When Ellana woke, it was with a gasp.

That first breath echoed in the dark. Quaking, reeling with dread or anger or something mixed of both. An open hand pressed to her breast felt her heart pounding there. So hard she could feel her pulse in her fingertips.

At first, and for only a moment, she could not recall where she was or what had frightened her so. Then her eyes caught the moonlight streaming in through the curtain sheers and her tower room swam, slowly, into focus. Bookshelves and chairs and a desk stacked with unfinished work took form in the shadow. She let go of the breath she was holding, allowing her arms to fall back upon the mattress.

Still the tower. Still Skyhold.

It came as poor comfort. The anxious skip of her heart refused to slow. With her eyes closed she thought on the advice of her Keeper; meditations to shake off bad dreams. A moment was spent with her focus turned inward to feel the soft bedding on her skin, the drape of the duvet twisted around her legs, the chill from a breeze through her open window, and the smell of embers dying in the hearth.

She listened to the sound of her breath in the empty room—

In and out.

—so cavernous for just one person.

And as her heart slowed, just a dream, she assured herself. Just more stupid dreams.

Nightmares were common now. She'd always been a vivid dreamer, even before all of this, but all that'd happened since the Conclave had gifted her a deep well of inspiration to draw from. Now she dreamed in brilliant colour. Bloody battlefields and monstrous creatures; green skies; corpses, bent and twisted in horror; ashen rain, and Corypheus' long, twisted, fingers locked around her throat…

Still, those scenes she could handle. They felt normal. Her world had changed so profoundly in such a short time. There was so much violence and conflict around her now. It was expected. Natural, even. Who wouldn't dream of all the terrible things she'd seen?

And yet, since he'd left her in a glen, they'd all been about Solas. Somehow that was much worse.

What insult it paid — not just to herself, but to all who followed her — to be left reeling from loneliness. As if that were the worst injustice she'd faced. Bad enough that she'd been naïve enough to fall for a man who would not stay, her heart had made her a broken thing in the wake of his leaving. Up at night cradling her wounded pride.

This was not her first heartbreak, she'd had her share of unhappy ends, and yet it felt by far the worst. In its ruin she was tormented by the memory of every touch. Left scrying the bones of what they'd had, looking for a reason why.

When her dreams didn't feature the tears she'd refused to cry in Crestwood, they brought her visions of terrible harm. Scenes of cruelty where she watched herself from afar, brought to the brink of madness, lashing out with curses and claws. Trying to make him hurt the way he'd hurt her.

In bitterness she'd wield her words as weapons; try to cut him down, even if it meant tearing herself apart in the process. That furor would shake loose all the little fears she kept so safely tucked away. The questions she asked herself: the doubt of her leadership, her valour, and her worthiness of love. They'd scatter on the ground between them so he'd see every mottled bruise. Every thick scar. Every memory of a tender kiss, once cherished.

And crush them all beneath his feet.

Sometimes, the nightmare would craft her a version of him that'd used her. Drawn her close only to cast her aside and profess he never cared for her at all. A year of coy flirtation, growing intimacy, and stolen kisses had all been a game. A toy for him to play with until he grew weary of the entertainment it provided.

That one, at least, was easier to shake.

As much as she wanted to make it true, to make it easy to hate him, she'd heard the crack in voice when he lamented, "another world". She'd seen the pain. His was not a wandering heart, and that made it so much harder.

No matter the make of the dream the end was always the same. When the rage and despair consumed her she'd fall into shadow, trapped and suffocating under the weight of a broken body; waking in cold sweat.

The effects had become harder and harder to shake. Friends began to take notice of the toll on her health, and wonder the reason. Exhaustion and insomnia made her clumsy. Nerves made her jumpy. She was distracted and short-tempered with a hair trigger and it was becoming a challenge not to show it. Wallowing in the misery of broken heart was not something she could afford to do, as a leader.

Presently she sighed, pressing a palm to the bridge of her nose. No attempt at mindfulness or meditation offered solace, no soothing teas or herbal salve made a difference. Once she succumbed to sleep, she was a wreck. Every time. A boat tossed on stormy sea.

If only I could walk in the Fade as he does this wouldn't be such an issue, she thought bitterly, and her laughter was just as cold. Shaping dreams seemed like child's play to him.

Then it struck her — the Fade — and the sudden understanding stopped her cold.

She'd heard tale of demons drawn to those who entered sleep with heavy burdens. They fed on emotion. On turmoil. Some, harmlessly — as Wisdom or Compassion — others with more sinister intent.

Like Desire and Rage.

Despair.

Was this what haunted her nights since their parting? Had she invited something to feast upon her grief? Was it neglect, over heartache, that caused her sleepless nights? It would explain the course the dreams had taken… and why she could not seem to shake them.

"Fenedhis," she whispered.

If it truly was a matter of trespassing then she did not have a solution.

But, unfortunately, she knew who would.

Elanna didn't bother to change out of her bedclothes. There'd be few others along the way and she couldn't bring herself to care if they saw her dressed down. Those left awake at this ungodly hour would be finishing up the last of their chores: washing down tables or sweeping the halls. They'd give a respectful nod and a quiet, "Herald" — but nothing beyond that. It was late — past midnight — one could safely assume she was not plodding about the fortress in the wee hours in search of stimulating conversation.

As it happened the hall was empty when she entered it, so no one saw her slip, silent, along the wall toward the rotunda. Or pause at its door, one hand stilled on the knob, ready to push inside.

Heart in her throat — like a fool.

Pull yourself together. Don't be stupid. He's probably not even there.

She tugged her dressing robe tighter around her body, securing the tie, and steeled herself with a deep breath. Then opened the door.

It gave a long, loud, creak that echoed through the atrium. Around corners and up the stairs into the rafters, where the ravens nested in their cages. But no one inquired after the sound… so she quickly slipped inside and let the door close behind her. Lingering in the corridor to listen for movement.

One minute.

Then one more spent waiting.

The silence stretched unbroken but for the rustling of feathers high above.

She took a few careful steps out of the hall and peered into the room: empty. Solas' desk was unattended, just as she guessed. The only sign he'd been there previously was the hollow of a forgotten candle, burned down to a flicker. Left long enough that the wax had pooled in the basin of the silver holder, overflowed, and dripped onto the floor.

She could not say if it was relief or disappointment that fell her shoulders.

The desk was uncharacteristically disorganized: covered in loose papers and a precarious stack of books ready to fall over the next time someone opened a door too quickly. Normally he kept his workspace tidy, but it had suffered since their break-up.

Good.

On any other day she would not rifle through his things. Probably. But the late hour and his absence lent her boldness. So curiously, she crossed the floor and reached for the topmost volume in the pile.

Though she struggled with literacy — reading and writing were not skills she'd brought with her to the Inquisition — she could recognize the book as one relating to Tevinter history. It wasn't difficult: fancy filigree and complicated symbols were drawn all over their pages. She put it down in the centre of his desk and picked up another from the pile. More Tevinter history, this time relating to lineages and magisters. There were trees of names and dates with notes next to the blank spaces. She raised a brow as she thumbed through. There'd been some discussion recently on a search for Corypheus' past, it seemed Solas had taken it upon himself to start looking into it.

Of course he'd have no trouble remaining focused on their mission.

Still, these were not what she was hoping to find. If answers lay in his collection it would be in something less… historical.

She began to search the pile in earnest, quickly picking up each book, scanning through the first few pages for a subject, then putting it down in a new pile when she found nothing relevant. It was all work. More Tevinter, more history, more magic, more Inquisition. It was insulting how easily he'd slipped back into the comfort of routine. His ability to devote himself so wholly while she struggled just to sleep at night felt like a personal affront. It was just so like him to be unaffected.

When she came to an odd, rough-looking tome, she stopped. Its pages were worn and irregular, and that stood out amidst the pile of clean lines and gilded edges. The binding was old, but familiar — made of fibre cord and animal skin. It had the look of something hand-crafted by a person with very little experience in book-binding.

She flipped to a random page. No Tevene this time, but neither did it have any publishing date, title, proper cover, nor any credit to an author. If anything, it appeared to be some sort of journal.

Further in she came across a large illustration of a dark and foreboding creature with six eyes. The Dread Wolf. It was sketched with charcoal in a simple, rough, style — and while it did not resemble the frescos on the wall somehow she still knew it was drawn by his hand. That intrigued her, so she thumbed back a few pages and began to read.

With her proficiency of written language still evolving she could only fumble through enough to get the gist, not the details. The bulk of the text was written in Common, which she could mostly understand, with the occasional section of old Elvish thrown in, which she couldn't read at all. What pieces she could string together identified it as a collection of folklore about Fen'Harel. Specifically, how the stories had changed and evolved over time. There was mention of at least a dozen clans, with a dozen slightly different versions of the same stories. Tales told in different accents. In the margins were thin scratches of notes — but in Elvish, so what they said they remained a mystery.

It struck her as an odd book to be in the possession of someone who held so little regard for her people. Solas did not keep to Elven Gods — nor to any other, as far as she knew — the most she could ever get from him on the subject was a suggestion that the Pantheon had once lived as warlords and nobles rather than deities. A year ago it might've enraged her to hear it: blasphemous, offensive, nonsense spouted by non-believers. She would've been callous, writing him off as a flat-ear; a poor soul stripped of any culture and history. A homeless wanderer, connected to the People only by virtue of his shared blood. Thinned by time, distance, and a life spent traveling in shem cities.

But now?

If she was honest with herself, she wasn't sure what she even believed in anymore.

Their experience at the Temple had shaken her faith. Abelas, the Well of Sorrows, the Sentinels, Mythal… She'd stood before ancient Elves — Elvhen — unrecognized by her own ancestors. Dismissed as a child. To them, she was a shadow of their race. A quickling grasping at half-remembered stories, building them into tales worthy of worship. But still naught but tales.

It was all so strange and overwhelming.

Solas had tried to tell her how the Dalish changed their history. How generations of telling the same stories had left them unrecognizable. They perverted it, he'd said, and even if there was truth to that it was callous to say it wrote it off as more of his arrogance, and didn't fully understand what it all meant until they'd left the Temple.

Fuck him for acting like he knows everything.

Fuck him for being right.

Lost in the pages, she quickly forgot what had brought her to the rotunda in the first place and was content to study the little book. Leaning against Solas' desk, she flipped through the collected versions of The Great Betrayal and found she regarded the tale with little more than casual curiosity. Absently running her fingers over bare skin where her Vallaslin had once been.

Stories that once struck fear into her heart no longer held the same significance to her. Now, she could not think on them without wondering what truth remained, if any. It left an uncomfortable emptiness in her, like something had been stripped away and not yet replaced. She wondered if she still held even a sliver of fear for the Bringer of Nightmares anymore.

She certainly did not blame him for the ones that plagued her now.

"Inquisitor?"

Solas' voice tore her from her thoughts. She jumped, startled, and turned to find him standing at the bottom of the stairs leading up to the library. Several books cradled in one arm and a candle held in the other. His eyes drifted over her, taking in the nightclothes and robe, then settled on the tome she held in her hand. A small crease formed in his brow.

"May I help you?"

She stepped away from the desk, rolling her shoulders back as she pulled herself to her full height. A show of confidence to cover for the way her heart leapt at the sight of him.

"Yes, actually," she said. "I was hoping you could help me find a book." He blinked. Opened his mouth to reply before she quickly cut in — "I could't sleep," — and it closed again.

His head tilted. A near imperceptible movement, but one she recognized as someone once close to him. Apprehension. Curiosity. He approached the desk and carefully put down the books he'd been carrying next to the pile she had created when she'd rifled through the others. Once more his eyes flit to the tome held in her hands, his expression blank but for that small wrinkle in his brow.

She followed his gaze and, "An interesting choice," she remarked, holding it up. "I would've thought these were beneath you. Are you in need of bedtime stories?"

It came out icier then she'd intended but she found she couldn't make herself care if it was rude.

Solas narrowed his eyes, though his tone remained even. "It is always prudent to familiarize one's self with the lore of local peoples, regardless of their accuracy. The observation of religious beliefs varies considerably between clans — customs and greetings included. Our dealings as the Inquisition take us to the Dalish from time to time. Though my previous experiences with them found them unwelcoming, for diplomacy's sake I thought it sensible to learn what I can." He then extended a hand toward her, palm up, indicating he would like the book returned.

Ellana considered him a moment more before complying. Watching as he moved it to the bottom of the pile.

"I doubt this is what you were looking for — what did you need?"

He was cool and detached. Professional.

It stung, and she hated it.

"I was hoping to find something on the subject of demons and dreams."

"Specifically?"

"How they are attracted. How to combat them. How to prevent one from interfering with a Dreamer in the Fade."

Solas thought a moment, then gestured for her to follow. "Come."

He started back up the stairs toward the library, Ellana following a few steps behind. As he walked he explained, "Demons approach Dreamers in the Fade to feed, drawn by the expression of what they can consume. Desire to lust or need, Rage to anger, Despair to grief, and so on. But unlike other predators they are not looking to kill. Having a host die would eliminate the food source entirely, rather than sustain them, so rather than consume they look to posses. To extort what they can from a victim over time, parasitically. Typically this is done by creating a setting that convinces the Dreamer what they're experiencing in the Fade is real outside of it, or by seducing them into becoming a willing host through promises of power or wish fulfillment. The approach varies by strength and intelligence."

"I know," Ellana interrupted. "You've told me all of this before."

He glanced over his shoulder, and his expression softened. "My apologies."

He led her toward one of the library's many alcoves. Empty — it was lit only by a candle he set down on a window sill earlier. She lingered a few steps behind him, content to watch the search rather than join it.

He drew two fingers across the spines of the books, searching the titles in silence. As it stretched on she became uncomfortably aware of how exposed she was. Standing alone with him, in the middle of the night, in nothing more than a thin shift and a robe that didn't fit. Once again she pulled it tighter around her body, folding her arms across her chest to hold it in place. Then, discreetly looked herself over to ensure no part of it could be mistaken as revealing.

"It would help to have more information to refine my search," Solas said. Pointedly not looking at her as he pulled a book off the shelf and scanned its pages. But if he was put off by her appearance he did not show it. "Was there a particular demon you were interested in learning about? Opinions on the topic vary considerably, and with so many schools of thought it can be difficult to find what's better suited without more context."

She hesitated. Opened her mouth to answer, only to pause there and chew at her lip instead. When no reply came Solas turned and raised a curious brow.

Finally, "Despair," she replied.

She watched the emotions play out over his features in subtle twitches and knots as he put the pieces together: confusion, curiosity, understanding, sadness.

Pity.

"Ah."

What little confidence she had managed to muster all but disappeared as he averted his gaze. "Ellana…" It was the first time he had used her name since they'd parted. "Are you having nightmares?"

All the chill had left his voice. It made her stomach flip as readily as it made her bristle.

Damn him.

She scoffed, the denial ready on her lips, but there was something in the way his eyes flit briefly back to hers that made her reconsider. There was warmth there, behind the mask, and she yearned for it. Desperate for any crumb of intimacy.

"Often, since all this started — but more so recently," she said, somewhat reluctantly.

"Would you tell me what happens in them?"

"I'd very much prefer not to."

He took a step forward, hand lifting as though to touch her… only to pull it away and tuck it safely behind his back. That brief flash of warmth stifled before it could blossom into tenderness.

"If that is truly what plagues you, you must take care not to enter the dream as a target. Despair is the perversion of hope. To combat it, one must arm themselves with its opposite. A focus — in meditation, perhaps — on shedding the pain that lingers. Harden your heart, and reshape that hurt into your armour."

She gave a shout of bitter laughter that was too loud, too sudden; it made him flinch. "That's it then?" She flicked her wrist in a dismissive gesture. "Just, 'get over it'? Think positively?"

He was quiet a long time. The crease in his brow growing ever deeper with each passing second, heavy with the weight of… something. Impatience or frustration or simply disappointment that she'd come all the way here in the middle of the night just to be coy with him.

"I'm sorry I cannot offer more."

"Thanks, Solas," she scoffed. "Really. For everything."

It would have been better to turn and leave. To drop it there — take the anger he had gifted her and use it as a shield against her sorrows. Ruminate on the advice and pray it worked. But something anchored her; more than just the desire to save face. He had tipped his hand, revealing a flicker of hope that his sympathies ran deeper than polite camaraderie. That something was hid there, beneath that calm, even, façade.

Rather than nurture it, she wanted to use it. Twist it. It drove her to stay — to push — even if onlyfor spite.

"It's just so fucking easy for you, isn't it?" Bitterness dripped from every word. She was needling him and they both knew it. "To drop it all and continue on as though nothing ever happened. Wash it away like dirt. You're just so terribly good at being cold."

A flicker of hurt crossed his face, and for a moment she wondered if the cut had wounded him.

But, "Practiced does not mean painless," he said softly, and she knew it was not for himself that he mourned.

Embarrassment flushed, hot, up the back of her neck. "Don't feed me bullshit, Solas, have respect," she bit. "Don't you ever tire of the circles? Be honourable, for once: drop the farce and cut me free of the dance." If they were going to hash this out here, she wanted him to leave bloodied. "Does any part of you feel remorse for leading me on when you'd never intended to stay? Regret? I was so blinded by infatuation I would have given you far more than you could've strung me along for months and netted yourself something more substantial than — what? — a few romantic interludes that went fucking nowhere? I was charmed by your cleverness and the attention you paid me, and I was so fucking stupid I actually believed you were in love with me."

"Ra dea vindhru bellanaris," he said without hesitation.

Anger flared in her chest. She balled her hands so tight fists that her nails dug crescents in her palms. "Ma harelas!" she yelled, and the accusation echoed in the empty hall.

Solas did not flinch at the curse, but his eyes held hers for a long moment before falling to the floor. He looked defeated, and in spite of the sincerity a part of her still wondered if it wasn't just an act. Some twisted, back-handed, ploy to ease her shameful pining with the lie he shared it.

But when he spoke his voice was taut with a rare display of emotion. "More than you know, but not of this. Ir abelas, vhenan."

If he thought endearments would soften her tongue he was sorely mistaken. So furious was she, that the thundering beat of her heart set her head spinning. Fists tight and shaking, clawing at the air as she struggled to find purchase on something — anything — to weaponize. Some piece of this that she could tear off and throw back at him. To make him hurt the way she did when he called her his heart.

"Tel'abelas, harellan," she ground through clenched teeth."If you are, do not throw that word around unless you mean it."

There, she thought — with some measure of pride — when she saw him wince. The words had driven a spike through the cracks in his mask; wedged it apart, until loosened just enough to see what lay beneath.

The longer they stood in this darkened hall the more she could see that for all his poise and politeness there was a sea of unspent emotion toiling somewhere under the surface. It was in the way his shoulders fell with each long exhale. The way his hands hung limp at his sides, fingers rubbing across a thumb as he spoke. He stood, silent and weary, facing her mountain of rage with his eyes searching hers for... something. She could not possibly say what. Some answer to a question she'd never hear him ask.

But surely it was not pain for himself that lay in his eyes — only for her. He looked at her mournfully. Piteously. As though she were a small and feeble thing. Cast aside, and now felt sorry for when she could not let him go. A thing which he offered gentle lies and comforting pats when she circled at his ankles like a heartsick puppy that followed him home.

How big of him to try and soothe her broken heart.

The thought disgusted her.

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes. Her nose stung. The realization that she was so close to breaking had her wishing she'd stormed off when she first had the chance.

This was not love. This was a disease. These endearments were poison to her ears. You do not walk away from your heart so easily.

Weeks of anger, confusion, and the pain she'd bore churned within her. Boiling up from a deep, dark, place in the pit of her stomach and spreading white-hot through her veins. Twisting her face into a snarl as her vision clouded with tears.

She would not let him win this.

The act began before she'd even thought it.

And Solas caught her by the wrist an instant before her palm connected with his cheek.

The shock of it made her gasp — both the realization that she'd tried to hit him, and the speed of his deflection. His fingers held her firmly, and though he loosened the grip when it was clear she was not going to fight him, he did not release her entirely. That pitying look that had drawn her rage a moment past had fallen into one far more saddened now. Violence had stripped away the last remains of his mask, laying him bare in a way she'd not seen before.

There was guilt and anguish and so much pain in his eyes it was a wonder he could ever hide it away.

Was it truly remorse? Or merely disappointment that she had been reduced to such a state?

She could not turn away, even as her chest grew tight and she felt the angry tears well in her eyes. Hating how small she felt. A deep, shuddering, breath shook her chest — then another, and another — and soon she was choking back a sob that would surely bring a torrent if she allowed it past her lips. She was trapped here, on the precipice of breaking down, and the worst of it all was how much she did not want to be freed. It burned where his fingers touched — she craved that feeling. The closeness. This was the most she'd had of him since he left.

With that came a storm: humiliation, and the pain of a love she couldn't keep. So she let her eyes slip closed — giving up the fight — and her lips parted around a sob.

She expected him to walk away. To grant her what shred of dignity he was able and leave her with her tears. Not bear witness to her ruin.

But instead, she felt the press of his mouth.

She stilled, confused, though she did not pull away. The kiss was delicate. Impulsive. An attempt to convey a message that words could not. It was an offering, and an apology.

I'm sorry, it said, I did not mean to hurt you.

It did not ask for anything more than her acceptance; there was nothing she could do to stop herself from returning it. The tears caught in her lashes slid over flushed cheeks as she melted into the embrace, helpless. The taste of his lips were a balm on her shattered heart even though she knew it would kill her when he finally pulled away.

Slowly, his fingers released her wrist and slid along her arm. Curled slightly, at her elbow, to pull her closer. When she pressed her chest to his, his hands moved to her hips. Holding her in place. Tender. Soft. His kiss held her bottom lip between his own with a tentative sort of gentleness she'd never felt from him when they were lovers, even in their most intimate moments.

It hurt terribly to need it so much.

It hurt far worse to need more.

When it broke, it was with a sigh. A delicate brush of his lips. He lingered there, a hairsbreadth away, and did not let her go. Too close, with his breath upon her mouth. When she could meet his gaze she found his eyes brimming with a truth he'd never give voice to, and in that moment she believed him.

Vhenan.

She could not hold onto her anger here.

Slowly, and so carefully, Ellana ran her hands up his chest and over his shoulders. Then, lightly squeezed them.

An invitation.

He tensed — breath hitching — but did not refuse her. Inside him a war was raging: desire and duty, sense and need. She could feel it in his fingers gripping tight to her hips, pushing and pulling all at once.

But then his eyes found her mouth, throat bobbing with a hard swallow, and he wet his lips. And when he slated his mouth against hers a second time she could not stifle the whine that bubbled up from her throat.

This time the kiss was not a gentle, quiet, apology.

This kiss was dangerous, laced with temptation.

A dam broke: her touch became frantic. Crooked fingers raked across his neck, played at the edges of his ears, ran down his jaw, throat, and curled around his collar. She was starved for this, and if his choked sounds were any indication he was just as hungry. Trembling hands fisted the front of his jacket and held tight, terrified that if she let go for even a second he would disappear.

The kiss deepened as tongues pressed for entry — she could not be sure who asked first, who demanded — but hungry mouths answered without hesitation. She pulled at his lower lip with her teeth, tugging gently, and the rumbling moan he gave made her stomach flip. A flush seared, hot, across her chest as they moved together. The fire between them fed by hurt, turning loneliness to mindless desperation. What began as slow and tentative was quickly tumbling into something treacherous, driving them both to madness.

She did not understand. Could not understand. She both hated and loved him so madly in this moment that she couldn't think how to tear herself away even as it threatened to rend her apart.

Solas wove his fingers deep into her hair and pulled, drawing a sudden gasp that made his hands jump to cradle her neck instead. Though they found their way back in seconds. He was rough — frayed and frenzied in a way she'd never known him capable. This was a side of him he had carefully restrained, it was only in this delirious embrace that she saw how much he felt.

Needed.

Desired.

The thought sent a strike of arousal through her. All she could feel was his hands pulling, nails digging into her skin, tearing at her like a starved wolf greedy for a taste and she loved every horrible second of it.

She could not think of how this could keep going, how it could end, how it even began and yet did not care enough to stop it. Somewhere at the back of her mind a voice warned her this was wrong — they should stop before a line was crossed — but then his hips were pushing against hers and suddenly she walking backward in quick, clumsy steps until he had her thrown against a shelf.

Any protest she might've had after that simply vanished.

The impact knocked several books to the floor, but neither noticed nor cared. Not when his hands were on her waist and she could taste his need in the deft movements of his tongue. Soft groans and hitched breaths filled the space around them and she writhed beneath the press of his weight.

She lifted one foot to run a toe up the back of his calf. It was a tease, a ploy to pull him closer, but his response was so sudden and intense it was near involuntary. He wrapped a hand around her thigh and yanked it hard, bracing it high upon his hip. The movement angled her hips down, shifting her centre of gravity, and she would have lost her balance if not for the brace of his thigh between her legs. Before she could even begin to process that he was rolling it against her. A slow aching rock that had her keening.

It had been so long since she'd been touched by a hand other than her own. In an instant, she was set alight. It would not take much to explode.

When her hips gave an involuntary jerk against the next press his chest rumbled with a deep, satisfied, moan. The soft whimpers she slipped had emboldened him. There was no trace of that careful reserve in the fingers running up the underside of her thigh. They were brave when they probed beneath the skirt of her robe without thought or question, raking across the curve of her ass when he found her bare. A cracked, guttural, sound followed — and was so full of passion that it took everything in her not to tear his clothes off and demand his pleasure then and there.

There was no mask left; no paltry excuses to keep her at a distance, polite and chaste. This was the passion he'd kept safely hidden throughout their relationship. A deep well of touch-starved desperation she could only wish for. There'd been only traces of it; slips of control when they were lost in the few, intimate, moments they'd managed to find.

But even the most passionate had been nothing like this.

She tested a roll of her hip and found him painfully hard against it. Delighting in the shuddering breath that followed. The feel of his erection pressing between her legs sent a jolt of heat straight to her core. Twisting and curling within her, she ached in a way she hadn't in years. He'd never been so bold when they were together. He'd never given into the desire to touch her with intent, in spite of all the invitations she offered. No approach had ever rewarded her with more. This was different. Driven by a heady mix of hurt, fury, loneliness, and desperation that pushed them into each other even if they knew it wasn't right.

It should stop.

It should never have started at all. This was over — he'd made that clear.

Hadn't he?

It didn't matter. Nothing mattered. Second thoughts banished to the Void as Ellana snaked a between their bodies, flipping open the latch on his belt and pulling at his jacket. She wanted to feel the heat of his skin — to touch him as he did her. Eager fingers dug beneath layers, pushing up his thin tunic and finally finding the prize she sought. He twitched and fluttered under her touch, breath catching as she explored every line and curve of his waist. His back and his hips.

He was broad and tall for an elf; more so than any other elven man she'd known. Exploring him was a wonder. Her hands impatient and too eager. She stumbled, clumsy, as if a bumbling teenager. Hungry to take everything at once. But the shyness passed quickly with his body pressed to hers. Gooseflesh raised wherever her touch drew upon his skin and he did not resist even as she tugged at his breeches, probing beneath the hem at his backside. Questing for more of him.

He shuddered when her nails raked along the curve of taut muscle, and a distant part of her wondered how long it had been since he'd taken a lover. He was sensitive like a man who had forgotten what it felt like to have his body enjoyed.

Somewhere in the haze of desire she became aware of his hand wandering toward the knot on her dressing robe. He tugged it hard, loosening it somewhat but failing to undo it completely. Impatient, he abandoned a second try and slid his fingers between the folded layers instead. Reaching in to palm her breast through her shift. When his thumb rolled across her nipple, pinching it lightly through the rough linen, she was moaning into his mouth. Heat coiled in her belly. She writhed with it, hips rutting wantonly against his own and revelling in those short, staccato, breaths that slipped out with every rolling pass of his arousal.

The press of him was like steel. Only a few thin layers of clothing separated them. She wondered if he could feel her heat.

He must, she decided, because he held his hips so still against each roll and with her hands on his ass she could feel the ripple of tension each time he struggled not to follow the movements. He was hanging by a thread of self-restraint.

He wants this. He wants me.

The hand gripping her rear, beneath the robe, began to slide lower. His palm dragging over the curve of her ass, fingers curling inward so they brushed against sensitive skin. She shuddered, pulse drumming in her ears as his little finger crept over just enough to feel the slick gathering on the inside of her thighs. A needy whine escaped her lips. He swallowed hard, panting into her mouth, and his hips stuttered against the next roll.

Gods and Creators, she begged, please do not stop…

The sound of a door slamming shut echoed through the rotunda. Night staff, downstairs, passing through what they believed was an empty building.

And abruptly, they parted.

The second his body left hers she felt empty. As though he'd torn her heart from her chest when he took a panicked step back. Her fingers hung in the air, curled and extended toward him, pleading for his return. She blinked, brows knit, and searched him for an explanation.

He was a sight to behold: rumpled and taut, with cheeks and ears flushed crimson red. A colour she'd never seen on him before. But rather than arousal his face was painted with embarrassment. His eyes darted nervously from side to side, back to her, then away again. He shook his head, and scrubbed both hands up his face.

Ellana watched him curiously, struggling to slow her heaving breaths as she awkwardly tugged her shift back into place. "Solas…?" she tested, and her voice was rough.

He did not answer, so she took a step toward him.

He took a step back.

Breathing hard, "I'm sorry," he stammered. She'd never seen him so flustered. He averted his gaze, repeating the apology a little louder, "I'm sorry, Ellana. I should— I should not have—"

"It's fine Solas, just—" She stepped towards him, hand extended, but stilled when he threw both of his up in defence.

"No," he said sharply, then looked at her uneasily. Surprised by the force in his own voice. He shook his head again, closing his eyes, then turned and walked briskly toward the staircase.

Confusion quickly turned to alarm. "Solas, wait!" she cried.

But he did not stop.

The wave of grief she'd held back broke over her with a feeble cry and she watched, helpless, as he disappeared down the stairs and out of sight.

He had to get away from her.

Somewhere.

Anywhere.

Confident strides quickened to panicked stumbling down flights of stairs, through hallways, past the confused expressions of the lingering night staff as he shakily smoothed his uneven clothes and struggled to tuck in the loose corner of his tunic.

He pushed his way through Skyhold's corridors, out into the chilly night air, until he finally reached his quarters. The moment the door closed behind him he was overtaken. The weight of it pressing down upon his chest, wrenching tearless, heaving, sobs from every breath. Threatening to drown him under the tide.

Hurt, guilt, desire, lust, anger, self-loathing. It all swirled in him, powerful and unrestrained. He leaned back upon the door and slid, slowly, down until he was seated on the floor. Kneels curled up, resting his head in his open hands.

How could he have been so foolish? So incorrigibly selfish? How could he let it happen? Where was his self-control?

It shamed him to know how far the moment would have carried them had he not been startled to his senses. He was ready to fall into one of the overstuffed chairs and draw her into his lap. Push her shift up, over her thighs, and feast upon her sex until she cried her pleasure to the birds.

Why did you kiss her, you damnable fool?

But he knew the answer. He loved, and wanted, and needed — it was too easy to fall into her warmth. He could not tear himself away when he saw the pain in her eyes, knowing he'd caused it.

Seconds more and that heated, clumsy, groping would have devolved into something truly unwise. Aching to soothe her pain and slake his guilt, he longed to give into what he'd worked so hard to suppress. To take it all back — everything he'd said. To forget. To lose himself in her body and her kiss and let those delicate fingers drag across his skin, leaving fire in their wake.

The pull of desire was far more powerful than he'd anticipated, and when the moment found them he was helpless to its draw.

He wanted her.

He felt it every time he looked at her. Every time he caught her looking at him, though her face held only fury now. Pain he'd caused by letting their entanglement to continue as long as it did. Selfishly, he allowed himself to fall for her; encouraged her flirtation and responded in kind. It never should've gone so far. It was irresponsible. Unacceptable.

This was a mistake. One more in a long line of regrets.

If he could leave, he would. Surely, it would make it easier on both of them. But they were too close to the end now — he could not abandon the Inquisition, or her, in their hour of greatest need.

This was his fault, he had to do what he could to fix it. He owed her that much.

He would simply have to redouble his efforts. Enforce the distance between them. Be stronger. Colder. Resist the urge to respond to her longing with a comforting touch and kind words. It would not help her get through, and it would not ease his burden. Though as weak as he was he could barely maintain a friendship with her without falling into her gravity.

At least not until he could push this — all of it — away. Until he could look at her again without feeling...

Without feeling.

If he was honest with himself, he knew he lacked the strength to be indifferent when his heart still belonged to her. Not when he was this starved for touch, and desire could be drawn to the surface with barely a brush of her hand.

And now he dreaded the knowledge that he would have to once again twist the knife after this ridiculous dalliance.

He should have pushed her away.

You are a selfish man.

He sat there, on the floor of his room with his face buried in his hands, for what seemed like hours. Breathing. Thinking. Trying to put himself back together and douse his burning skin. But his thoughts betrayed him. Returning over and over to the soft curve of her body. The way her breasts fit so perfectly in the cup of his palm. The way her hands twitched at his sides, ready to grasp him through his pants.

And oh, the sounds she made.

It was impossible to slow the pounding of his heart when every gasp and moan was writ indelibly on his mind. The smell of her lingering on his clothes.

Slowly — painfully — he forced a retreat back into his façade of quiet reserve. Shaking breaths began to deepen, then slow, and with a final shudder he lifted his face and stared into the darkness.

"There is hurt, here. Twisting, tearing, sick and searing. Sundered apart, but you wish you weren't. Why?"

He could not be sure how long Cole had listened — for once, he'd not sensed his arrival — but he was certain what turmoil had drawn him. He often visited while Solas was alone, flitting in and out without warning; he'd come to expect it now. Sometimes to talk, or seek aid in better understanding their companions, sometimes just to observe. Always bright and curious, so full of questions.

Now, he was quiet — perched on the edge of Solas' bed with his hands clasped between his knees and his face hidden beneath a fringe of messy hair.

Solas took a deep breath to steady himself before replying. "You cannot heal this, Cole."

"I want to. You want to. She wants to. She would understand."

He shook his head. "I cannot take her down this path with me."

"Why?"

"Because, I—" He stopped, considering his answer, then began again. "It is too much to put upon her, and it would be unfair of me. I have been so terribly selfish already. This is not her battle; she has her own to fight, and I would not add to that burden. I have done enough to her." After a time, he added in whisper, "And she deserves far better than what I can give."

"You don't know," Cole pressed. "She loves, accepts, wants, needs. To know. To understand! Why did he press after pulling away? Why deny that he desires? She was alone — it is so cold here — but your heat soothes what aches. She hungers for knowledge, for a hand in the dark, she will take yours when you offer it."

"Stop, Cole." Irritation sharpened his voice. "You cannot heal this."

The spirit fell silent, looking down at the floor. Several moments passed before he spoke again.

"But you could."

He sighed, defeated.

"I know."

TRANSLATIONS:

Ra dea vindhru bellanaris = It will always be true (lit. it was truth eternal)

Ma harelas = you lied

Ir abelas, vhenan = I'm sorry, my heart.

Tel'abelas, harellan = (You're) not sorry, liar