A/N: Prompted by my friend, thevikingwoman, who asked if I would ever write a fic about Venara and Solas dancing. I realized that I almost never write about them pre-relationship, so I decided to add that spin to this as well.
A Dance for You and Me
The sun had set many hours ago and laughter still rang through Skyhold's halls. Diplomats, craftsmen and soldiers alike were gathered in the castle's great hall, drunk with merriment. The hearths had been lit and candles and lanterns lined the walls, filling the great chamber with a warm golden glow. Bright silk banners criss-crossed the hall, adding a splash of colour. The long tables were laden with food and drink, the wood creaking under the weight of a great feast. At the far end of the hall, space had been cleared for dancing. The Inquisitor's throne had been retired, replaced by Maryden and a band of troubadours playing a collection of lively Fereldan and Orlesian folk music. Every so often, a pair would stumble from the tables to the dance floor, their drinks forgotten while they spun and whirled across the stone with glee. Men and women at the tables would cheer and toast the dancers, calling out requests for new songs, which Maryden accepted with delight.
Venara didn't know how many strings Josephine had pulled to make this happen. Inquisition resources were strained at the best of times; there wasn't much room for feasts. But it was Wintersend. While the holiday wasn't observed by every member of the Inquisition, including Venara herself, it had been a very long time since they had had anything worthwhile to celebrate.
"The winters here are long and dark," Josephine had noted seriously, her fingers smeared with ink as she checked off shipping manifests. "A boost in moral, as Cullen would say, would be good for our hearts and minds." She had paused then, tapping her quill against the rim of her writing board. "Besides, we need something to replace the memory of what happened the last time we had something to celebrate."
With the ghost of Haven's destruction hanging in the air, Venara agreed.
The festivities had gone on all day, transforming the castle from a military base into a magical palace from an Orlesian fairy tale. Well wishes and murmurs of "Happy Wintersend" were passed around, even between strangers. Venara had slipped from friend to friend, companion to companion—receiving a hearty thump on the back from the Iron Bull, stuffing her face with cake with Sera, embracing a strangely teary-eyed Blackwall, sitting down for shared tales with Varric. Scout Harding invited her to meet a handful of farmers from her village who had recently made the pilgrimage to Skyhold. Cassandra brusquely thanked her for her commitment to the cause, giving her an uncharacteristic amount of compliments, then flushed deeply and walked away, wine glass in hand. Dorian opened a new bottle of Tevinter red shipped directly from Minrathous and insisted she have the first glass. Cole sat cross-legged on a table, an endless commentary about the joviality entrenched in the room, with an occasional oblivious dose of who wanted to sleep with whom. Vivienne gave Venara a respectful nod, then murmured, "It's good to see you relax dear, you have far too many circles under your eyes." Cullen had unexpectedly set aside his sword and armour for the day, only to be teased mercilessly by his subordinates who pretended not to recognize him without his armour. Josephine herself whisked around the castle, issuing orders here and there until she was breathless and Varric had to insist she sit down and eat. Only Leliana remained as she was-sticking to the shadows, eyes and ears keen, one hand resting on the hilt of a dagger.
Eventually, Venara extracted herself from the clump of people fighting to sit at the Inquisitor's table. She was warm, her stomach content with food, slightly wobbling on her feet from drink (Dorian's wine was stronger than she expected). But she needed a moment alone, away from the festive chaos, to breathe and cool her head. Too many people cajoled for her attention. Too many people begged for her to dance. She had declined, politely as she could, though she knew she had broken a few hearts tonight.
She was overwhelmed. She had never really considered how many people had entered the Inquisition's fold until tonight. Usually they were spread out across the castle and its grounds: the merchants in the lower courtyard, the craftsmen in the smithy, Leliana's spies in the rookery, Cullen's soldiers training in the upper courtyard or resting in the barracks. Tonight they were all crammed together into the great hall, their cumulative number far greater than even the total number of Clan Lavellan.
Knowing her absence would be marked soon enough, Venara climbed the staircase to the balcony overhanging the great hall's entrance. She squeezed passed Vivienne's collection of magical tomes and the chaise-longue she had imported from Val Royeaux, pushed open the double, stained-glass doors and stepped out into the cool air. A thin layer of fresh snow had fallen, coating the balcony. Venara sighed, enjoying the cool breeze on her face, dusting snow off the balustrade and leaning against it. The sky was cloudless tonight—a deep, deep blue, dotted with shining stars. She could see the mountains outlined against the sky—dark blue against dark blue—and she inhaled deeply, appreciating the refreshing scent of clear mountain air.
The muffled music from the hall carried on faintly behind her.
Venara smiled and tilted her head back, exposing her face to the night air. Perhaps it was the wine, perhaps it was the elation from the evening's festivities, but she found herself swaying in time to the distant music. She closed her eyes and lifted her arms, poised and graceful, extending them outwards as her feet began to move. Her boots dusted circles in the snow as she danced, her body following movements she had not performed for months. The dance was a part of her, part of Clan Lavellan. She could never forget. It was as much a part of her as her vallaslin.
She heard the click of the doors opening, but she did not stop, lost in her reverie.
"Am I interrupting?" Solas asked.
Venara smiled. "Not at all," she said. "I came out here for a little quiet." She danced, eyes still shut. She could feel Solas watching her, intrigued.
"Then I should leave you to your reverie," he replied softly.
She heard him inch open the doors, but she spun around and grabbed his hand. "You don't count," she said, pulling him to her, her eyes finally opening. "Stay with me."
Solas gripped her hands as he fell into her rhythm. "If you wish," he said. He swept her along the balcony, matching her movements precisely.
"You know the alas'nir oreste," Venara remarked, astonished.
"Of course," Solas said. "The dance of the stars. A dance for celebrations, for winter nights—and for lovers."
They spun on the spot. Venara stared up at him, lost in his voice, in the slight emphasis he placed on lovers.
"It has been remarkably well-preserved since the time of Arlathan," he said. "The Dalish remember well."
"Some things are remembered in our bones," Venara murmured.
They spun still, soft snowflakes whirling about them as they revolved in equal control. When danced with a partner, the alas'nir oreste was about balance. There was no leader, no follower. It was a joining, two halves of the same whole.
"You're surprised," Solas said as they danced.
"I don't know why," Venara said. "Nothing you say should surprise me anymore. Perhaps I never took you for a dancer."
"Ah!" Solas chuckled. "If I had known, I would have clarified my passions for you much earlier." He brushed a stray lock of hair away from her face. "I enjoy dancing, though the opportunity for it rarely presents itself. I particularly enjoy it with someone I admire and respect."
Venara's breath caught in her throat. Her cheeks reddened and it was not only from the cold night air. "Then maybe we will have to find an excuse to do this more often."
"I agree."
The music faded. The dance ended. Venara, breathless, grasped Solas' hands as she stared up at him, green eyes lost in grey. Her heart thundered in her chest. She felt drawn to him in a way she hadn't before, she could feel the tension between them, almost electric, like the storm magic she controlled on the battle field. But this wasn't the battle field, this was Skyhold. And she was in the arms of someone she cared for, someone who cared for her in return.
If he kissed her—
If he…
Oh, Creators, what's gotten into me?
"Venara?"
She blinked. Her hands were still in his, held aloft. She pulled away, pressing her hands against her flushed cheeks. "I guess I'm not used to dancing," she said, stumbling over her words.
Solas frowned, but she cut across him before he could ask her more.
"Thank you for the dance," Venara said. "It was…"
How to say it without sounding like a complete buffoon? She had no experience with such things. Nice? Pleasant? Wonderful?
"It was good to have something of my people tonight," Venara finished. She rubbed her bare arms against the chill of the winter night. The warmth from the alcohol and dance was wearing off and goosebumps were forming on her forearms. "But I should go back to the hall. Josephine's put far too much work into this feast for me to scamper off early—"
Solas chuckled. "Indeed. Go. Enjoy the night. You deserve an evening with your friends."
Venara walked to the doors. Her fingers brushed the handle and she glanced back at Solas. "They're your friends, too," she said. "You're welcome here as much as anyone. You don't have to be alone."
Solas nodded, but he turned to look over the balcony, his angular profile starkly illuminated by the light spilling from the windows. "Perhaps another night," he murmured. "Thank you for the dance, Venara."
She nodded and slipped through the doors into the great hall. Below, Sera waved at her, a cake in one hand and a grin spread from ear to ear. Dorian stood some feet away, arms crossed and terribly put out, frosting stuck to his hair. Venara waved at them and headed for the stairs.
Glancing over her shoulder, she could just make out Solas' silhouette beyond the stained-glass.
"Goodnight, ma'falon."
the end