilant, eternal.  She ran her hands over her body to free the day’s dirt from her skin.  Over the left side of her chest disrupting the lines of her vallaslin was a lightning burn scar, thick and dark, a souvenir from her fight with Solas’ friend.   She was glad she could not see the scars on her back from the poisoned arrows where they had to cut out swathes of dead flesh.  She never did scar well.  Her right shoulder was still stiff.  She raised her arm above her head, bending it at the elbow, her other hand gently helping stretch out the joint.  Mm.  Better.

 

     “Lethallan.” 

 

     Tala stood still.  Was she dreaming?  How had she managed to slip into the Fade?

 

     “Solas.”  Already waist-deep in the water, he approached her, just as any member of her own clan might.  Human prudery was foreign to the Dalish.  “I know you still mourn, Lethallin.  You did not have to come.”  No, this was not the Fade.  She spoke in the common tongue.  Her mouth could not remember how to form the ancient words.

 

     “You said I did not need to be alone. I…would not be alone now.” 

 

     Tala forced herself to look away from his leanly muscled torso and was glad of the cold water as she felt the heat rising through her. Creators, help her.  She finally spoke.

 

     “If my presence brings you comfort, then I’m glad.”  She walked toward him and saw him frown at the sight of her new scar.  “I’m afraid none of our other mages possess your talent for scar-less healing.  They were too busy saving my life to spare my vanity.”  Hearing his sharp intake of breath, she regretted her words immediately.  She reached out and touched his arm.  “Ir abelas.  I meant to compliment your skill, not blame you.”  She placed a hand to cover the scar over her chest.  “If my scars give you distress, you need not see them.  I shall cover them up.”  She turned to retrieve her clothes and heard a second intake of breath when he saw her back.  She felt him gently touch her shoulder, turning her to face him

 

     “There is a spell,” he said looking into her eyes.  “Let me cast it.  I would not have you forever marked by my selfishness.”

 

     “It was my carelessness that gave me these scars, but I would be lying if I said I did not wish them gone.  Cast your spell, then, and know there is nothing to forgive.” 

 

     Light glowed from his hands, which he laid over her scars.  She felt the skin rearranging itself beneath his touch, the sensation strange but not unpleasant.  Then, he removed his hands and while she could not see what had happened to her back, the only signs she had of ever being injured were the discontinuous lines of her vallaslin, the skin between them now soft and new.  Tala breathed out a sigh.

 

     “Ma serannas.  Thank you.” 

 

     The moon had fully risen and Tala had become keenly aware of how close he was to her.  She could slip her arms around his neck now and-

 

     She heard a cough.  There was Blackwall, sword unsheathed, his face brick red.  Behind him stood Dorian, grinning wickedly.

 

     “Er- we noticed Solas was gone and you hadn’t returned.  Naturally, we assumed the worst and-“

 

     “So the stories about elves and moonlight are true!  Go on then.  Make the flowers bloom with your song.” 

 

     Tala stepped toward them knowing she was beautiful in her nakedness.  The fire forming in her hand illuminated the vallaslin that ran up and down her body.  She saw Blackwall swallow nervously then avert his eyes, while Dorian raised an eyebrow. 

 

     “As you both can see, I’m perfectly all right,” she said silkily.  “Rest easy.  Oh, and Dorian-" both he and Blackwall jumped as her immolation ring exploded behind them, igniting a crystal grace bush, its night-closed blossoms bursting open into flame before shrivelling black.  “Consider your childhood wish fulfilled.”  She waded back into the water, where Solas stood, not even trying to conceal his smile.

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

     They had slept like children, their foreheads touching, the wards softly humming around them.  Solas had taken Tala to where Wisdom once dwelled.  To her, it looked like an open field of tall, pale green grass, the sky blue-black, like the heart of lazurite. Stars fell and were reborn as small shining flowers among the gently swaying stalks that brushed against her thighs and waist.  A ring of white stones encircled the nascent spirit forming there.  She looked to Solas and he nodded.  She reached out to caress it, silently sending out a memory with each touch, asking that it remember him, that it love him, as she did, as Wisdom had.  She hoped it would be enough.

 

     In the morning, Blackwall avoided looking directly at her.  Dorian’s eyes danced. Meeting his gaze, Tala shook her head then smiled when she saw both of his eyebrows rise.

 

     The journey back to Skyhold was uncharacteristically quiet.

 

     When she returned to her quarters, the large room felt suddenly oppressive, the colours too bright and too dark at the same time.  She remembered the field in the Fade, noticing no matter how far they walked, the trees remained in the distance.  She had broken into a run, feeling her white hair fly behind her as she breathed in the cool night air scented with the delicate perfume of star-flowers.  She had laughed in delight as the trees kept their distance, then collapsed to the ground, lungs bursting, and smiled up at Solas, who gently tucked a star-flower behind her ear.  She involuntarily reached up to touch where it had been. 

 

     Who was she? Her role as Inquisitor had come to her by chance.  A wildling with some talent for magic, more curiosity than was prudent, and the stubbornness- or was it insanity- to defy overwhelming odds.  And he:  soldier, scholar, artist.  Dreamer.  She was not his equal.  He had no equal.  With his access to the infinite Fade, how soon would it be until he tired of her?  Until her pretty face and figure failed to draw the eye?  She was certain that while loving him could never be a mistake, wanting his love in return was.  Creators, let me not hope too high.  Let what we have, whatever this is, be enough.  But even as she said it, she knew she would not be satisfied.

 

(To be continued...)

 

Screencapture courtesy of captaincaranis

[RoraM]

     She was surprised he would ask to see her so soon after their return from Dirthavaren.

 

     “Inquisitor, I was…do you have a moment?”  Inquisitor, not Lethallan.  She looked up and saw Dorian leaning over the library banisters.  Leliana was being far more subtle, but Tala knew she was listening, nonetheless. 

 

     “Perhaps somewhere more private?”  He looked at her gratefully and they made their way to her quarters.

 

     She had not seen Solas uneasy before.

 

    “What were you like, before the anchor?  Has it affected you?  Changed you in any way?  Your mind, your morals, your…spirit?”  He was being cryptic.

 

    Tala looked at her mark, unsure.  What she knew for certain was that the anchor had brought her to him and he had changed her in countless ways: by sharing his knowledge and insight, by challenging her thinking, by inciting a desire and love she had never known.  Her hand absently found the place below her collarbone where the scar had once been.  For better or worse, he had shaped her.  But that had not been his question.

 

     “If it had, do you really think I’d have noticed?” she said finally.

 

     “No.  That’s an excellent point.”  He smiled, slightly chagrined. 

 

     “Why do you ask?”  

 

     “You show a wisdom I have not seen since…since my deepest journeys into the ancient memories of the Fade.  You are not what I expected.”  Ah.  Because she was Dalish.

 

     “Sorry to disappoint.” 

 

     “It’s not disappointing, it’s…”  He sighed.  “Most people are predictable.  You have shown subtlety in your actions, a wisdom that goes against everything I expected.  If the Dalish could raise someone with a spirit like yours…have I misjudged them?”

 

     “I don’t hold the Dalish up as perfect, but we have something worth honouring.  A memory of the ancient ways.”

 

     “Perhaps that is it.  I suppose it must be.  Most people act with so little understanding of the world.  But not you.”  Whatever wisdom and understanding he credited her with possessing, she still felt painfully slow. 

 

     “So what does this mean, Solas?”

 

     “It means I have not forgotten the kiss.”

 

     She took a step closer to him.  “Good,” she whispered.  She was under no illusion: this equation was unequal.  Both knew she wanted him.  What he wanted was still unclear.  She looked into his eyes, willing him to say the words.  The prideful part of her made her clasp her hands behind her.  Make him come to you.  Make him take what he wants.  He shook his head and turned to leave and all pride left her.

 

     “Don’t go…” she found herself begging, her hand on his arm.  He turned to her and she saw his eyes had gone dark.

 

     “It would be kinder in the long run, but losing you would…”  And he kissed her, kissed her with a passion that was vivid and urgent and real.  She could feel the stone of Skyhold beneath her feet, his hands on the small of her back, the warmth of his skin through his tunic.  This was real…this was real…this was real…

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

What I've been listening to while I've been writing:

 

A Thousand Years (Cover) - Jasmine Thompson

Demons (Cover) - Jasmine Thompson

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  Content of suspect virtue, in keeping with submissions to The Randy Dowager Quarterly.  You have been warned.

 

     Ar lath ma, Vhenan, he had said.

 

     She was still intoxicated by his kiss.   Unlike in the Fade, where magical energy came easily, like water moving in gentle eddies as it flowed downstream, in the real world, accessing that same energy required careful manipulation of the Veil before the Fade energies it held back rushed forth, controlled only by the conduit of her mana.  It was this sudden dual rush she felt when their magic came together. She had never been with another mage.  This was just one more thing he had shown her.  When he broke off their connection, she felt weak and needed to lean against the balcony doorjamb for support. 

 

     He could not have warned her of this, not without her wanting to see for herself, and now that she knew what she had been missing she craved it, like fields thirsting for rain after a drought.

 

     And he was walking away.

 

     “Solas!”

 

     “A moment, Vhenan.”  He rang for a servant then rejoined her, placing his arms around her waist.  “Feel weak?”  Tala leaned into his chest, breathing him in.

 

     “You know I do,” she said looking up at him.   “It’s…it’s gentler.  In the Fade.”  He laughed.

 

     “Yes.”

 

     “Kiss me again?” He smiled and shook his head.  He caressed her face, running his thumb over her lips.

 

     “Be patient.”

 

     “I have been.” She flicked the tip of his thumb with her tongue.

 

     “Here.  Sit.  I hear the servant now.”  She sank down into the divan while Solas gave the boy instructions.  She raised an eyebrow.  “You will need sustenance.”

 

     “I’m not hungry,” she reached out to touch him once more.

 

     “Are you not?” he asked, grasping her wrist and looking at her, his eyes glinting darkly.  “You will be.  Trust me, Vhenan.”

 

     “And what do you propose we do until the servant returns?”  She used her free hand to start unclasping the upper fastenings of her tunic.   He shook his head again.

 

     “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised by your unshakeable focus.”

 

     “Indomitable,” she said, smiling.

 

     “So it is.”  He released her.

 

     She bent to untie the laces of her boots knowing her tunic fell open as she did so.

 

     “Vhenan…” he warned.

 

     “How long has it been?” she asked softly.  One boot fell to the floor.  “Mm," she appraised,  "Long enough for you not to take your eyes off me while all I remove are my boots.”

 

     She did not get an answer.  The servant had arrived with the tray, which Solas went down to take from him at the door.  Tala observed a pitcher, bread, grapes, figs, and several small glass jars of honey shining from palest gold to dark red amber.

 

     “You feel weak because the body needs replenishing after joining mana on this side of the Veil.  Honey is one of the easiest ways.  Fruit juice another.”  He drizzled rose honey over a slice of soft fresh bread.  “Here.”  It was her turn to grasp his forearm.  A drop of honey had fallen onto his wrist. Taking away the plate with her other hand, she bent her head, her mouth at his pulse point.

 

     “Must it be on bread?” she asked, kissing his palm.

 

     “No,” he said, dipping two fingers into one of the jars, watching her eyes follow him as he brought them to his own mouth.  She narrowed her eyes, then pinned him down, her mouth on his, her tongue seeking the taste of honey.  Immediately, she felt flooded by the energies of the Fade as their mana connected.  “Slow down, Vhenan,” he whispered.  You won’t last.“  Feeling his desire for her growing, she only pressed herself closer to him.  She could sense his magic guiding hers, showing her how to direct and concentrate the flow of energy for the flood to recede.  She moaned, fighting the magic’s ebb, then she suddenly gasped, feeling a focused pulse ripple through her that almost sent her over the edge to climax.  O gods.  He hadn’t even touched her.  She fought to control her breathing.  When she looked in his eyes, she saw he knew exactly how close he had brought her. 

 

     “What-"

 

     “It got your attention.  Now drink.”  His artist's hands traced the glyph for cold over the goblet.  She sat up, straddling him, before draining it.  He emptied his own goblet then kissed her, his tongue cool and sweet.  And now he was undoing the remaining fastenings on her tunic and running his hands over her exposed breasts.  Her eyes widened when she felt his mouth on the sensitive new skin below her collarbone where the scar had been.  He slowly moved downward along the lines of her vallaslin, teasing her with lips, gentle teeth, and tongue and she could feel the primal rhythmic pulse of their magic move with each heartbeat.  What clothing she had on felt increasingly warm and restrictive.  She moved to loosen the laces of her breeches while trying not to interrupt what Solas was doing, only to growl with frustration.

 

     “Fen’Harel take these breeches!  Human clothing!”  Solas looked up at her oddly, then laughed.

 

     “Allow me, Vhenan.”  He deftly produced a small knife and in two passes cut the laces that ran down each side before sliding his hands along her hips to smoothly ease both breeches and small clothes down at once.  She laughed with delight.

 

     “You’ve done this before!”

 

     “Not precisely.”

 

     “Mm-hm.” She kissed him long and full on the mouth.  He lifted her up and carried her over to her ridiculously large bed.  “Has it been so long you’ve forgotten you’re supposed to remove your clothes as well?” she teased, unfastening his belt and sliding her hands under his tunic as he pulled it over his head.  She took a sharp intake of breath on seeing his body once more.  He did not have the unwieldy bulk of a human nor the slightness of her clansmen.  He was unique unto himself and she both loved and desired him.  Then it was she running her hands over him, she who used lips and tongue and not-quite-so-gentle teeth along his neck and shoulder and chest.  She slid a hand downwards following the lines of his body between lean hip and taut-muscled belly to touch him…and felt him send another unmistakable pulse between her legs setting every nerve afire.

 

     She cried out this time and he laughed, dipping his fingers in honey and bringing them to her mouth, while he pinned both wrists above her head with his other hand.  She kissed and licked and sucked at his fingertips, groaning, the pulsations getting more difficult to bear.  He licked the remaining stickiness off his fingers and then she felt him slowly reach into her, parting her flesh until she thought she would come undone with each new breath.  But as before, he brought her just to the edge.

 

     “Please…” she was breathing faster now, “please, I can’t…”

 

     “Can’t what?”  He asked softly as his hand continued to move steady and stroking between her thighs, his magic wandering maddeningly across her skin while his long cool fingers continued to grip her wrists. He knew what she wanted but wouldn’t give it to her.  The mark in her hand glowed dangerously.  She moaned.

 

     “Fen’Harel take-" and then it was his turn to cry out as her mana forced their shared magical energy to course through him unrestrained.  All his careful control fell away and she saw when he opened his eyes they were dark with single purpose.

 

     He thrust into her and each time she thought she might tear in two between the pleasure and the pain.  And then there was no pain, only pleasure and she felt it building between them until-

 

     O gods.  O Creators. I can feel him pouring himself into me.  A million stars exploding.  I love him…I love him…

 

(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

When I was writing the previous chapter, lines from Hozier's "Take Me to Church"  kept playing in my mind:

 

"I'll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies."

"Offer me that deathless death, good God, let me give you my life."

 

Screencapture courtesy of captaincaranis

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  Content of suspect virtue, in keeping with submissions to The Randy Dowager Quarterly.  You have been warned.

     When she awoke, it was still dark outside. Solas was gone. She turned to the side table and lit the candle with a quick gesture. The jars of honey, which had been covered and arranged in a careful row, glowed like jewels in the candlelight. A goblet had been placed over a piece of parchment. Written in the delicate, flowing script Keeper Deshanna had taught her to recognize was a single word: Drink.

     She wrapped herself in a sheet and stepped out onto the northern balcony, drink in hand. The cold didn’t bother her, but she shivered. It had been real. Ar lath ma, Vhenan.

     She realized she was ravenous. She didn’t know what time it was. Were the kitchen staff still awake? She couldn't have them see her wrapped in a sheet. Her breeches and tunic had been folded and her boots set upright. She would need new laces. She downed the rest of the sweet red liquid and then climbed the ladder to the loft. She found the laces, but also an Inquisition standard-issue shift, which she had experimentally dyed embrium scarlet the day Dagna had shown her the smithy’s new armour tinter.

     She pulled it over her head, cinching it at the waist with a sash. On her, it fell almost to her ankles. The wide neckline had a tendency to fall to one side and expose her shoulder, but it was so much more comfortable than the tailored tunic and laced breeches.

     She rang for a servant. A sleepy-eyed elf greeted her, tray already in hand.

     “Messere Solas said you would want this when you woke, Your Worship.” Tala, too astonished to speak, let her carry the heavily laden tray up the stairs into the room. Eventually, she recovered her powers of speech.

     “Thank you. I will have to thank him in the morning.” There was bread and fruit and roasted venison. Tala, who rarely ate meat, found her mouth watering. When the servant left, she immediately set upon the tray, tearing off hunks of the crusty bread, spreading them with creamy white butter before dipping them in the venison’s herbed gravy. O gods. Nothing in her whole life had tasted so delicious. By the time she was done, the plates were clean. She walked onto the western balcony, which overlooked Skyhold’s garden and frowned. The bright banners for the weekly Chantry service were already up, which meant... She flushed. She had lost an entire day. What explanation had Solas given? She wondered if Dorian suspected the truth. Creators.

     She couldn’t go back to sleep. She was restless. She wanted to find Solas, but he was likely asleep in his quarters. A walk through the garden, then.

     The moonflowers, whose vines climbed over both arch and wall, had opened and they filled the night air with their rich, heady scent. Above, the night watch walked the battlements. Otherwise, she was alone. She glanced up at the block of rooms where Solas slept. All the windows were dark.

     “Sleep well?” A slow smile spread across her face. She turned to see Solas descending the stone stairs.

     “I believe I’ve discovered the secret to time travel. It seems I’ve jumped one day into the future.” He laughed.

     “Could it have been an illusion, a trick of the Fade?” he asked, teasing. She put her arms around him and then Fade-stepped them into a darkened alcove. She began to kiss his neck.

     “Mm. I’m reasonably certain we’re awake now, emma lath.  I’ve missed you,” she whispered, her breath visible in the wake of the elemental cold magic.

     “And I you.” He began to kiss her mouth and their mana joining seemed as natural as breathing. She slid her hand down, curving over him, caressing and stroking. “Vhenan…” She hooked her knee around his hip, pulling him into her, guiding his hand so he could feel her desire for him. She moaned as she felt his fingers explore beneath her shift.

     “Ar isala ma sahlin,” she pleaded.

     “Ma nuvenin.” He hooked her other knee around him and carried her to a nearby stone bench. This time, he entered her slowly, deliberately. She arched against him, wanting to feel his entire length inside her only to have him pull back. Her eyes flew open.

     “Vhenan!”

     He laughed low in his throat. The pace he set was maddening, exhilarating, tormenting. She had to bite down on her lip to hold back her cries when she finally felt the rush of their mutual release. When he withdrew from her, it felt akin to pain.

     “Stay with me.” He shook his head.

     “That would not be wise, Vhenan. Your inner circle already suspects. You must ready yourself for the peace talks in Orlais. Your enemies would use me against you. We must remain quiet a while longer.”

     “Then I am glad we leave for the Western Approach, far from the court’s reach. I would not be without you for long.” He sighed, kissing her forehead.

     “Nor would I.” Behind his voice, she could hear something clearly weighed upon him. He lifted a hand to caress her face.

     “The considerations you spoke of?” she asked before he could speak. He looked surprised, then gave her a small, wry smile.

     “Yes. I am still not certain-"

     “Mana, ma vhenan. In these times, the only certainty I have is my love for you. Do what you will.” She would let him keep his secrets for now. She gave him one last lingering kiss before returning to her quarters.

***

     Once more, she had astonished him with her understanding. But this was a mistake. Breathtaking and wondrous but still a mistake. The scent of her still clung to him, the memory of what they had shared burned into his brain. Whatever the price, he would gladly pay the cost.

(To be continued…)

[RoraM]

     Dirthamen had been right about the boy, who now stood fierce-eyed and proud before her.  Talented and quick to adapt, he had bested every warrior priest along the pilgrims’ path to her temple without taking a single life.  The boy was clearly cunning.

 

     His village had not been the only one within her demesnes that Falon’Din had sacked.  Had not Sylaise and June come to her with complaints of their brother’s overreach?  Sibling rivalry was one thing, but Mythal would not brook this obvious disrespect.  The difficulty lay in getting to him.  With his floating fortress he had a tactical advantage over the rest of them.  It would be difficult for any of their trusted servants to infiltrate it, marked as they were, and it would be deemed too a high a risk by the nobles, with their ever-changing loyalties, to take.

 

     The boy sought his parents. Very well.

 

     “Lord Falon’Din will know what his lieutenants have done with your family.  He takes many forms, evading us so he cannot be brought to justice.  But if we were to have a vial of his blood, we would be able to track him down wherever he went, however he looked.  Lord Dirthamen tells us his temple fortress floats over the western plains.  It will be no easy thing infiltrating it.  You will need my help.  I have already spoken with Lord June, who has given us the original plans he used to build the fortress, and Lord Dirthamen, who has informed us of the various alterations that have been made in the interim.  You would do well to study them.  Your magic is impressive, but it is still wild and unfocused and if you are to face Falon’Din, you will need this.”

 

     The boy’s blue eyes widened feeling the pull of the orb she floated down to him.  Already she could see his mind working out how to use it.

 

     “Dareth shiral, Da’len” 

 

***

 

     “We must stop the Wardens from carrying out this insane plan, Inquisitor!” Solas said, agitatedly pacing the rotunda after they returned from the Western Approach.  “To seek out these Old Gods deliberately in some bizarre attempt to pre-empt the Blight…”

 

     Tala wanted to rub his shoulders, as she had often done when they made camp.  “They won’t succeed. We’re going to stop them- together.”

 

     “Thank you.”  He took a deep breath.  “I’ve been on my own for so long.  It’s difficult to get used to having the support of others.  Those fools and duty.  Responsibility is not expertise.  Action is not inherently superior to inaction.  Forgive me.  The entire idea is unnerving.”

 

     Tala agreed.  Corypheus could not be allowed his demon army.

 

***

 

     Tell me, traitor.  You have found no joy in your victory.  What once stood tall and proud now appears dead. 

 

     What had the nightmare demon meant?  It had happened in another life, was all Solas would say about it afterwards.  But that made his reply to the demon all the more confusing.

 

     It does not have to remain so.  And he had looked at her when he had said it.

 

     Is this why he traveled alone?  Whom had he betrayed?  He had spoken to Blackwall of a war he had fought in.  An elven skirmish of sorts.  While it was true there were struggles across Thedas at any given time, Keeper Deshanna had taken great care to remain apprised of the other clans and nothing they had heard of could conceivably be called a war.  Other than the mage-templar war, which the clans sought to avoid, the only other recent wars of note were between Tevinter and Par Vollen over Seheron and the Orlesian civil war.  While the latter seemed highly unlikely, he might have fought alongside the fog warriors against Tevinter and the Qun.  Perhaps he did not wish for the Iron Bull to know, given his ties to the Ben-Hassrath.

 

     How much did she truly know about the man who shared her bed?  She chastised herself, pushing away her doubts.  She did not know the name of the village he grew up in, but she knew him by what he believed and how he acted.  She knew that he loved her by his thoughtful anticipation of her needs, by how he looked at her, by how he touched her.

 

     So why did he stay away?

 

     Was it because she had recruited the Grey Wardens after defeating the nightmare demon?  Solas had not agreed with her assessment that the Inquisition was the best way of checking the Order; the facts remained that Weisshaupt had not stopped Clarel from making her fatal mistake and with most of the Templars under Corypheus’ control, the Inquisition needed help killing demons to maintain order.  She understood Solas’ perspective on the hapless spirits who had been pulled through unwillingly into this world by the rifts to become demons, but they both knew she could not be everywhere at once to banish every demon back to the Fade.  Still, she hated having his disapproval.

 

     Was it because they would be heading to Halamshiral soon and their relationship posed a potential liability?  She had been forced to endure Vivienne’s condescension and her countless tiny digs as she learned the proper forms of address, what to say and what not to say and to whom.  Her head swam with all the names of the Orlesian courtiers and their respective political alignments.  She was glad her comportment sessions were with Josephine’s people.  At least the Antivan was sympathetic.  Tala, who usually ate using only her knife and her hands, had to learn and memorize how to hold the various dining utensils the humans had devised.  She simply couldn’t understand why the Orlesians did not shell their snails before serving them, which would eliminate the need for the tongs and the two-tined fork.  The only thing she dreaded being served was the ortolan bunting.  When she discovered how the humans prepared them and how they were eaten, she told Josephine she might not be able to prevent herself from massacring Celene’s entire court.  Josephine gave her an alarmed look and assured her that she would personally make sure ortolans would not be on the menu.

 

     Learning to dance was the worst.  She had just learned how to lead and now she had to learn how to follow, which was all backwards.  Tala had been admired in her clan for being a graceful dancer, but wearing boots and being forced to move in the unnatural steps of human formal dance made her awkward and stilted.

 

     “Well that was…definitely an improvement!”  Josephine had said at their last lesson as Tala winced.

 

     Varric had kindly used his connections to hire musicians who would play in her quarters every evening so she could practice between lessons.  She just seemed to be getting worse, if that were possible.

 

     Tala growled with frustration, then hurled her boots over the railing. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, then turned to the musicians. 

 

     “I don’t suppose you happen to know any elven music?”  Surprisingly, they did. 

 

     She began to dance, arcing arms and swaying hips in expressive, flowing movements that would surely brand her as a savage at court.  She hadn’t danced like this for months and only now realized how much she missed it.  It wasn’t until the song was finished that she noticed Solas had been watching.

 

     “I found your boots.  I did knock, but I suspect it was difficult to hear over the music.”  She blushed.

 

     “I- the dance lessons aren’t going very well,” she confessed.

 

     “Perhaps I might be able to help.”

 

     “Not unless you know the quadrille or the valse.”

 

     “You might be surprised.”  He nodded to the musicians, who began playing the slow music that she had learned to identify as a valse lente.  He bowed to her.  Still skeptical, she took his hand and then he was leading her around the room.  Expertly.  It was easy to follow when he was able to communicate each step by the firm pressure of his hands on her back and palm.  They glided and spun effortlessly together and when they were done, the musicians applauded and whistled in appreciation.

 

     “Don’t tell me you learned how to dance in the Fade.”  She could have kissed him.

 

     “Then I won’t,” he said, smiling.  

 

(To be continued...)

 

Author's Note:  The only word I believe Tala mistranslated from the nightmare demon's conversation with Solas is "harellan", which she translated as "traitor".  I believe a better translation would be "trickster/deceiver".  

[RoraM]

Just a note to thank everyone for sticking with me and reading this far!

[Nefi87]

Hahah, it's a pleasure ) As always

[RoraM]

Screencapture courtesy of captaincaranis

[CapriMe]

I didn't even realize I needed this in my life until I read the first chapter.  Thank you for this.

[RoraM]

Author's Note:  Content of suspect virtue, in keeping with submissions to The Randy Dowager Quarterly.  You have been warned.
 
     The timing couldn’t possibly be worse.  The situation in Wycome was volatile.  Sickened and paranoid from Duke Antoine’s instillation of red lyrium in their wells, the humans were readying themselves to purge the area of elves, both alienage and Dalish. Tala had just given the order for Leliana’s scouts to help Clan Lavellan’s hunters covertly enter the city in order to oust the Duke. She prayed to the Creators she had made the right choice.  And tomorrow was the Halamshiral ball, where the fate of the empire, and therefore all southern Thedas, would be decided; where she would be surrounded by Orlesian nobles with their hidden faces and twisting words, who treated her kind with varying degrees of indifference, disdain, and cruelty.  She was to focus her efforts on saving the contemptible, repugnant lot of them while her clan faced possible extinction.  She wanted to vomit.
 
     “I doubt that will help you win the favour of the court, Vhenan,” Solas teased gently, rubbing her shoulders.  They were alone in the carriage on their way to the Chalons family holdings just outside of Halamshiral.  Vivienne had elected to take her own conveyance and Cole had spirited off somewhere.  Solas had thought it best to pose as her serving man.
 
     “What?  You don’t think being a Dalish elf and an apostate will be enough to win them over?”  she asked wide-eyed.  “Must I dazzle them with the depths of my ignorance and rudimentary dancing skills, too?”
 
     “You are hardly ignorant.  As for dancing, I have danced with you myself and you are not wanting for grace.”
 
     “So you’re suggesting I'm graceful?”
 
     “No.  I am declaring it.  It was not a subject for debate.”
 
     “Sweet talker,” she said, planting a kiss on his nose.  
 
     Then her eyes met his and they began kissing in earnest.  Suddenly, the burden of keeping their relationship secret all those months seemed intolerable.  “I…don’t…want to think… about anything…but you…” she said moving her mouth from his mouth to kiss him along his jaw and down his neck while her hands busied themselves with his breeches.
 
     Before he could protest, she had knelt.  Raising his tunic, she began kissing him just below his navel while she traced the glyph for heat along his skin with her tongue.  She felt his mana join hers, almost violently, and smiled.  She continued with lips and tongue, keeping to the valley where his hip joined the rest of his body and heard him groan.  Good.  Her fingers continued to trace glyphs along his inner thigh.  He thrust himself forward, trying to meet her mouth, but each time, she turned her face to kiss his hip or thigh, while her hands stayed him.  Just when she saw he had resigned himself to being denied, she ran her fingertips up and down his length.  She heard him gasp.
 
     “Please, Vhenan…”  he said hoarsely, as if asking her to stop.  Hearing the naked want in his voice made her desire him all the more. Tongue and mouth followed fingertips. His breath came faster, hand clutching her hair, the softest moan escaping his lips.  She could feel the familiar building of magic between them, magnifying every sensation.  She knew he was close and she couldn't wait any longer.
 
     She rose, placing a knee on either side of him, pushing him back against the tufted cushion seat.  Beneath her robes, she tugged her small clothes aside before slowly sinking down upon him, savouring every moment of her descent.  She held him tightly between her thighs, her hips riding him in rhythm with the bumping and swaying of the carriage.  She felt the heat of his open mouth along her neck, heard his every ragged breath, their forward momentum driving him deep inside her.  It wouldn't be long now.  She bit her lip in anticipation but still cried out with their climax as he sunk his teeth into her shoulder.  If she hadn’t been wearing robes, he might have broken skin.  It would leave a mark, though, and she found herself secretly loving the thought.  They felt the carriage slow.
 
     “All right there, Your Worship?  Sorry ‘bout that.  Between the mages, templars, an' the civil war, the roads are a right mess!”
 
     “We’re fine.  Carry on,” she said smiling as Solas gently kissed her.
 
(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

     Bloodied in his own temple. 
 
     Falon’Din shook as much from rage as the magebane that coursed through him.  He watched as the retreating griffon disappeared into nothing more than a speck on the horizon.  The boy had played on his overweening vanity, something Dirthamen had warned would happen one day.
 
     Who had sent him?  He had borne no distinguishing mark and his accent did not place him.  But now he had his blood. Whoever this boy was, Falon'Din would track him down.  He would know the wrath of a god.
 
***
 
     He had been right.  Dirthamen had had a hand in it.  The others he had expected.  Not Dirthamen.  His brother rarely chose sides and when he did, he had always sided with his twin.  The bile rose to his throat.  He spat, staining the carpet. He had left Dirthamen’s lands alone until now.  No more.
 
     What was the name of his brother's high priest?  Young, exceptionally gifted in magic, ambitious— Dumat.  Find the right price or, better yet, the right point to apply pressure and anyone could be yours.  Dirthamen had taught him this and Falon’Din would use it to break whatever new alliances his twin had made.   All of them would pay and it would start with Dumat.  He summoned his seneschal.
 
     “Geldauran.  Send word to Lord Anaris.  Extend him the hand of friendship along with a token of our respect—something more than the usual silks and spices.  Give him Daern’thal.”
 
     “Daern’thal, my lord? Surely—”  Falon’Din had learned to recognize the sound of fear.  He heard its subtle undercurrent in Geldauran’s voice now.  So there had been something to the spymasters' reports:  the seneschal had grown over-fond of his recent acquisition.  Best it was sent away.
 
     “Are you not always praising Daern’thal to me?  What higher honour could there be for a slave?  Do not test my patience.  And see to that carpet.  It's filthy.” 
 
     By the time Geldauran had left the room, Falon'Din had dismissed the matter from his mind, his thoughts once more on the boy who had bested him. 
 
(To be continued...)

[RoraM]

     Solas watched as his beloved danced with the Grand Duchess.  She had come so far since he had first seen her, chained and caked with dirt and blood.  She had managed to sway the Orlesian court to the Inquisition with her delicate beauty and charm.  Whatever truth lay in her claims to ignorance was offset by the attentiveness with which she listened; only afterwards did the flattered speakers discover that they had divulged rather more than they had intended to the Inquisitor.

     He knew she was hating every moment of it, but he reveled in the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeated these events.  The powerful were always the same.  Only the costumes changed.

     The Orlesians did not quite know what to make of him.  He did not have the look of one of the elven servants.  The food and drink were excellent, however, and the servants were happy to refill his glass.  He would have to be careful.  He was already feeling the effects of the punch and he could feel the colour rising to his cheeks.

     He looked over and saw Cullen watching Tala intently.  And why should he not, he told himself.  His beloved was beautiful.  Her white hair shone illuminated by a thousand candles, refracting the light as she turned her head, giving the fleeting impression of rainbows following wherever she walked.  Her full, naturally rosy lips had been reddened with cosmetic and her brilliant eyes accentuated with kohl.  The pale vallaslin that ran across her upper face mimicked a mask, putting the Orlesian nobles at ease without them even realizing it.  She wore no gown but the military garb of a warrior, even more befitting since becoming a disciple of the dirth’ena enasalin.  She outshone every other woman in the room.

     They had agreed she could not be seen to speak with him too often.  He saw her now speaking to Cullen and how the man hung on her every word. He should not have been annoyed.  What was wrong with him?  The evening suddenly felt wearisome.  He had seen countless such displays in the Fade.  How was this one any different?

     She caught his eye and with one look, his heart was racing, a smile curling his lips.  They were going hunting.

***

     He found her on the balcony, head bent and leaning heavily against the balustrade.

     “I’m not surprised to find you out here. Thoughts?”

     “I don’t know if I did the right thing letting the empress die.”  She had installed Ambassador Briala as the power behind the Orlesian throne, but the ballroom floor bore evidence of the price paid, stained with the blood of loyal Inquisition soldier, traitor, and empress alike.  Even as they spoke, her clan fought for its life against the nobles of Wycome and he knew she struggled with the idea that the one might have unduly influenced the other.  He put his arm around her.

     “Sometimes sacrifices must be made.  Nothing is ever won without something else being lost.  Remember the lesson, but do not dwell on it. You didn’t invent war.”  Seeing her eyes retained their troubled look, he glanced back at the ballroom.  “Come, before the band stops playing.  Dance with me!” He bowed, looking up at her with a smile.  He saw her tiredness instantly fall away.

     “I’d love to,” and she was once more in his arms where she belonged.

(To be continued…)

Author's Note:  Preparing myself for the Temple of Mythal and what immediately follows. You know.

[RoraM]

     The spirit watched from the Fade, fascinated.  A voice called out “Come back, Da’len!”  A small child, unlistening, toddled over to a flower and attempted to grasp it with a dimpled hand.  Its mother soon joined it and gently held the flower to the child’s face.  The child laughed as the petals tickled its nose.  They left the flower growing in its field.  The spirit wondered what it must be like to know smell and touch.  If only the Veil were not present!

 

     The spirit saw the mother again, her face drawn and haggard, standing among several other women, the same expression on their faces.  At the center of the village a large wooden platform had been built upon which had been laid a number of small cloth-wrapped bundles.  She placed a single flower on one of them before drawing the glyph for fire. He did not see the child again.

 

***

 

     Everything was so bright here.  Ground.  This was what ground felt like.  He took a breath, feeling it expand his lungs.  His legs moved unsteadily.  He stepped forward, falling immediately.  What was this terrible sensation?  Was this pain?  He began to cry.  More confusion.  Wetness.  Tears on the face.

 

     “Where are your parents, Da’len?”  Soft arms were suddenly around him. What was that wondrous smell?  He stopped crying, nestling into the fabric that now touched his skin. The mother, who had picked him up, held him to her chest and looked around.  “Do not worry.  We will find them.  But first, I will see you fed.”

 

***

 

     Solas looked at her strangely.

 

     “Our people?  Who are— Oh, you mean elves!  I’m sorry, I was confused.  I do not consider myself to have much in common with the elves.”

 

     Tala had forgotten.  She saw him as her clan in Skyhold, but he who had no clan could not be expected to view her the same way.  She remembered his stories of the rejection he had endured at her people's hands and recalled his otherness at the Winter Palace, despite his intent to blend in among the elven servants.

 

     “Nor should you.  You’re not defined by the shape of your ears.  They’re not your people.”

 

     “No, they are not,” he agreed.

 

     Irrational though it was, she felt a pang in her heart with the realization this was one less thing they shared.  What did they share? Magic.  A common goal.  A language.  A physical desire for each other.  And love.  A love they could no longer hide, it seemed.

 

     “I’ve seen how you look at him.”  Sera had said, leaning over to nudge her during one of her visits.  “You’re in it.  Bet he calls out ‘elven glory’ when he does it,”  she chortled.  Tala blushed hotly, too mortified to reply.  It would be too much to hope Sera would keep this knowledge to herself for long.

 

     She was right.  “So, you and the Lady Inquisitor,” Sera said as they made camp in the Hissing Wastes, eyeing Solas slyly.  “Interesting.”

 

     “Your interest is not my concern.”

 

     “That's all right, because I meant boring. The elf always takes the elf so that banging bits will mean something.”  Tala’s face burned while Cassandra looked determined not to listen. 

 

     “It is not a topic for discussion.”

 

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

 

     “Sera! No more!”  Lightning crackled menacingly in Tala’s hand.  To have what she and Solas shared reduced to animal husbandry felt profane.

 

     Sera’s eyes widened before she recovered her self-possession.  “Hmph! Fine. Whatever.”  

 

     Solas strode up to Tala’s side.  “Don't concern yourself, Vhenan. She is… apart from herself.” 

 

     In a way, she had Sera to thank for their new sleeping arrangements.  They shared a tent from then on.  She would hold her memories of that time close, treasuring each one like precious beads strung on a necklace.  They spent their days roaming the shifting sands, freeing slaves and exploring ruins, searching for the Dwarven relics that might shift the war with the Venatori in their favour.  Their evenings were peaceful:  she, writing Inquisition reports, he, sketching by the campfire.  They spent their nights in each other’s arms.  Sometimes, they’d find each other in the Fade and together would watch spirits reenact long-forgotten battles between lost civilizations or quietly witness the simple memories of every-day life among ancient peoples.  They did not touch each other in the Fade, not since that last time.  It attracted too many aggressive spirits.  Tala didn’t mind.  The Fade was evanescent and she wanted what they had to last forever.

 

(To be continued...)

 

Screencapture courtesy of captaincaranis