Kiss From A Rose

The wind tugs at Solas' robes, salt spray stinging his face as he looks out over the Amaranthine Ocean. Beside him, Maera stares wistfully at the sparkling blue depths. She has that look again, as though she has encountered something familiar, but does not understand why. He hopes this memory will not be another disappointment.

I'm sure of it, he takes her hand and leads her toward the City of Wycome. Her fingers twitch against his hand tentatively and then she boldly twines her fingers through his. He does not react or remark on it, afraid that she might retreat if he makes her self-conscious. This simple token of intimacy from her sends tingles cantering up his arm and across his back.

"Ugh!" Maera halts in her tracks. The smell from the Wycome docks slaps them in the face and she presses the side of her fist under her nose.

"It's not that bad." Solas chides and she screws her face up in disgust. He tugs on her hand but she shakes her head, holding her breath and refusing to budge. "It will be worth it, trust me." The withering look she pins him with might have killed a lesser man; as it is he chuckles.

"That's fair," he admits, his recent attempts to impress her had been rather traumatic. "I really do think you will like this." He smiles as Maera relents with a nod. He hurries them through the docks, past the hawking fishmongers and toward the town square.

Thankfully, the oppressive odour of fish guts lessens as they reach the centre of Wycome. Solas reclines against the well in the middle of the square and scans the sky, Maera following his gaze.

"It's not another garast dragon is it?" She upbraids him, settling next to him on the well.

Garast? Puzzling over her use of the word in this context, he frowns at her lack of faith. He catches movement above and points up at the breaking clouds. "There!" He crows, smirking as her eyes go wide in disbelief.

A squad of griffons circle above Wycome, their high, piping calls announcing their arrival. Gracefully they swoop down to land in the square and Maera springs to her feet. She presses a hand against her gasping mouth as she watches them trot across the cobblestones, proudly shaking their heads and folding their wings. Their Grey Warden riders dismount, helping their quivering passengers slide down onto solid ground.

Solas almost purrs in satisfaction as Maera's eyes glitter, speechless as she watches the now extinct creatures. They preen their feathers and stamp their feet as they entreat their riders for food. The square explodes with activity, the townspeople running to greet the new arrivals. The Wardens announce an evacuation and fear spreads quickly through the town - the darkspawn are approaching.

"Is that?" Maera squeaks in awe, squeezing his bicep and then tugging on the sleeve of his robe. Solas follows her gaze to the dashing figure of an elf, blonde locks fanning in the sea breeze, as he fondly scratches the neck of his griffon. "Is it Garahel? The Warden that stopped the fourth Blight?"

"I believe so." Solas remarks. "These Warden's have just evacuated nobles from Antiva." Solas affects casual disinterest, "You've heard of Garahel then?"

"Is there an elf that has not heard of Garahel?" Maera turns her wide eyes to him in disbelief and Solas feels himself prickle slightly in envy. He had brought her here for the griffons, not the legendary elf Warden.

Maera watches - enraptured - as one of the local women brings Garahel a drink and he takes it with a grateful nod and a charming smile. She tracks him as he confers with his fellow Wardens; rallying them with confidence and warm humour, even as they face impending doom. Having had a brief respite, Garahel and the Wardens leap onto the back of their griffons, taking to the sky in a great flurry of wings.

"This must be when he returns to Antiva and distracts the archdemon, so they can finish the evacuation." Maera slumps against the well with a sigh.

He is just a memory, Solas scolds himself, it is ridiculous to be jealous of a hero that died ages ago. All around them the people of Wycome pack their belongings, preparing to flee from the horror of the Blight.

"Our people give so much," Maera muses forlornly. "We constantly strive to prove our worth to those that wish only to take from us." She looks up at the swiftly receding griffons. "For all our efforts, we are still trod upon and diminished."

"He was not one of your people," Solas remarks derisively, "he was not Dalish." Maera flinches at his tone.

"True, but he was still an elf. It seems foolish to make such distinctions when we have forgotten so much of who we were." She frowns. "It is not his fault that he was abandoned to a life in an alienage. Who am I, to sneer at him for that? I know you think poorly of the Dalish, but if I had met him, I would embrace him as a brother." Maera states firmly.

"In the same way I hope our ancestors would not sneer at us, or fault us because of what we have lost through slavery and oppression." She chews on her lip and lets out a shaky breath. "And no small amount of foolish pride." Her voice breaks with this admission and Solas feels shame deep in his core.

He has judged her people harshly, when it is he that is responsible for their decline. Solas is not sure what he can say to bring her comfort. When he finally works up the nerve to look at her, his heart breaks at the tears that fall silently down her face.

"Oh Maera, do not cry." He hushes her, taking her face in his hands and brushing away the tears with his thumbs. "Do no cry, ma vhenan."

"Vhenan?" She blinks, ears twitching. She tugs at the collar on her breastplate; as though it is crushing her. The words had tumbled out of him, but he does not regret them, for they were honest and true.

"My heart," Solas whispers warmly. Somewhere, amongst all the Harrowings, heated discussions and quiet, intimate moments, she had gone from being a mere curiosity to a cherished companion.

"I know what it means," Maera stammers, avoiding his gaze, "I didn't think you could care for a Dalish elf."

"I…" Solas hesitates, her recent remarks echoing in his head. How must he seem to her? Disdainful and sneering indeed. He tries to withdraw with dignity. "Have been too forward." He drops his hands from her face and he steps back; a cold lump forming in the pit of his stomach. "I apologise, it was presumphmm-" Maera lurches off the well, hands grasping his shoulders as her mouth crashes against him. She is a little off the mark, but quickly corrects, her soft lips closing over his. He leans into her, his hands dropping firmly against her waist. She breaks the kiss with a little sigh, eyes sparkling with mischief.

"Was that too forward?" She asks breathlessly.

"Perhaps," he chuckles, "but it was not unwelcome." She smiles at him shyly and it turns to a frown as she glances over his shoulder.

"Hmmm, I know this is just a memory, but this feels rather awkward. With all these people scrambling to escape the darkspawn." She winces and pulls away from him.

She can't just kiss me like that and then… Solas fights the urge to pull her back into his embrace. He needs to pace himself and be mindful of her mercurial moods. Don't scare her off.

"You're quite right. Let's go somewhere quieter perhaps?" Maera nods and he takes her hand to lead her away.

Maera tenses suddenly, gaze becoming unfocused as though hearing something he cannot. It is a stance he has become well acquainted with, as it always precedes a Harrowing. A glimmering doorway manifests and he follows her through. She never seems to aid mages that are likely to succeed their Harrowing alone. Only the ones on the verge of failure - the lost causes.

Solas always keeps his distance and observes. She never asks for help, though he would willingly give it. Rescuing doomed mages seems to be her purpose and he would not rob her of it. He has seen too many times what happens to spirits when robbed of purpose - or worse - have their purpose perverted. Besides, Maera is a force to be reckoned with, fiercely protective and fearless in the face of overwhelming odds.

A ferocious grimace does little to detract from her ethereal beauty. Her sinuous form dancing effortlessly around the demons that harry her charge. She has skill with a blade, he cannot deny, but she mostly overwhelms them through sheer force of will. He starts with a sudden revelation and marvels that he had not seen it sooner. Clad in leather and fur and revelling in battle, she is an idealised reflection of Andruil.

Remove the Vallaslin and she is a portrait, created by an artist that had never seen his subject first-hand, but rather had drawn from legend. Solas had known the mad goddess, so she was not his idea of the Huntress, nor did Maera identify herself as such. Could she be the Dalish interpretation of Andruil? That might account for this unshakable sense of familiarity. It did not answer all his questions, but he could believe that she might be a spirit of Protection, born of Dalish faith.

Soon enough the battle is won and they are drifting the surreal paths of this mercurial realm once more. Solas decides against trying to find some exciting memory to take her mind off the Harrowing. He thinks of where she has seemed most comfortable in the past and brings her to a forest, deep and wild. Birdsong drifts through the air as wisps dart amongst the moss-laden trunks of twisted oaks. The ground is soft and cool beneath their feet, the fresh scent of earth and wood enveloping them. Though his intention was to clear her mind, he finds he wants to understand what drives her to intervene in the Ritual.

"Why do you help the mages?" he asks, not sure she will even answer such a direct question. Or if she is even listening for that matter.

"Because it's right," she replies forcefully. "The Harrowing is a flawed concept that hurts more than it helps. Even the mages that pass their Harrowing will spend the rest of their lives indoctrinated into believing that evil lurks in the Fade, waiting to possess them." Maera's jaw clenches and he realises he has never seen her so angry before. Annoyed at him - definitely - but never this deep seated fury.

"The Chantry pushes a false doctrine that is used to justify the abuse and oppression of mages. They claim it's all about protecting people, but really it's about control." Maera becomes more agitated, hands punctuating the air for emphasis as she paces the glade. "Magic terrifies them, so to feel safe they cow mages with the threat of death or Tranquility." She closes her eyes as though pained deeply, "A Rite even more grotesque than the Harrowing."

The passion of her convictions, the animated intensity of her features all make her seem so vibrant and alive. He cannot recall ever seeing anything so glorious. Solas captures her hand, halting her restless stride. He raises it to his chest, holding it with only the barest pressure, so that she can withdraw if that is her desire. To his delight she sways closer, til he can feel the warmth radiating from her.

"Maera…" Solas breathes, loving the sound of the name he gifted her on his tongue. He sweeps a braided lock of hair from her face, fingers brushing over her sensitive ear as he fixes it in place. Maera turns and presses her cheek against his hand, chasing the tender caress. His heart quivers at the heat in her demure eyes; shaken by the ardor she rouses in him.

He closes his hand more firmly around her own, bringing it up to place a chaste kiss on the tips of her fingers. Her eyes - dark with desire - lock onto his mouth, shallow breaths fluttering from her full, rosy lips. The way she matches the pace of his desire is wondrous, as though they are attuned to each other. Solas stills, familiar doubts returning.

"Where have you gone?" Maera asks, crestfallen at his hesitation.

"Forgive me." Solas draws back and the ripple of hurt that passes over her face is unbearable. "You are exquisite and beguiling," he tries to reassure her, "but I fear that I…" How did he explain this to her when he can't even be sure himself? Solas catches the slight tremble in her shoulders and regrets ever opening his damned mouth. "That you are not acting of your own accord. That I've influenced you somehow."

Maera quirks an eyebrow at him and slowly shakes her head. He swallows hard, not knowing whether to brace himself for anger or tears. Her hand snakes forward, snagging the front of his robe and she hooks her fingers into his belt. She tugs him toward her, not harshly, but with enough firmness it is clear she will brook no resistance.

"You've definitely influenced me," she purrs with a sultry smirk. He barks a laugh at her brazenness.

"You are so… unexpected," Solas marvels, relieved to have been rescued from his own stupidity. "And persuasive." He murmurs, brushing his fingers up her bare biceps, raising goosebumps and a shiver of anticipation.

Maera's arm curves around his neck and he allows himself to be drawn in closer. She presses the length of herself against him, her cheek caressing his. Her lips brush over his ear, her breath searing him as her needy plea breaks the last vestiges of his control.

"Take me, vhenan."

TRANSLATIONS

Garast - coming; entering; moving forward. Taken up by younger Dalish as slang for 'fucking'.

Ma vhenan - my heart, a term of endearment