A Dragon Age: Inquisition Fanfiction by Anya W. Vossand
You were right to be angry. I hope, in time, you will understand.
Very slowly, I open my garnet eyes. Waking up is getting more and more difficult these days, and not only because I'm getting older. I was in my thirties when I sealed the breach in the sky, and even then the careless, pain-free days of youth had been long gone. Now, some fifteen years later, they are even farther past, an I'm paying for my part in the war against Corypheus.
I was the Inquisitor, once. Now, I'm simply Ellena Lavellan, a fair-skinned, white haired elven mage. My old life is one I left behind five years ago – I couldn't do it anymore. I'm no empress, and I detested being judge and jury over so many lives. At first it was possible – I was swept away with the power bestowed on me. Someone had to lead, and my mark, my key to the fade and to Corypheus, singled me out as the only option. I suspect that the others were relieved. There are choices I made that I have to live with forever, and I'm haunted by some of them.
Nearly all of them, actually.
I stiffly push myself up to sit on my bedroll and grimace at the knots in my back. Tense dreams again. And, as always, I can't remember what they were. I feel tight, like my blood pressure's up, like I'm... angry, or was, like I was in some sort of frustrating argument. When I stretch my jaw, the muscle are like bowstrings. Grinding my teeth again. I'll wear them all down before I figure out what's wrong.
Still, as the minutes pass, I begin to relax. I breathe and hug my knees, my slender, pale body still lean, though perhaps not as muscular as it used to be. I'm no longer out adventuring and vanquishing foes these days. Now I simply wander, living in the wilds, as I suppose Morrigan has always done. It's not a bad life. For the most part it's quiet and boring, sprinkled with periods of intense danger and excitement. Given my increasing age (though I suppose my late forties isn't terribly geriatric), I probably shouldn't long for such heroics like I do. One day they'll get the best of me.
When I move to stand up, I'm reminded that perhaps they already have.
A sharp pain in my left ankle nearly makes me stumble, but I grope for my staff and use it to get to my feet stubbornly. Unlike days past, the staff I keep now is a plain wooden thing, meant to look like a piece of flotsam I found in the woods. Obviously it's not, but the design is understated, and easily hidden when it comes to it. My slender, cream-colored hand grips at the grayed wood, my fingertips somewhat pink with the chill, and I walk myself down to the stream nearby.
I'm so far out in the middle of nowhere that I don't bother to dress. And what would I dress in to avoid being noticed? My skin is fair, as I've already stated, but my hair is snow white and hangs in long, wavy locks down past my shoulders to my lower back. I've not bothered to cut it since leaving Skyhold – there's no point. I'm wilder now, feral and angry and sore, and I don't care much for social conventions any longer.
The second my aching left foot is slipped into the icy water, I sigh with profound relief. It's been hot and swollen for a week or two now. I can handle pain, and I've just continued to travel despite the discomfort, hoping to let it run its course. This time, though, I'm not sure it will, and that frustrates me. I don't want to ask for help, but my concoctions with elfroot are doing very little. And with autumn soon to turn into winter, it will be dangerous to remain out here alone and lamed.
I sit and fume, hugging my one bent knee, resting my cheek on my crossed arms. The sounds of the waking woodland are peaceful, and I try to focus on those. Birds flit and sing. Little chipmunks and squirrels rustle in the leaves and chase each other. I even watch a deer approach the stream several yards upwind of me. By chance, it looks my way, tenses when it sees me regarding it, and pulls away on its impossibly fine, elegant legs, leaping back into the undergrowth. I'm disappointed – I've always liked deer.
The hairs on the back of my neck prickle, and I frown, turning my head to look downstream like the deer had. It takes a moment for me to realize what I'm seeing, because the beast's fur blends in with the shadows by a fallen trunk. There's no way it's missed me – I'm downwind, I'm brilliantly pale against the darker undergrowth, and my foot has been in the stream long enough that, had the beast sipped from it, my flavor would be on it. I hold my breath and wait, and slowly the wolf opens its pale eyes to look right at me.
I swallow, the sounds of my breathing painfully loud on the chilly, quiet morning air. For quite a long time I regard the wolf and it regards me, just watching me without any sign of agitation. There's a moment when I feel like the beast is gazing upon me in the same way I gazed upon the deer – in admiration. Is my pain making me that delusional, or am I the Inquisitor so thoroughly that I feel all of nature must worship me as well?
Very slowly and steadily I move my hand to my side, touching at my staff, which I'd lain down beside me. I'd only have a moment to cast a spell – a shield first, then perhaps fire to daze it. Of course, that would require running, and only now do I realize that I can't possibly do that anymore. To think that I'd chased gods up floating castles in the sky and slain dragons, and now I can do little more than limp from danger as I flee. The very thought makes me grit my teeth, and I grip my staff and take it up, using it to get to my feet.
"Ar'din nuvenin na'din, Fen Harel'len..." I growl in its direction. Speaking in my native tongue feels blasphemous, after I let him remove my Vallaslin in a moment of weakness. It's ears prick, and it tilts its head curiously, but as I turn and slowly make my way back to my camp it doesn't move. I look back over my shoulder, glaring at it, but it remains where it is, only watching me. I would be so easy to take down – an elf with an injured foot, her body covered in scars. Would I even make a morsel for that thing? Such morbid thinking.
I wasn't able to chill my foot for very long, so by the time I get dressed and pull on my boots, it's still aching as I strap the leather around it tightly. Once I'm done I need a moment to breathe and close my eyes, letting the pain subside. How much longer can I go on like this without help? Who would I ask? When I left, it had been without warning, though I imagine many of them suspected I'd leave one day. It was a cowardly thing to do, but to suddenly send a raven, begging for help? How pathetic.
"Your pride will be the death of you."
I stiffen and open my eyes, only to see the large wolf sitting some ten feet from me at the edge of my camp. The cold, charred wood of my fire is the only thing between us. How had I not heard it approach? And... had it just spoken? My heart is racing, but I wait. Despite the fact that the barrier to the fade has been strong for the last few years, spirits still flit about here and there. It might not be beyond some of them to use animals as puppets.
After a moment, swallowing down a tense throat, I say "I doubt stubbornness will fell me when monsters haven't."
The wolf just huffs, its eyes narrowing with, I think, amusement. It's bizarre to watch its mouth move as it inquires "do you really doubt it? Who will tear down the fabled Inquisitor, if not herself?"
Its snottiness makes me angrier than it should, and then I sniff derisively. "I don't know why I bother talking to you. You're just a spirit, trying to make yourself seem important in some mangy body."
"Mangy?" the wolf almost sounds hurt, and it looks down at itself before lifting its head to regard me again. "Aren't we all spirits, in some way?"
"This conversation is over." I simply do not have the patience for this right now, and if this thing hasn't tried to kill me yet, it probably doesn't intend to. "Be on your way, spirit." While I do my best to ignore it while I slowly and uncomfortably strike camp, the wolf remains sitting where it is. Only when I drop a bowl and it rolls over to its paw, and the beast nudges it back before I pick it up, does the wolf wag its tail, glad to have helped.
Without fail, when I haul the pack on over my cloak, take up my staff, and start walking, the wolf starts following me. It must be an odd sight, a lone elven woman, dressed like the Dalish but without the facial markings, marching angrily along with a large wolf in tow. For miles I furiously ignore him, and it feels like my ankle is angry and sore to match my mood.
It's only when I'm walking along a ridge towards nightfall that I nearly come to harm. The trail has been uneven, and every step hurts on the left. When I put my boot down on some loose rock, I stumble. I try to catch my balance with my left foot, but my ankle buckles, my staff slips from my hand as I twist. Below me yawns a deep valley, the bottom some hundred feet down a nearly sheer cliff face of rock. The void yawns below me, my staff falling away into the gloom. I begin to fall after it for a split second until I suddenly stop, gripped by the pack, and get hauled back onto the ridge path to safety.
I'm dragged back and left go, and I remain on my side, trembling with shock. The wolf looms over me, sniffing at me like a concerned pet. I shiver and look into its reflective eyes, confused and hurting, and it almost sounds contrite as it rumbles "My selfishness almost destroyed you once... don't let it happen again." I must be delirious with exhaustion and pain, because the wolf's voice sounds familiar. It lilts just a little. It's the voice I've been hearing in my dreams. The dreams I'm never allowed to remember. "Ma vhenan, please..."
But its words are cut off when I strike it hard in the muzzle with the flat of my hand. The slap is a sharp crack, enough to make it cant its head just a touch, close its eyes, and freeze. When it opens its eyes timidly at me again I'm breathing hard, my own eyes wet and disbelieving. I don't know how I know, but I do. How could it not be him? After everything I've seen, it's not so improbable. And the way it speaks to me, and looks at me... my heart pounds in my throat and ears, and I strike it in the muzzle again, harder this time. And again, it takes the blow, its ears folding back meekly.
Tears trickle down across my temples as I look up at the large wolf, and my expression is caught between heartbreak and rage. I'm trapped, and all I can do is sob angrily, my jaw painfully clenched. Even if I wanted to speak I can't – my throat is too tight. When the creature realizes I'm not going to strike it again, it moves away, gripping my pack in its jaws before dragging me slowly up the trail. I'm too tired to resist, and though it hurts to feel my left foot bang and bump against the ground, I know I don't have the strength to walk anymore.
I'm numb emotionally, my eyes glassy. It's like I'm hollow, filled with nighttime and nothingness, and I lose track of time until my cheek and nose are tickled by blades of grass. I blink and grunt, looking around as I'm gently set down on the verdant, cool blades. A beech tree looms over me, providing shade from the moonlight, as if that will give me some sort of privacy. My fingers tingle as I bring them to my face, hissing for a moment at how wet with tears it is. How embarrassing.
The wolf gives me some space, settling down to watch me some ten feet away again. Not knowing what else to do, I push myself up to sit and take off my pack. The first thing I look for is my little leather pouch of herbs, but it's empty. I used up my last portion of elfroot days ago. Right. I grit my teeth and unstrap my boots, letting my sore feet and aching ankle cool in the evening air.
"So you're... a wolf now?" I ask at last, not quite knowing what else to say.
The beast shifts slightly. I think I caught it off guard by talking to it. "I have always been, I just didn't seem it... for a time." It licks its lips nervously, offering "would it make it easier... to take that other shape?"
I glare at him, and he folds his ears back, looking down at his paws. My eyes turn to the view of the valley, beautiful and vast, and I try to calm down. A gentle breeze tugs at my long, white locks, the tips of my ears just showing past, and I'm nearly at a place where I can just see serenity on the horizon, when I hear "you're still so beautiful, Ellena."
It's like a knife in my heart, and my chest tightens, my eyes stinging with tears. "You left me behind..." I croak, my voice feeling like wet, twisted wood. "You... you clearly had something better to go to. Someone better." My angry, wet eyes turn to him, and I hiss "so why didn't you stay there?" My lips quiver but I toughen up, snarling "am I to be a diversion for you again?"
"You were never a diversion," he says softly. "You were unexpected."
"That doesn't make it better." I turn my eyes back stubbornly to the valley, wiping away my tears with my fingertips. My despair offends me. I thought I'd cried my last for him. I guess I hadn't.
When I hear rustling from where he lays, I just close my eyes. A heat rises in my cheeks, and my chin quivers again as I hear him slowly walk over on two legs, not four. He crouches slowly, the leathers of his leggings creaking at the hips and knees, but I refuse to look, shivering. "I can take away your pain for a while," he offers softly, and I feel his slender, elegant hand slide down my left knee towards my ankle. The thin material of my leggings translates the feel of his palm and its warmth, such familiar things, even remembered from so long ago. My heart hammers in my chest, but I say nothing, still not looking at him, but neither do I pull away.
I can feel the crackle of energy and magic, and my ankle tingles, but the pain slowly ebbs. It's the first time in what must be weeks that my ankle hasn't hurt. Has it really been aching all this time? Slowly I sigh with relief, and I vaguely notice the sound of footsteps moving away. There's a rustling where he was before, and when I look at him again, at long last, he's a wolf again, still regarding me with trepidation.
Tentatively I get to my feet. The soles are still sore from so many miles put beneath them today, but my ankle doesn't hurt. It is, however, still stiff, and I almost stumble again. Immediately the wolf is standing right next to me, letting me place my hands on his shaggy, dark brown back and lean on him. "I have taken away your pain, but the injury remains. You need to rest," he insists.
"I'm not going back to Skyhold," I counter stubbornly, frowning down at my pale fingers, and how they disappear into his thick pelt as I grip it. It's an odd sight – the man I knew had no hair at all.
He grunts, flicking an ear. "You don't have to. You needn't go back to that." The way he says it makes my eyes close, as if he understands how much I grew to detest it, to consider it a burden. "I can carry you. I know of a place you can stay."
For a few moments I hesitate, but in the end, what else can I do? When the pain comes back it will be worse than ever, and I'll be defenseless. I tie my boots to my pack, then scoop it up and pull it on. From there I carefully climb onto his back, sitting astride him like I would a horse. He's nearly as big as a pony as it is. It feels odd – his body is nothing like a horse, or a stag, or a dracolisk – but it isn't uncomfortable. He waits for me to get comfortable and find a grip on his shaggy neck ruff, and then he begins to walk.
And he walks, and he walks.
The wolf is tireless, his silent steps carrying us miles through the night. There are times when I doze, my eyes closing only to open to a completely different vista, miles ahead. At long last we come to a cabin, nestled into the hillside. Vines grow over it and trees loom over it possesively, and given the general faded, worn look, it doesn't seem like anyone's lived here in quite some time.
I carefully climb down, keeping a hand on his back as he walks us to the front door. The lock clicks when he looks at it, and I realize that this must be one of his safe houses. I would imagine a person like him needs quite a few of them, scattered across Thedas. To my surprise, the inside is clean and neat. A shelf of books stretches across the wall at eye height, and beneath it is a work table. Across from the front window is a hearth, dark at the moment. A bed is nestled into the corner across from the bookshelf, the linens neatly tucked in over the mattress.
He walks me over to the bed, where I carefully take a seat. The pain is starting to come back and I wince, gritting my teeth as I try to keep the weight off my left leg. He looks closely at my ankle, concentrating, and then he pads over to a chest at the foot of the bed. With a nudge of his nose he has it open, and he pokes around until he carefully plucks out a roll of bandages. This he carries to the bed, daintily clutching the roll with his teeth, and deposits it between my knees. There he focuses on it, his light eyes glowing with a blueish light for a moment. When his eyes return to normal, the bandaging steams in the air, and when I touch the white rolled up strip of cloth, it's cold to the touch.
"Wrap your ankle with that. I will go out and collect the ingredients for your medicine." I don't have time to comment on it before he turns around, nudges the door open with his head, and slips outside. Gone again.
While he's gone, I look around the cabin. At first, when I wrap the chilled bandage around my ankle, the pain and stiffness both recede just a little. It's a relief all over again, given that his spell has been wearing off, and I slip out of the bed to look around. I've been on my own for many years, so to see something so normal and familiar is heartening. Given his previously admitted penchant for wandering, maybe he feels the same way.
Maybe out of some sense of spitefulness, I take a few books from his bookshelf back with me to the bed. A gentle wave of my hand sparks a light in the wood stacked in the hearth, and the interior finally has enough light to read by, despite the drapes covering the window. The tomes I've chosen aren't the easiest of reading – biological forays and essays on demons, accounts of mages and their dreams, things of that nature.
Really, I'd expect no other kind of book to be in here.
I feel like I only just lay back down to start reading when I startle awake again. The door creaks as it opens, and he walks in, the large wolf still, with jaws full of elfroot and various other things. He pads over to a small work table beneath the shelf, then looks up to see some of them askew, tilting into the gaps. His ears fold back, and he looks over at me and the small pile I'd strewn about the bed. The messiness makes him grumble just a little, his eyes narrowing in the fussy way they used to.
When he's done scolding me with a look, he deposits his findings on the table. Some of the stems have teeth marks, but I suppose that couldn't be helped. To my surprise, he says "if I knew I'd be entertaining you here, I would have procured some of Varric's more lurid tales."
That almost makes me smile a little. "If you knew you'd be entertaining me here, now, I'd be somewhat concerned." I hold up a cautionary finger. "Augury and time magic are nothing to fool around with."
"In this modern age, I suppose that's true" he quips, his tail wagging just a touch, amused by his own demure arrogance.
Perhaps it's inevitable, but still I remain frozen in place when I witness him change back into the man I knew. The wolf's form dissolves, and in its place stands a man dressed in leathers and woolen cloth. His sharp, pointed ears stand out distinctly against his bald head, and his tall, elegant frame remains with its back to me. For just a second I know he's tempted to turn and look, and his head does turn just a touch before it stops, and moves back to where it was.
For perhaps twenty minutes he stands at his table and works on the plants he'd collected, his shoulders moving just a touch, the shoulder blades sliding smoothly beneath skin and cloth. His head dips just a little, focusing on his efforts. For that entire time I sit there and watch him past the curtain of my long, tangled white hair. Has he aged? Has time been kind to him? From what I can see, it's been kind to his body – there's no obvious frailty, no deformity.
My heart beats anxiously in my chest. I don't want him to turn around, but then again I do. And I hate it that I do. I detest that he left such a scar on my heart, that of all the monsters I've ever faced, his gentle unwillingness is what hurt me the most. Eventually I lower my eyes, listening instead to the easy, practiced click of his paring knife on the cutting board, then of the pestle grinding the pieces in the bowl as he mashes them. A few glass vials are lined up, clinking lightly, and he scrapes the mashings into a small pot to let them simmer and reduce.
All of this is so mundane, so normal. But it's not. This is the kind of thing that I dream about sometimes, and wake up in mourning because of. These are the worst dreams, because I want to stay in them, never to wake. I'm so absorbed in this thought that when he takes a gentle seat on the bed by my feet, it takes me by surprise. My eyes remain downcast, my hair still hiding my face from him somewhat. It's childish, not looking, but I feel like if I do... if I see his face even once more... he'll disappear like smoke.
The tension and the silence make me grind my teeth, though when his fingers push up my legging and examine the magically chilled bandage on my ankle, the skin to skin contact makes me blush, even to the tips of my ears.
"The swelling has reduced. That's very good," he mutters crisply to himself. I don't move as he unwraps the bandage and examines my ankle closely, gently moving the joint beneath his fingertips. "There is... scraping. It's rough... The cartilage here is wearing away." His tone is sad. Apologetic. "Do you have pains in your hands?"
"Just the one." Out of habit I flex the fingers on the hand that bears the anchor. "Some days are worse than others."
"May I?"
I swallow, but nod, lifting my left hand and offering it to him. He takes it in his own, his fingers tracing over the subtle lines in the skin that, when rifts are close, peel open like the lips of many wounds and blaze with green light. One by one he tests my fingers, moving them, seeing if they flex smoothly or not. "There is some wear – closing so many rifts, the physical resistance was born by your bones and tendons and cartilage, time after time. That is not surprising. Your other hand, please." Even now I'm still not looking at him, but I offer my right hand in place of the left, and again his touch moves along my fingers, each one. "There is no pain in this hand, you said?" he inquires, and to that I shake my head. "I sense no disease that would swell your joints. If it is a comfort, your aches are only from overuse. If you take care of yourself, it will not get worse."
That makes me frown. "But will it get better?" His silence is irritating, and at long last I lift my eyes to meet his, quickly spitting out "I will not retire into my dotage like some ruined crone" before the weight of his gaze makes me shiver and fall silent.
My eyes take in all of him – his features, his expression, the color of his eyes – and he hasn't changed at all. His brow is lowered just a touch, his eyes gazing out from beneath them, half shadowed, and his lips are set in such a way that it's a secret laugh, a private amusement at a joke he's not about to share with anyone else. A soft chuckle slips from his throat, and I only just realize that he's still holding my hand. "I know."
My throat is tense as I swallow, and my continuous blush makes me feel self conscious. "For that smirk I should strike your face again. And I would, if it weren't now so fine." That takes him by surprise – why did I say that?
"Did it make you feel better, to strike me?" he inquires.
Again my eyes fall closed, and I lower my head. Very slowly I shake it. "I was so angry, but... I just... couldn't believe you were real. And I could think of no other way to touch you."
His head tilts just a touch, and I only realize now how canine a gesture that's always been. "And here I am, thinking that I deserved a far worse punishment."
I sniff, peeking out at him from my hair. "Those who raise Mabari hounds, sometimes they castrate an animal if it proves intractable."
He blinks, then clears his throat gingerly. "Yes, well, that would indeed be far worse."
Seeing his unease confuses me. "What would you need with them? All that we were seemed only like a game to you, like it didn't matter to your hea..."
But I'm not allowed to finish. Strong, elegant hands let go of my fingers to instead cradle the back of my head. His lips press hotly against mine, and it's like no time has passed at all. Jolts of desire thrill along my nerves, my heart races, and my skin warms. We had never been intimate – our courtship had never progressed beyond kisses, passionate though they may have been. Even so, every kiss had felt just on the verge of becoming more, as if it had every right to, should have done, but never had.
Suddenly I shudder, and my hands press to his chest to push him back. He's reluctant and confused, a slight blush tinting his angular cheeks. The elf lifts his eyes to meet mine, and I swallow, straightening my spine. "You're not allowed to play with me anymore, Solas. Not if you intend to leave me again."
The air between us thrums with tension. The ever-stoic elf... I know he is impulsive, despite him trying to hide it. I've always known. And he's fighting it now. "There are things I cannot tell you..." he whispers, looking at me desperately, wanting to tell me. "Things that would make you despise me."
"I have despised you for a long time, already. I would consider it a courtesy to have a better reason than heartbreak."
He sighs, looking down at his hands. "You witnessed the reality of Mythal, did you not?" I nod, and he continues. "The old gods, the ones the Dalish revere, have grown in the telling. Long, long ago they were something else. We were."
A wolf. The wolf. "Fen'Harel..." I breathe, feeling the blood drain from my face. He grows dismayed as I panic and push myself back along the bed, until my shoulders and the back of my skull push against the wooden wall. Solas moves after me and I shake with fear, trying to push him away. "No! You're the Dread Wolf! Solas!"
He looks pained, but even as he looms over me, he takes a hold of my wrists and presses them to the bed by my hips, looking me in the eyes. I'm panting hard, my anxiety unbearable. All elven children, Dalish or otherwise, are warned that if they don't obey, the Dread Wolf shall come for them. He is dark and mysterious, evil, a liar, the one who locked the good gods away. "Ellena, please listen!" he begs. But I can't calm down. I'm beside myself.
And so Solas kisses me again, so firmly that the back of my head can't move away from the wall. Slowly, heartbeat by heartbeat, my panic subsides, until his lips part from mine by only a hair. "I would never hurt you like that. I have sworn to protect you, because you are owed the protection of Fen'Harel. For what you did, when no other could, or would, we owe you. Even the gods owe you."
"I don't need your protection," I breathe against his lips, feeling lightheaded.
The tension in his body eases, and he smiles softly. "Not from the world, no. But your stubbornness? That is another matter."
"I'm not stubborn," I insist childishly, but even I know it's a foolish thing to say. Of course I am. The Inquisition wouldn't have survived the calamity at Haven if I hadn't stubbornly decided to live. I take in a deep breath and close my eyes, forcing the tension to slowly flow out of my frame.
"You know, it was so difficult to maintain this facade while with the Inquisition's forces. To be quiet and reserved, to stay in one place." Solas's head dips, and I gasp as he presses his lips to the side of my neck. "But what was most difficult of all was being unable to truly give in to how I felt." His teeth gently graze along my skin, and my eyes roll closed.
When I swallow, it shifts the skin beneath his lips, making me shiver. Heartbeats pass as he keeps kissing along my throat and ear, until I, at last, softly ask "how would you have given in?"
It's an invitation, and he knows it. He shifts, his knees nudging in between my legs, parting them as he slides in closer. My wrists are freed so he can press one hand to the wall by my head. I feel like I'm being closed in, and it's both frightening and thrilling. The look of that huge predator, the huge wolf, is still in his eyes. He still is that beast at heart. My lips tremble just a little before he presses his own to them again, and this time the kiss is different. There is no leash on it, but it's not inartful either. The passion he'd had to temper is there in full bloom, and as my body arches up against his, Solas' free arm wraps around my lower back, keeping me there against him.
He had been careful in the past. We had kissed, but only that. Now? Now I can feel his entire body fall in line with his ardor, and the hot stiffness within his leggings presses between our hips, as obvious as the sun in the morning sky. We'd never done anything like this before, and beyond all rational thought, all I want is to tug down both our leggings and just finally let it happen, before he can reconsider.
Unfortunately, practical matters have a way of interrupting at the worst times.
The simmering pot by the work bench begins to bubble and boil over, the splatters of green gel hissing as they drip into the flame. Solas hisses in frustration, then turns to look, and by the gods I feel the impulse to surge forward and suckle on his beautiful neck, just below his ear. And I almost do, until I accidentally push on my left foot to prop myself up. I feel a sharp stab of pain that makes me flinch. I'd forgotten all about my injury.
With a sigh, Solas murmurs "I must attend to this," before getting up from the bed and walking over to the table. His stride is tense, as if walking away is the last thing he wants to do. And I'm left on the bed, half propped up against the wall, legs spread, wondering how I'd willingly moved this way only mere minutes after still being so angry with him. Have I fallen under a spell? I don't feel any residual magic clinging to me, but perhaps I wouldn't, if the caster were clever.
And there's no one more clever than the Dread Wolf, or so the legends say.
While he's over there, tending to the task of potion making, I straighten my clothing, which has mysteriously become somewhat disheveled in the last few minutes. I'm not sure why I feel self-conscious. Obviously he's seen me naked – that was him by the stream, watching me just the other day. It feels like ages ago, now. Still, my shyness forces me to make myself more presentable, so while he works, I ease myself to sit at the edge of the bed, my legs bent over the edge at the knee, and finger comb my hair.
Tangle are inevitable with locks this long, so I ease them out before braiding my white tresses into one long plait. With my hair neatened, I look down at the rest of my clothing – it's dusty from being dragged along the road, and weather worn at that. As the Inquisitor I wore such finery – Vivienne wouldn't have allowed for anything less. Back then I'd felt so uncomfortable in those silks, leathers, and wools – I'm Dalish, a traveler. I was raised to dress practically and modestly.
But now? Now I miss the finery, because I remember how Solas used to look at me, especially during the Empress's ball. We'd danced on the balcony, that little respite in the middle of violent and plotting madness. He'd professed his love of the court, of intrigue and beauty and licentious scandals. And look at me now – travel worn, older, dressed in clothing that's not technically rags only because they aren't shredded enough yet.
And why do I care, suddenly? But... is it sudden? Or had I acquiesced to Vivienne's fussiness because, deep down, I wanted Solas to keep looking at me like that? How many decisions did I make to garner his attention and keep it? How long, really, have I been courting him? Have I ever stopped? In the end, I left the Inquisition without a word, just like he did, to wander alone.
My eyes widen, and I turn towards him. How long has he been courting me? Why was he even there, after the cataclysm? Or, rather, why did he stay? If he is who he says he is, then I can only imagine that he was responsible in some way. Fen'Harel and chaos go hand in hand. Is that why he believes I'll hate him if I learn the truth? "You... gave Corypheus the orb," I say at last, in sudden realization.
Solas wilts just a little, and the sounds of his work immediately cease. After a few seconds of wretched silence, he mutters "yes."
All I can do is nod, looking down at my knees, breathing out. He turns towards me, his expression tense, upset, and confused. "Don't you want to know why?"
I look over at him, breathing in slowly. "No, Solas. You would not have helped to put it right if you meant to do evil. Right?" He swallows and nods, and I breathe out, relieved.
He's not, however. For a moment he turns back to the table, finishing up with his preparations, and then he carries over a small glass vial of light green liquid, handing it to me. "But you suffered. You, of all people... of all the people in the world..."
I accept the vial and unstopper it, smelling the familiar aroma of the healing concoction. When I drink it, I can tell that the batch he's made is a little more powerful, and I immediately start to feel better. The throb in my ankle dies down, and I set the vial on the side table beside the bed, where I'd stacked most of the books I'd taken down to read. "I did suffer. My clan is gone... but that part isn't your fault. Nor are the evils of others – the weakness of the Wardens, the avarice of Tevinter, or the conflict between the mages and templars; none of them are your fault."
Solas stands in front of me, looming over me almost aggressively, as he demands "but you should be furious with me!"
My eyes turn towards a corner of the cabin where a few staves stand at the ready, to be fashioned into the more magical variety. I hold out my hand and summon one, then use it to help myself stand up, my chest almost touching his as I look up into his face. "I was. I slapped you, remember?"
Solas grits his teeth and looks down, flushing a touch, clearly dissatisfied.
That won't do. I frown and crack the butt of the staff onto the floor, gathering his surprised attention in an instant. "And I hated you, because you broke my heart. Because you kept secrets from me. Because you... forced me to be the Inquisitor. At first I did it to do what was right, but I kept doing it because I loved you. Because you guided me to Skyhold, to that throne, to sit in judgment. And then you left me there, when you got your orb back. I felt used, like I was a tool. So..." I narrow my eyes. "Was I a tool?"
He looks terribly uncomfortable, but he doesn't move away. He's battling with himself, I can see it, and in the end he breathes "yes... you were."
I nod, a little disappointed, but I'd suspected as much. "Thank you for telling me the truth."
Distraught, he clasps my shoulders, his expression desperate as he urges "but that wasn't all you were! Not to me! I used you, shamefully, but I loved you, too. I still love you."
"Why didn't you stay with me, Solas?" I beg in a whisper.
His hands cup my cheeks, his thumbs just caressing along the top edges of my ears. "I had to make amends for my mistakes. You were not the only one I'd lied to. But... I didn't have to disappear to do that. I was ashamed, Ellena. I have never truly felt shame before – in ages past I've done what I felt was right. But this time... this time I know that what I did was wrong. I wronged the world, and worse, I wronged you. I didn't know how to make it better, so I felt that preventing myself from doing more damage was best... but that is no justification."
We stand in silence for a little while, and the sounds of the late afternoon trickle in through the windows. To my surprise I smile just a little, my fingers squeezing the staff before relaxing. "I thought Fen-Harel was always fearsome and full of tricks."
"Fen'Harel has never been in love before..." Solas murmurs guiltily, looking into my eyes sincerely. My eyes sting a little, and I swallow, looking down, listening as he continues "you have changed me, Ellena. Perhaps not for the better, but I am changed forever. I realize now that there's no undoing it, even if I wished to, and I must take responsibility."
Please don't let this be a lie. Please don't let this be a trick.
Gently, he guides me to look back up at him. "I am old, Ellena. Very old. But if you will have this old wolf, I will stay with you and serve you faithfully for the rest of your days."
My throat is tight, and I have to swallow before asking "and you won't run away again?"
Solas smiles. "No, I won't run away. There are some places I must go where you cannot physically follow, but I will never linger there, and I will always come back to you."
The Fade. He'd always talked about it, but I'd always thought he'd gone there in dreams. The one time I'd been there physically was enough; I'd rather not follow him there again. "I understand."
On impulse, I press up onto the balls of my bare feet and cup my hand on the back of his head, pulling him in for a kiss. At first he tenses with surprise, but that moment is brief. The backs of my legs were already against the bed as we spoke, so when he moves forward to press his knee onto the mattress, I slowly shift back to sit, and then lie down on my back as he continues to press forward. The staff in my hand slips from my hand and clatters to the floor, but we ignore it. My ankle feels so much better that I hardly care about it as we shift back farther onto the bed.
My fingers slide down his chest to the belts he wears at his waist, and I waste no time in unfastening them. He's doing the same with the lacings of my tunic, revealing more of my fair skin beneath my collarbone. The kiss parts and I gasp for air, moaning softly and tilting my head as he kisses and suckles on my neck again. His left hand slides down my chest and stomach, then slips in beneath the fabric until his fingertips slide up along my warm skin. My face flushes hotly all over again – it's not like I'm inexperienced. There were men (and women) before Solas, but there haven't been any since.
Contrite though he may be for his past misdeads, it seems that he hasn't totally abandoned the tricky, teasing side of his nature. That hidden touch caresses, his nails just scratching here, fingers pinching there, always a surprise wherever the sensation goes, and I shiver and gasp every time. At times his hand slides back down towards my hips, but always lingers, then heads back upwards at the waist of my leggings. It's frustrating and intentional, and eventually I whine and shove him off of me to roll on his back to my right.
His smile is cocky and light-hearted, and he welcomes me as I move to straddle his hips, my hands braced on his chest, gripping at the striped, beige fabric of his tunic. I give it a tug and growl "this is coming off," before leaning back and folding my arms over my chest imperiously.
The way his smile coils wryly makes my heart flutter but I keep my expression stern, and he intones "as you wish." I have to lift up a little to free the front drape of the garment, but soon he's pulled it up and off, over his head. Only now do I notice that the necklace he used to wear, the wolf's jawbone on leather thongs, has been set aside. Or was that only a charm to help him maintain his elven shape? I suppose it's not terribly important anymore.
What is important, however, is the gorgeous body that I've never seen bared before now. Naked from the waist up, Solas lies on the bed between my parted legs, folding his arms behind his hairless head as he smiles up at me coyly. He knows how good he looks of course – why would Fen'Harel choose an ugly body? Even so, it's a work of art – elven men are, by nature, svelte, but he takes it to another place altogether. His skin is unmarked and fair, and only the lightest sign of hair is at his eyebrows and beneath the crease of arm and shoulder.
My fingers slowly slide over his smooth chest, and his smile grows. "Does this body please you?" he purrs, half-lidding his stormy eyes.
My own garnet gaze narrows as well, and I smile, teasing "it's adequate."
One of his dark brows flicks up, and he asks, incredulously, "only adequate?" Suddenly, he smirks, offering "perhaps you would prefer the wolf instead?"
His insolence makes me sigh, and I slap him lightly on the cheek. It sounds louder and harder than it truly is, but even so he smiles, sucking in air through his teeth at the sting of it. I can feel the hard bulge beneath me stir and grow, and my smile grows. Slowly, teasingly, I pull off my own tunic, tossing it aside. His arms move from behind his head, his hands sliding up from my hips to caress me just like I'd caressed him. His long, elegant fingers slide over the curves of my modest breasts, my nipples hardening against his palms. Beneath me, his hips move, lifting to press against mine.
The feeling makes me moan softly and dip my head, and my stomach twitches and tenses as his hands slide back down it. One comes to rest on my right hip, but the other keeps going, his fingers just sliding into the waist of my leggings. I hold my breath, feeling his touch slide in between my legs slowly, and I furrow my brow as a single digit caresses over my slit, slippery with desire. "How would you have me?" he asks on a warm breath, the hand on my hip guiding me to gently, slowly grinding against his touch, and I allow it, biting my lip and closing my eyes.
Slowly, the hand on my hip slides down, pushing down the waist of my leggings until they're bunched around the middle of my thighs. My hands brace on his shoulders and I whimper, closing my eyes tightly as the teasing finger slowly slides inside of me. Even with just the single digit, and I flush hotly, gasping. I'm guided to lie on my side, and his touch leaves my legs distressingly, but only for a moment. He pulls down my leggings and tosses them onto the floor, then pulls his off as well.
I haven't much time to admire the visual of his bared lower half before he rolls me onto my back again and shifts in between my legs. Yet our hips don't meet just yet – his head dips to kiss at my breasts, his lips warm and eager, while his touch resumes its work between my thighs. I gasp and arch my back, eyes squeezing shut all over again. My hands cup behind his head, skin on skin, encouraging him. His mouth wends its way higher and higher, over my collarbone, up along my throat, to my jaw, lips, cheek, and then he whispers in my ear "when your leg is healed, perhaps I will have you from behind."
A hard, needy grind from his hips rubs the underside of his shaft between my petals, where his hand just vacated. His flesh is firm against my clit and I groan luridly, tilting my head back in delicious torment. Every movement of his hips makes the contact between our flesh there slicker and slicker, and I shift my hips desperately, squirming, trying to angle myself so that he'll, maybe, slip inside by accident.
Of course it's not going to be that easy. Solas chuckles, his sinuous, perfect body slowly roiling on top of mine without taking me yet. It's aggravating, being tormented, and I grit my teeth and cross my legs over his hips, urging him closer. He smirks, bracing his knees more firmly on the bed, and he just begins to say something snotty when I growl and cup his cheeks to pull him in for a searing kiss. My tongue slips into his mouth, encouraging his to do the same to me when I withdraw it. When his tongue takes my invitation I suckle on it, cheeks hollowing gently, and that seems to crumble his resolve.
His hips shift beneath my legs, and I feel his head dip and press against my gates, then push slowly within. It's been a while, so despite how ready I am, the fit is very snug. As he slips inside inch by inch, I shudder and groan into his mouth. His whole body grows tense, and he stills, parting the kiss. In a husky, growled voice, he mumbles "give me a moment... it has been a long time..."
"Yeah... for me, too." I gasp, trying to focus on cooling down just a little so this blessed experience can last more than three seconds.
Our passions temper enough that we begin to relax again, and pick up where we left off, if a touch more sedately. This time, his entry is less restricted, and I groan with lurid abandon as he suckle on my neck, sheathing himself slowly, again and again and again. My hips churn along with his, meeting him halfway, letting him press as far into me as he can, until our hips touch like puzzle pieces for just a moment before the cycle begins again.
My hands wander over his smooth shoulders and back, caressing him, and every so often my nails rake lightly over his skin. It's not hard enough to leave marks, but he shudders and moans against my flesh, and I can feel his cock twitch within me. My legs caress, my calves sliding over the rounds of his backside as they tense and move, his hips picking up speed and fervor.
And then he stops dead when I purr "do you want me on my hands and knees, Fen'Harel?"
A shudder runs through him, but he withdraws, panting softly as he gives me space to move. My skin tingles and I feel so warm, and when I move I feel empty, needing to be filled again. My ankle doesn't hurt at all, despite remaining stiff, as I take to my hands and knees, facing away from him. Even the slight air current of the room washes over my wet, secret, blushing flesh and I sigh, letting my back dip. I look over my shoulder at him invitingly, with my long white braid draped over my left shoulder.
He almost looks stricken, and his cock twitches again, dark, shining, and hard. That moment of pause is gone, and he moves forward, his hands sliding over my hips as he mounts me from behind. He sheathes himself easily, his hands hard as he seizes my left hip and my right shoulder, and I part my knees just a little more, until the angle is perfect. Now he takes me much harder, and I groan with pleasure at the roughness. Risking one's life over and over again... delicacy isn't prized as highly as passion. My right hand moves from the bed and slides down between my legs, and I use my fingers to rub in quick circles at my pearl.
It feels so, so good, and my head dips, my cheeks and the tips of my ears blushing hotly red. My hips buck just a little, and I keep rubbing harder and faster, my fingertips slick with my own need. The sharp, quick clap of his hips against mine sounds delicious and obscene and intimate, and I finally let go, letting myself sink into the shocking bliss of orgasm.
I jerk and cry out, shuddering as both hands move to grip at the sheets and brace. My hips press back, and Solas grunts, burying himself, grinding, burying himself once more, and then he, too, gasps. His hands are tight on my hips, both of them, and I can feel him thicken and pulse inside as he cums. My heart pounds in my chest and I pant slowly, my skin heated and tingling like mad.
It feels like ages, but has only been seconds that we've remained pressed together, and very slowly his fingertips relax, the dimples they'd made in my skin easing away. I grit my teeth as he withdraws from me, leaving me to feel so empty, and I gently come to rest on my hip, luxuriating in my post-coital bliss and laziness.
Beside me, Solas sinks onto the bed fully. His expression is a little hard to gauge, but if I were to guess, exertion, satisfaction, and simply being overwhelmed by all of this are at the forefront. I ease down to lie on my back next to him, turning my head to watch as he rises out of his stupor just a little to gaze at me. "You are... you're..." He lays his cheek on an outstretched arm, moaning softly on whispered breath.
"Magnificent?" I offer, smiling. He chuckles, and I smirk. "Aside from being Thedas' champion, I'm also terrific in bed."
His grin is beautiful, and again my heart melts a little. "I'm sure such feats will go down in legend."
"In all the tales told about you, not one of them mentioned your... skills, lets say" I purr, fluttering my eyelashes at him teasingly.
Solas just gives me a look, and clears his throat. "Ah well... I..."
I just raise my eyebrows, encouraging him to continue, if only to further fuel my amusement.
He gives me a look, and stumbles through the admission "I consulted with spirits of passion and desire, to know how to best... well... if I were to ever find you again. And if you were to ever accept me."
There is really no way to interpret that without it coming off as scandalous. "How long were you looking for me?"
His secretive eyes flash with honesty, and he confides "years, Ellena. I would have been by your side far sooner, but I couldn't find you. I'm sorry."
My hand moves to him, and I gently caress along his arm, smiling a little. "I didn't want to be found. Perhaps it's a compliment to my skills that not even the Dread Wolf could track me down right away."
He shifts to lie on his side, his head pillowed by a curled arm as his free hand takes up mine, his fingers lacing tenderly with my own. "I feared the worst, but didn't stop. And then, at last, I picked up your trail two weeks ago, and cautiously followed at a distance since."
I curl my fingers in his a little, and my arm mirrors his own, to pillow my head. "At a distance?"
Solas smiles bashfully. "I knew how you would feel, so I needed to wait for an opportune moment."
Now my brows furrow. "You knew my ankle was injured."
He nods. "Yes, your tracks showed it. I waited until I knew you couldn't bear it any longer."
I huff. "So that I couldn't run away from you?"
He blinks, frowning. "No. So that when, inevitably, you pushed yourself to far, I would be there to pull you back from the edge."
Again, my stubbornness rears its ugly head. "I pushed myself there because I was mad that you were following me."
Now he just gives me a look. "Ellena... you would have pushed yourself even if I hadn't been. And... I think you would not have cared if the abyss had taken you."
I look down, ashamed, and he squeezes my fingers. "I am here for you now. There are solutions. There is a future, ma vhenan."
The heaviness in my chest ebbs slowly, and I feel my nose sting as I guiltily look back at him. He's right... I had no real end goal when I set out into the wild. Only to die there, alone, when I could go no further. "A future..." this next part is difficult, but I manage it, just barely, "...with you in it, with me?"
He nods, smiling a little, and his fingers curl warmly with my own. "Yes."
My joy swells, my grin hurting my cheeks, but it fades after a moment. "I will grow old, Solas."
Now he shifts, pushing himself up onto his elbow so that he can come closer and press a kiss to my forehead. "We will find a solution to that, too," he murmurs against my skin. His eyes meet mine, comforting me, encouraging me to smile again. "You are not alone, Ellena. You have the Dread Wolf by your side..." As he gently guides me to lay on my back, he smoothly moves to loom over me, his eyes narrowed with delight as he makes my heart flutter all over again. "...and Fen'Harel is nothing if not full of tricks."