"Should we leave the skull or take it?" she asked him in the morning. "The Dalish say the empty sockets of a high dragon's skull can steal your soul if you stare too long."
"You believe this?" he asked back, curious.
She scoffed. "No. Tis just superstition, like so many things the Dalish believe."
Solas looked at the skull in question. It did seem to leer at them, flensed of all flesh.
Cole drifted over and crouched before the skull. He passed his hand before the sockets. "She stares into wonders now. She doesn't have time for us." In ghostly fashion, Cole stood once more and wandered away, seeming to float.
The apostate smiled and said, "I'm sure the idea frightens the Dalish more than anything. That death comes even for the mightiest of mortals. Why keep around a reminder of that to chill the heart?"
"Hmm, well, I'm sure Dagna would love to get her hands on it. Perhaps she can do something interesting with the teeth." She turned on one heel and gathered the reins of her overburdened mount in one hand. "We'll leave the scales, bones and whatnot with the camp just outside the valley. They'll send it on to Skyhold eventually. The skull comes with us to Crossroads, proof to show that the dragon is no longer a danger."
"And then?" asked Solas, hand on the hart's shoulder.
"We go home, of course. We have a book to finish." The Inquisitor smiled a crooked smile. "Varric will be glad to know we finally destroyed that red lyrium cache, this time without an angry dragon buzzing around our heads spitting fireballs at us. I want to check on Cass and Blackwall. And, if I can, mend some bridges with Bull before the next crisis crops up. Do you think he'd like to have the skull?"
Solas laughed. "I think once he sees it, he will want it. Regardless what anger may still sicken his heart over the loss of his Chargers."
"He's not supposed to have a 'his,' but they were. His and only his," Cole said, at their rear. "Forgiveness is not there."
Tir'alas shivered and said, "He doesn't have to forgive me, but I have to try anyway."
"We know," Cole said.
Solas pondered the ambiguity of Cole's statement while they journeyed back to the Inquisition camp. So many 'we's and so many things they could know.
The people of Crossroads greeted them with fanfare and sprays of flowers and mugs of warm drink, insisting they stay for revelry.
A few burnt out buildings and one flamed field gave evidence of the dragon's raids. But other than that, it seemed the sad, broken refugees from his first visit through this region had transformed over the winter into veterans of hardship. Dug in to repel any who would come to take the land and destroy it.
"Ser elf," called a soft voice at his knee. He looked down from the horse's back to see a white-haired human smiling at him, uncertain. "I don't know if you remember me, but you healed my wife, saved her, about a year ago after the templars and mages had attacked-"
"Of course. Brant, yes? And how is Malaya?" At the time, he'd wandered off, in order to put distance between he and the Herald he'd so disliked, saw the couple in need and acted. Simple as that.
The man flushed with pleasure that he remembered. "She is well. With our son of three months. I wanted … I wanted to thank you. I don't know if there's anything I could ever do to repay you, but you have my gratitude. I am in your eternal debt."
Stunned before the man's tear-filled pledge of obligation, Solas could only blink. He reached down and squeezed Brant's shoulder. "There is no debt. But I will take your thanks with warm and glad heart, and keep it close, if you'll grant me the indulgence to do so."
The farmer grinned. "Aye, ser. Done and done. If you've a mind, come see the little one. We're in that hut and will gladly share space since I doubt they'll let you leave without getting all of you crocked and potted. Our humble hearth and what small comforts we have are yours."
Solas followed the man's pointing forefinger and nodded. "We just may do that."
Brant waved once more and darted off, no doubt back to his wife and child.
Just then, another villager appeared out of the crowd. A laughing woman with flour dusting her elbows. In her hand, she bore a small wreath of spring lilies and hydrangea, vibrant purple contrasting with palest pink.
Seeing what she meant to do, Solas bent, obedient, so she could place it on his head. Sitting tall with a smile of thanks, he looked around and saw similar crowns adorning Tir'alas and Cole. The spirit pushed his down over the point of his hat, while the Inquisitor sat stiff with frozen grin on her face.
She said, out of the side of her mouth, "Do I look as silly as I feel?"
Solas reached and turned the flower crown to its most fetching angle. "You look beautiful."
The glazed look in her eyes receded as she turned to him and her smile turned genuine. "Sweet-talker."
"I think flower crowns suit you. Twice now you've ended up with one. Perhaps Dagna can craft one that repels arrows." Solas laughed as her gaze went flat and sour.
"And maybe one for you," she shot back. "For you look oh so pretty."
Ignoring the snide tone, he sat a little straighter and adjusted his. "Why, thank you. I feel pretty."
She stared at him for a long moment before her disbelieving expression shifted to something else, something less easy to divine.
Cole spoke up, "Regal. Like the savage kings of the Chasind wear the laurel and bone."
Tir'alas speared the spirit with an embarrassed glare. Then she slid off her hart to avoid meeting Solas's amused eyes. The crowd swept her away in a whirling, dancing, shouting torrent.
Solas chuckled and dismounted. He said to Cole, "Do you think we should go save her?"
The spirit looked past him, staring into something only he could see. "She can't be saved."
Shuddering, Solas tried to dismiss those portentous words. The near-prescient spirit had difficulty unraveling the jumbled threads of the now. Anything he said could be taken dozens of ways.
Cole smiled. "She's dancing again, but there's no blood this time."
Making his way through the throng, he saw a large burly man swing the Inquisitor around in a peasant's quickstep to the beat of pounding feet and impromptu lute and fife performance. Then another man came from the crowd and swept her along, hands at her waist.
A flash of possessiveness taunted Solas, but he brushed it away. He had no claim to her. She spun and spun, and he couldn't help but notice how bright her eyes shone, how light her laughter as she wove herself through steps she seemed to only half remember. Unfamiliar, but still a joy to be part of.
Counting under his breath, Solas leapt out at the appropriate time and caught her up for himself, if only for this one turn. The surprise on her face made him laugh as he led her through figures common to all peasant dances, fast and deft.
The rush of delight that stole his breath compounded the soaring of his heart until his awareness narrowed to only her.
Just her.
Flushed and breathless.
Too soon, he broke away to let some other lucky man take her arm. The longing in the way she looked after him with outstretched hand yanked a piercing ache through his core. Yet still he danced away and watched her fly.
More couples drew close and danced until the whole of Crossroads joined in the gaiety.
Other women sought him out and he swung them about with rare, but polite abandon. Even Cole sat on a nearby stump, his hat dipping in time to the music.
A wide smile peeked out from under the brim.
Later, by the hearth in Brant's small, but cozy cottage, he lay with feet toward flame. Solas said, warm to the buzz of the alcohol in his veins, "Tell me a story of your childhood, lethallan."
She unwrapped her feet, tutting at the dusty mess coating her calloused heels. "Why do you want to hear such bitter things? This night has been good. Will you spoil it?"
With dampened rag, she washed her soles, drawing cloth between wiggling toes. The family slept on their one big bed, mother, father, child. They'd offered it to the Inquisitor and her companions, but seeing as Cole did not sleep and they had their own comfortable bedding, they'd refused the generosity.
Solas lay on his side to face her, hand propping up head. "No, but I would know you. Know the path that brought you here."
"Would you?" she mused, light and laughing. She stretched her legs out, flexing clean feet. "Oh, but I never thought dancing could make my feet so sore, my body so tired. Maybe I'm still weak from the lung fever?"
The apostate spun around on his bedroll and took one of her feet in hand. Rubbing the bottoms with firm strokes and circles, he smiled when she leaned her head back and moaned. Her pale throat flashed at him, begging him to sup. He barely refrained.
Her eyes shot back open and she drawled, "You think to ply me with massage? I won't give in to your limbic sorcery."
He chuckled and said, "I merely wish to relieve your sore feet. You did try your best to wear them down to the ankle."
"Hmmmmm," she hummed, as he continued. Then she said, eyes catching and reflecting firelight, "I have a proposal."
"Oh? A proposal? So soon? What will the others say?" he teased, taking her other foot to task.
"Idiot," she said, smile showing she jested. "One story for one story. And none of that 'untrue' nonsense of Varric's. Real stories."
A spike of fear jabbed him. Could he play so dangerous a game? What if she wanted to know about his childhood, his terrible secret? Forcing his fingers to keep kneading, he said, "What would you have from me?"
Her voice softened and she said, finger playing with lip, "When you talk of the Fade, such a light is in your eyes. You love it, that place of dream. I would-I would understand it better, see it as you do. Will you tell me stories about what you've seen there? Please?"
Relief poured ice into his heated blood, and the bubbling panic deep within subsided. "In exchange for tales of you? Done."
Her cheeks dimpled prettily. She laid back down on her side and gestured that he should do the same. So he did, turning so once again hearth warmed heel instead of pate. He drew his blanket over himself and rolled so he and she lay face to face, close as conspiracy.
Tir'alas said, "I suppose I'll start, seeing as it was my bargain."
He replied, "Begin with what happened after the spirit, the demon returned to the Fade. Did the Clans accept you?"
She gave him a sharp look. "Have you been peeking into my dreams, Solas?"
Chagrined, he said, "You left an impression, a memory in my cottage in Haven when you came to ask my advice. It found me in the Fade."
"Oh," said she, eyes blank and stunned for a moment. "Well, then. I guess it's as good a place to start as any—"
"The demon tried, but no clan would take me from her hand. She frightened them. I … frightened them. But then I went back to that last with that black, crusty heart in my fist and they saw that I was just a child. A wrong, unnatural child, but not a demon." She sighed.
She continued, "'Acceptance' is not the word. 'Tolerance?' 'Forbearance?' Those are closer. I hung around the edges, eating scraps and stealing trifles that would not be missed. I had to be quick and clever to survive. I was bad luck. No one wanted anything to do with me."
Solas watched the ghosts of yesteryear march by in her eyes. He wet his lips to say, "Why did you stay? You could have learned to survive on your own. Could it have been so much worse than living among them as a pariah?"
She gave a shake of her head. "I am Dalish, whether they'll have me or not."
"Perhaps the Dalish did not deserve you."
"Such is choice. I wanted to be with them. It was all I wanted, as a child. Only now, grown, do I see how twisted and ignorant they can be." Some darker emotion filled her countenance. "And I still deal with the consequences of that choice."
A long silence descended, stifling and full of awful, spectral intimations. Then Solas said, "What is the Rasdalelan?"
Her hand came out to cover his mouth as she gasped. Her eyes went huge with feigned horror, though her mouth quirked just the tiniest tick to one side. She whispered, "Don't say that word so loud, Solas!"
He smiled into her palm and persisted, "What or who is it though?"
She snuggled deeper into her bedroll and kept one grey eye on him as she said, "A story to scare children into behaving. A demon. A monster."
Solas hummed. "Just a story?"
"Who can say? It is said you whisper your darkest wish on the wind and it is carried to the shadow killer's ear. Then your outrages are … avenged." She pouted. "But that is another story and you have not yet paid your due."
He huffed a laugh and said, "That's only fair. Hm, let's see—
"I saw a savage human horde go marching toward the battlefront. They sang …." As he spoke, he watched the kindling of wonder spark in her face. If, beneath that, he saw worry and pensive thoughts, he did not comment.
Solas tucked it away to explore later.
One of her trademark 'stretch and yawns' interrupted him. He looked close and saw the steady rise and fall of her chest. Asleep.
He didn't know if he should be irked that she'd fallen asleep in the middle of his story, or charmed that his voice soothed her enough to do so. Solas pulled her blanket up around her and pushed her hair back over the closest ear.
Then, unable to stop himself, he leaned over and dropped a feather-light kiss on her cheek. He whispered, so soft it nearly didn't make it past teeth, tongue and lips, "Ma vhenan."
His heart gave a painful lurch.
Her eyelashes tickled the end of his nose and he pulled back to rub the sensation away before it made him sneeze.
He laid back and watched her until sleep claimed him.
A/N: So some fluff for you, just a little taste. And a tease of plotty plotness. So this, my OTP, is torture, I've found. I can't seem to get away from it. I read and draw, then go poke around the internet for other people's stories and drawings. I'm in too deep. So deep. How can this still have such a hold on me after more than a year? *sigh*
My only consolation is that I'm not alone. So, thank all of you. Let's suffer together in Solavellan Hell FOREVER. lol.
