Posts Tagged 'solavellan'


I adore Patrick Weekes so much. 

DAI ficlet: In another world


On the theme of “pining,” if not quite fluff, @theherocomplex​ asked for “Solas pining for Branwen at the Winter Palace.”


It is as he told the Inquisitor: the ball smells of power, intrigue, danger, and sex. Besides that, there are some quite superb canapes and petits-four, and Solas is not above indulging. There is no harm in it, and it suits the part he is playing.

He watches Lavellan moving through the crowd. She is easy to spot, with her golden hair and scarlet coat, even as her slim form is obscured among the stiff skirts and taller forms of the Orlesian nobility. They play at power, in their masks and finery, though they have only the faintest grasp on where true power lies. They overlook Solas, for instance, even though he too wears Inquisition red tonight. The humans’ eyes skate past him as if he is not quite there. Only the servants take note of his presence, offering him food and drink like any other guest, though he can see in their eyes that they do not quite believe in him, or in her, Inquisitor, Herald of Andraste.

(One or two of them hide sparks of anger in their eyes, but are subtle enough to mask it. Them, Solas will approach later.)

Since no one meets his eyes, it becomes easy to drift through the crowd himself. Keeping an eye on her, he tells himself, in case he is needed.
In truth, she will not need him, not like that. He watches her move, straight and confident. He watches her dance, leading the much taller Grand Duchess across the dance floor with strength and verve, as if she had practiced for it her whole life.

She is perfect. Hair still in Dalish braids, Mythal’s brand on her face, and she could not be more magnificent, witty and graceful and clever and earnest; a true heart, powerful and purposeful.

As he watches her amid the scents of sweat and perfume and intrigue, he lets his mind drift. Almost, he could imagine another court, centuries gone; almost, he could imagine her one of the People of old, and she and he both free to choose as they would. In another world, a simpler world, he might take her hand, stand before her with no obfuscation between them, and they might live somewhere simply, or travel, seeing what wonders the world had to offer.

This world, unfortunately, is broken, tainted and clouded. He has thought, more than once, of confessing himself, laying out for her the whole truth. But if he did so, it would only be sensible for her to hate him. It is a weakness, but he cannot yet face the prospect of her hatred. She matters, bright and sharp as a blade, the best thing he has yet seen in this sundered world.

Across the room, she turns and catches his eye and smiles, her mouth in a clean curve; there is a glint in her eye like a spark of lightning. Next to her, the murmuring nobles of Orlais fades into insignificance.

He smiles in answer, and takes pleasure in how the spark in her eye brightens before she turns and goes.



Chapter 2: Wolfs Bane

AO3 //         <<Previous

But I will hold on hope
And I won’t let you choke
On the noose around your neck
And I’ll find strength in pain
And I will change my ways
I’ll know my name as it’s called again
So come out of your cave walking on your hands
And see the world hanging upside down
You can understand dependence
When you know the maker’s hand
-Mumford & Sons

She shoved herself away from him so hard that it sent her toppling off the side of the bed and onto the floor in a heap of flailing limbs. She sat there for a few moments, completely flabbergasted, covering her mouth with one hand as she glared up at him with equal parts embarrassment and indignation. He blinked back down at her, his expression groggy and disoriented, and perhaps just a trifle wounded.

“You…y-you…with tongue?!” She finally managed to sputter in protest. “Is this some ancient Elvhen greeting I’ve never heard about?”

“You are…upset. Of course you are,” he said thickly, obviously struggling to collect himself as he went about extricating himself from the sheets still draped across his legs. “I apologize. It was presumptuous of me to assume that you-”

He made a move to stand and ended up promptly collapsing heavily to his knees on the floor beside her instead, just barely managing to catch himself with his hands. He muttered something darkly under his breath that sounded like it was probably a curse, his frustration with his condition bleeding through his otherwise prim demeanor. He pushed himself back up into a sitting position with a groan, burying his face in his hands.

“Forgive me,” he rasped out hoarsely, shaking his head slightly as though to clear it. “I fear I am…not at my best at present.”

“What? Are you going to tell me you usually buy a girl flowers before you start kissing her senseless?” She snapped, her cheeks burning. Her general sense of mortification was really chipping away at the shiny prospect of having discovered a living breathing relic who was apparently capable of at least speaking some form of the trade tongue and therefore a potential goldmine in terms of historical relevance. She should have been over the moon, but all she could focus on was his mouth.

His perfectly gorgeous mouth which was so handsomely situated in the bottom third of his perfectly gorgeous face. The one with the full lips that she knew first hand were plush and passionate and apparently willing to shower her with affection. That mouth right there. The one he had kissed her with.

Andraste’s lacey granny panties, this situation was jumping from weird to pathetic at the speed of light.

Keep reading

Gladiolus- you pierce my heart


She doesn’t mean to
love him
, says an old soldier, once part of an organization now disbanded. An empty keep sits in the cradle of the sky, a remnant of a grandeur and power the likes of which Thedas had not seen in centuries.

Cast a spell on her
someone else pipes up, a scullery maid from the Skyhold kitchens who’d once caught the trail of his rare and gentle laughter, low-tones to turn knees weak, and a kiss stolen in passing, to draw a sound from the Herald’s mouth almost too obscene to recount. And who could blame her for falling?

Fen’Harel caught her
, whispers a hahren, who
knows well the greed of the old gods, and the power it holds over mortals.

She let herself be
, scoffs a hunter, young and brash and with a thirst for rebellion stirring in a parched throat.

She means it, says
a quiet murmur, lost beneath the din of speculations. He means it, too. She was real, when nothing else was. But no one
has time for Compassion, in a world that’s yet again on the brink of

And so the rumours flourish. She can contain many things – can keep
the sky itself from falling down and empires from crumbling to pieces, but
she can’t keep idle tongues from wagging. They know her face, and her story. They speak of the elf who’d worked his way into her heart, and destroyed it. They say it’s her own fault, they say it’s his, but disagreements aside, they all call her delusional for thinking she
can fix this – for thinking she can save his heart, when she couldn’t even save her own.

Then there are those who say nothing – wolves in sheep’s clothing, hidden in the shadows wherever she walks. Whether they’re there on his orders or through some independent decision, she doesn’t know, but they catch arrows before they’ve even left their quivers, and stop knives in the dark from reaching her back. Words are
weapons too, and sometimes a rumour will only go so far – stifled with a strangled gasp that
barely has the chance to reach her ears. She is never alone, and if they really are there on his orders, a truly absurd safeguard, she doesn’t know what to make of it. She will burn with the rest, why not just let a
knife take her now?

But the most infuriating thing is the hope it sparks in her
heart, aching, patchwork mess that it is, cradled in the cage of her ribs where
she’s kept it ever since he’d handed it back.

She doesn’t mean to
love him
, they say, her companions. Her friends, who knew her heart before
him, but who wouldn’t recognize it now, if she laid it bare. But there are those who do recognize it, and who won’t
bother with excuses, not for her sake, or the world’s.

Do what you need to do,
Sera says, angry and strong-feeling. Angry for her or angry at him, it doesn’t really matter. It’s the closest to support she’s gotten after she’d made her decision known, and she’ll take it. I’ll give you lizards and snakes. Everything I find that bites.
Itches and hisses. For his bedroll, yeah? Gotta have one still, even if he’s all Big and Bad. 
Tell ‘im that’s from me.

Try, Dorian says, simply, and it might not be enough to mend what’s broken inside her, but it’s a start. If anyone can do this, it’s you.

Try, she thinks, and wants to laugh. She doesn’t have to try and love him. It was the most effortless
thing she’s ever known. Still is. Saving him is a whole other matter, but she doesn’t tell Dorian that. She’ll try, she promises. It’s what she’s doing, every day. Trying, even though it takes everything, and most days she’s so tired she wonders why, what’s the point?

Her fist connects with the stone wall, the shock of pain
shooting up her arm enough to tear a shout from her lips, but she stifles it by clenching her jaw. The pain takes her
mind off the phantom twitching of fingers she no longer has but feels, an ache as potent as the one behind her ribs. There is no distraction strong enough to forget the latter, but she’s long since learned to take what she gets.

The alley smells of piss and degradation, and she sinks
against the wall with a groan, the dirt soft and welcoming to a tired, battered body. Her hand aches where she cradles it in her lap. Everything aches, if she sits still long enough to allow herself to feel it. She doesn’t even know where she is – a nameless village in a nameless region on the edge of nowhere. She can’t outrun his wolves, and he keeps outrunning her.

“You mean it,” Cole says, the quiet voice directly above her. She
doesn’t know how he’s found her, but doesn’t have the strength to question it. She’s never alone, not even from her own, no
matter how hard she tries.

Ellana laughs. Cries, shaking, guttural gasps that sound obnoxiously loud to her ears. People will come looking to inspect the noise. They’ll
recognize her, and new rumours will spread. Yet another story about the former Inquisitor, to keep the tavern talk buzzing. She’s gone mad,
they’ll say now. Mad from a broken heart. Her
fault, his fault, doesn’t matter. Should have known better. Who falls in love with a god?

“Yeah,” she breathes. She’s never pretended otherwise, and she’s not about to start now. “Damn it,” she laughs, tears hot against her dirt-stained cheeks. No vallaslin and only one arm left. He’s taken so many things, but wouldn’t keep what she willingly gave. “Damn it.

Cole is there to help, she knows, but she doesn’t know if it does more harm than good, when he shuffles closer,
leaning his head on her shoulder, hat askew, to say,

“He means it, too. He never stopped.”

Forget-Me-Nots – Little_Lotte – Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition [Archive of Our Own]

Chapters: 1/?
Fandom: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Relationships: Female Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan/Solas, Lavellan & Solas
Characters: Solas, Lavellan
Additional Tags: Alternate Universe – Modern Setting, Dragon Age: Inquisition Spoilers

Is it fate or chance? Curiosity has been known to open dangerous doors, and sometimes it might be wiser to let sleeping wolves lie.

Forget-Me-Nots – Little_Lotte – Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition [Archive of Our Own]


geeking over elven ruins w/ teh bae

i hate shading ouo


“You are so beautiful


That’s the dialogue option y’all needed.


@jessicapendragon tagged me in another 5 minute flash fiction, so here’s a very quick little Post-Trespasser thing.

The world is too quick to see what the former Inquisitor is
suddenly missing, and quicker still to rush to fill the void.

She is given two arms before she even leaves Halamshiral—beautiful,
gilded things. The first made of gold, the second of marble. She assumes they
were stolen from statues—she is raw, still, and her rage at even being offered
these things flares up.

Misplaced anger, she knows. She wants to blame anyone and
anything but him for the absence of
her limb, the pins holding her left sleeve in place.

By the time she reaches Skyhold, to see about what it really
means to disband the Inquisition, there are fifteen more waiting. Imitations of
what she is missing—they think it’s only
her arm, the cold bastards, when the man she loves walked away with so much

Gold, silver, dawnstone—she loses count of the gifts over
the months, the attempts by those who would have her favour to make themselves
feel better by having no void when they look at her.

It is almost a year later when Dagna makes her offering,
sheepishly, and it is clockwork and iron, with a hand that is not a hand but
will clip to the hilt of her dual blade. It is crude and strange, and it
catches as it turns, always—but this is the first she wears, because it has
gaps where the sunlight shines through, and it does not attempt to make her
whole again.



Sonder: The realization that each passerby has a life as vivid and complex as your own.

@rannadylin: Sorry for the double post. The read more wasn’t working on mobile, and I was wondering if that was because I posted it as a reply rather than a text post. Consider this an experiment. (Edit: Nope, still not working. Sigh.)

It’s been a minute since I’ve tried to write Solas. I hope this is ok! I decided to play with the idea that he sort of dissociates and doesn’t view the world, or the people in it, as actually real. I also wanted to have his mind and heart talking to one another for some mind-boggling reason. >.>;

Oh, also, angst.


He walked the pathways of the waking world alone and in horror.

With each elf he met, the world drew in a little more around him. Too close and claustrophobic, it was suffocating him. Stealing the very air he breathed until he sought refuge from it in dreams.

He walked the pathways of the dreaming world in wonder and with friends.

With an open mind and heart, he found what he was looking for. He found room to breathe amidst the magic and knowledge – history upon history – of the Fade.

Surely, it was the waking world that was false? His dreams tasted more real, more true, than anything – anyone – that came his way while his eyes were open.

This world is wrong. It was never meant to be. These people are but shadows of what they should have been.

I must fix this.

Keep reading

Blogger Gatherings!

Click the button for reports from the 2010 Spring Blogger Gathering, hosted by Linett of Nimrodel!

Berethron of Brandywine hosted the 2010 Summer Blogmoot.

The Winter Blogmoot was held on December 4, 9 p.m. EST at the home of Telwen of Silverlode.

Next up: The Spring Blogmoot of 2011 shall return to Nimrodel with Tuiliel (Whart, aka user-1027520) hosting! Linett is looking forward to another local moot!



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