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Love without trust is a river without water ~ Harbhajan Singh Yogi
It’s been an entire decade.
The Inquisitor is at The Lighthouse.
Give me solavellan meeting each other as The Dread Wolf and the Inquisitor.
Solas is dressed as The Dread Wolf. Full plate, sable shoulder, the whole 9 yards. His back is up, asshole; clenched. He is The Dread Wolf, and none will stand in his path. {Except for fucking Rook, apparently}
Our Inky has a beautiful cloak which artfully hides her magic prosthesis. She wears a silly tiara-type thing (FoR tHe iNqUiSiTioN, Josie had insisted), and has a thick leather vest, made by Dorian, “for fashion and protection,” he had explained when he had gifted it to her on her arrival in Minratheous.
They have their first ‘talk.’ Bicker, then argue, then yell, the whole cadre side-eyeing Harding as if she has the cure to this madness.
She only shakes her head and keeps out of it, arms folded against her chest.
Emmerich though to interrupt them, once, but quickly resigned himself to melting back into his chair at their murderous glares.
Neve considered freezing them in an attempt to keep them from blows, but hesitated against magicking a “god.”
And then they storm out of opposite ends of the lighthouse.
Darvin: Well. That went well.
(It didn’t)
Give me solavellan meeting each other again on the other side of their own apotheosis.
The Inquisitor storms out of the room, walking around the hallway that wraps around the back of the meeting room, swirling off her cloak and childishly throwing her stupid-bloody-tiara on top with a strangled cry.
So fucking stupid! She thinks. He’s so fucking stupid!
She rips her armguard off and throws it against the wall, running her fingers through her hair and pulling at the follicles.
He hasn’t changed at all.
Another strangled scream gets pushed down deep.
She turns, takes a few deep breaths, and then screams through her teeth again.
She can’t bloody breathe with this stupid-
She begins to rip at the buckles of the vest,
Fucking-
Might’ve torn something there.
Vest on.
The vest joins her other trappings on the floor of the lighthouse.
She inhales once, deeply, tipping her face up to the sky, and then releases it, heavily.
She needs fresh air.
And stalks towards the door.
Give me solavellan, free of pretense and masks.
There is a balcony that wraps around the circumference of the lighthouse, and after the Dread Wolf had torn his armor from his body, he left the dusty confines of his room to seek what calm the clouds could offer him.
He needed it.
She was just the same as he remembered her. The exact same. The crows feet and grey hairs meant nothing to the brightness that was her spirit. Her beautiful, magnificent, pure spirit.
He leaned on the railing and tipped his face to the sky.
The sound of a door slamming echoed though the air, and he turned his head.
He could cry at the beauty of her. Clad in simple soft leggings and worn-in boots, a soft jacket, not unlike what she used to wear around Skyhold, hugs her form. She hasn’t changed, not even one bit.
He sees her eyes widen when she notices him, and she takes a step. Towards him.
He mirrors her.
Iron Bull could not have been more correct about her. Her face is so expressive, he can see everything. Shock, pain, anger, pain. So much pain. And anger again. A rage so deep he can smell it in the fade.
He didn’t think it possible, as she takes trepidatious steps towards him, his feet mimicking each one, but maybe she got more beautiful.
Her spine is straight. Her jaw is set with conviction. Her eyes bleed emotion. Anger, pain, sadness. Overwhelming sadness.
He reads and catalogues every emotion her eyes scream at him, until they stand nearly toe to toe.
His fingers twitch with the restrained urge to touch her face.
He forgot how much physically smaller than him she was.
His lips part.
An explosive spirit in such a tiny form.
Vhen’an.
A sharp cracking sound fills the air and his face is twisted violently to the side.
He makes no move to stop her.
He deserves it.
He deserves all the pain from all of the spirits in the fade for what he’s done to her.
A slap is only the beginning.
“That, is for Crestwood.”
She grits through her teeth.
“And this,”
She grabs the lapels of the simple linen shift he wears and shakes him.
“This is for the Winter Palace.”
He goes limp and lets her shake him in place.
Anger is so much better than pain. He would so much rather she be angry than sad.
He watches a shadow move through the emerald of her eyes.
“And this?”
She jerks him off-balance, he should have remembered her strength despite her size, and he stumbles into her, his wide eyes meeting her furious ones, and she growls.
“This is for me.”
Give me, “Is he still… the loving man who called me his heart?”
Did his eyes roll back in his head at the painful ecstasy of her lips over his?
He doesn’t know. And he doesn’t remember who moves first, but she is in his arms, her scent surrounding him, intoxicating him, the most powerful drug he has ever experienced, and his hands cannot move fast enough.
What’s changed?
They ask of her body.
Her chin, her neck, her shoulders, her back, her hips.
She moans when his teeth catch her lip.
The same?
Her tongue seeks his out.
So much the same, he breathes her, the same the same the same.
He drinks her breaths like a dying man in the wastes.
No.
Her hands paw at his chest.
The same, but, different.
She complains when his lips leave hers but an agreeable moan escapes her lips when his teeth find her ear.
She’s stronger.
His tongue laves at the pulse point at her neck.
She’s stronger, despite me.
His teeth pause their perusal of her jaw.
She made herself stronger, in spite of me.
Their noses touch, and The Dread Wolf rests his forehead to hers.
His voice is softer than a whisper.
“Ir abelas.”
“Don’t.”
His eyes blink open to drink in her fury.
“Ma vhen’an.”
“Don’t!”
She pushes him into the side of the lighthouse.
When did we move to here?
“Don’t you fucking dare.”
She shoves at him again.
Vhen’an.
“Fucking, stop this, Solas.”
She grabs his face in her hands and brings it down to hers.
He’s stunned by the emotion in her eyes. Overwhelmed by it.
“Solas.”
Give me, “Is she still… the woman who changed everything?”
“Solas.”
Your voice is a prayer, whispering echoes of millennia ago when others used to call for my patronage in the night.
And I have to close my eyes to brace against the tsunami of your pain.
“Stop doing this, Solas, please, dian josal.”
My hands hang limp at my sides.
“Dian josal o’em, Solas.”
“Ma vhen’an.”
“Stop calling me that when you don’t mean it.”
“I do mean it, I-”
Your voice is molten steel as you pull back to look me in the eyes.
“Love without trust is a river with no water.”
I blink.
“It is a sky with no sun.”
Your fingers feather my jaw.
“A fade with no spirit.”
I have forgotten how adept you are at disarming me. You would think an Ancient God would have more defenses, but I am speechless.
“I-”
You hastily press into me, cupping my face in your hands.
“Give me one true thing, Solas.”
How can I deny your prayers, when my purpose feels to be worshiping your will.
“I…”
Your eyes are filled with such hope it blinds me.
“I don’t know.”
You frown at first, but then understanding shadows your face.
“I don’t know.”
Something hot and wet rolls down my cheek, and your eyes widen.
“Ma vhen’an, I don’t know.”
Something violent and twisting clenches in my chest, and you gather me in your arms, cradling my head against your neck, my tears, hot and sticky, run down your jacket.
I have failed.
My purpose is corrupted.
How can Wisdom not know.
Give me solavellan meeting each other the first time again after 10 years and realize that, yes, you are still my vhenan.
*Alexa, play “Try,” by Pink.
I sigh into your heaving chest, your arms are bound around me like the giant snakes that lurk in Saheron, but I can only smile.
Finally, something real.
“Solas, ma vhen’an’ara.”
You shudder violently and fall to your knees.
“Solas, Solas, Solas.”
I follow you, cradling you against my chest, rocking you with the breeze.
“I do not know how to bow to you, ma vhen’an, but I will-”
I chuckle and force your face to mine.
“Bow? Solas,”
Your tears are salt on my lips.
“I do not crave your devotion. Only your love. And your trust.”
I feather my lips over your sweaty temple.
Your eyes are full of confusion.
“I do not know how, ma vhenan.”
I cannot help but smile.
“I do not expect you to, vhen’an.”
Your eyes clear.
“I do not know either.”
Your fingers are like iron bands around my wrists.
“What I’m asking is for you to try. Try with me.”
“Try with you.”
Solas should have meant heartbreak. There is no pride here, only confusion and pain.
“Try with me.”
My thumbs brush your cheeks.
“Not for me, or because of me, but with me.”
“Try with you.”
“I don’t want to be your better, or your underling. I want to be your partner.”
“Partner.”
“And make mistakes with me, vhen’an.”
“Mistakes.”
“And love me.”
“Vhen’an.”
“Try with me, Solas.”
“Try.”
“Ma'las 'a'melin ne ha'lam, Solas.”
(I hope you find a new name, Solas) – what he said to Abelas
Your eyes search mine.
“You see too much.”
“I see as much as I need to see, ma sileal’an.”
“Try with you.”
“Yes, ma vhen’an.”
“I’ll try.”
I smile when you press your lips to mine.
…realize that, yes, you are still my vhenan.
***
#The Rook crew doesn’t understand why Lavellan is calling the Dread Wolf ‘My Silly Ellen’ but they’re not raging at each other anymore so they shut up about it
****