The tower's heavy wooden door slammed shut like a thunderclap. An exclamation to mark the end of the short reprieve over the tense, silent, walk to her room.
Solas lingered at the bottom of the stair to lock and ward its entrance. An act borne of respect over caution — no one had breached the walls in all their time within them, Skyhold was near impregnable — but the gesture evolved as a form of deference to Ellana's position. The promise of regard for her safety no matter the circumstance. A habit now, as the spell had been performed enough times in enough places to become second nature, it held no greater significance.
She did not wait for him. By the time he finished and began climbing the stairs she was already half way across the room, each step an angry clap where her feet hit the stone floor between plush Nevarran rugs. Robbed of all the poise and grace he'd once complimented.
There came a scoff. A sharp, pointed, exhale — almost a snort — that she tossed over one shoulder. "Have you had enough of making a fool of me? Undermining my authority in the middle of the rotunda. In front of half the fucking fortress."
That stopped his ascent. One hand paused upon the rail. The accusation rankled not just for the implication that the intent of the argument was to publicly humiliate her, but more to the point because she started it.
He began to protest, "I was not—"but thought better of it. The tower granted them the privacy to speak freely. He sighed instead. "This is not about the missive."
"Are we no longer keeping up that charade? Wonderful." Ellana reached her writing desk, turned, and leaned a hip against it. Facing him, but with her arms folded tight across her chest and her eyes cast aside. He stopped on the landing at the top of the stairs.
With thirty paces between them they stood a world apart.
"I know you are angry with me," said Solas coolly, and the glare she fixed him with made the point for him. "You have every right to be after what happened. I should not have kissed you."
"That was not just a kiss," she countered. The words pricked with contempt, she bristled just to speak them. But there was pain there, too. A hitch in the held breath just before she charged forward, knowing she had nothing to lose with brutal honesty. "After all this I think what you truly regret is everything that came before — everything that led to it. All the way back to the very beginning you've acted as if it were all one misstep after another. For a while I wondered if it wasn't some sort of game for you; if I was just one of many… I hoped it was. That would make things so much easier. Then I could just hate you for the selfish son of a bitch you are and move on." Only then did she look at him. Hard eyes a window to a gentle heart, broken. "But no matter how hard I try I can't make that fit. You aren't the type. It seems more like you keep trying to get away and end up pulled back in. I'm the mistake you just keep making."
"That is not true," he blustered. But too quick, and the silence that followed after stretched long enough to feel uncomfortable. One dark brow climbing her forehead as she waited for the justification of such vehement denial.
He shifted his weight. Clasped his hands behind his back. "What came before is not the issue. To act as I did following its ending, is. That was the misstep: it was inappropriate, after everything, there is an expectation of our roles that I failed to meet. I had no intent to confuse or upset you. An error in judgement, certainly, but mine alone. And it will not happen again."
A long moment passed where she stared at him, incredulous, before a bark of laughter broke the silence. "Was thatan apology? You make it sound like you called me by the wrong title at dinner instead of…" One hand turned circles as she struggled with what to name it. Finally settling on a stilted, "That," she could only say with eyes averted. "It wasn't disrespect you paid me, Solas. I'm not embarrassed. I wasn't insulted by your nerve I wassurprised by your passion. And — yes — a little confused! After everything. I'm not sure where we stand and clearly you aren't either. It would be much simpler if you actually took the time to talk to me about all of this."
"We are talking now," he replied, with more petulance than grace should allow.
She rolled her eyes. "You know what I mean. You've been avoiding this, just as you've been avoiding me. For days. Weeks, really."
"I have not been avoiding you," he lied — and poorly. "I was occupied. Working — just as you have been — on research for the Inquisition."
It barely passed for an answer, let alone a good excuse. And she did not dignify it with a response.
He continued, "It does us no favour to linger on what was. There was nothing more to say. For both our sakes, distance was preferable."
"And that was 'distance' pressed into my thigh while you had me pinned against a bookshelf?"
"That—" he choked, and turned away. He would laugh at the cheek if he was not so startled by her gall. Temper made her bold, and she needed no help throwing him off his guard. He coughed. Scrubbed a hand across his face to hide the pink that dusted it. "A mistake. I was… I forgot myself in the moment. You were—"
Careful.
"—A moment we should not focus on." He pivoted, "And you do not need to corner me on some mindless escort mission to try and force a conversation about it. That is not necessary."
Hurt flashed across her features for an instant — "Don't I?" — then was covered, just as quickly, by a veil of anger. "Would you have answered any request I made to speak to you privately? Because all the times I tried after Crestwood you refused. Something about being 'unwise'. And after the library… I'll admit simply writing it into your schedule didn't seem like something you'd honour. You've been happy enough to go on pretending like nothing ever happened. You barely treat me as a colleague. But by all means if you've suddenly decided to be mature about this—" She threw an arm out toward the couch set against the banister. "—take a seat!"
He glanced at it for only a second. Eyes dancing across overstuffed cushions that would seat them uncomfortably close, were he to take the offer, to a blanket slung carelessly over its arm. Bringing to mind the last time they were here together. He'd call her clever for the ploy if he did not know he'd laid it there himself.
It was an evening spent reading aloud, as many were, both to aid in her learning and to enjoy her company. The hour was late — the room cold — and with the warmth of her bed still a line they'd yet to cross he opted instead to pull the blanket off a shelf and invite her to share it with him. It was charming, her eager acceptance, and not long before her head grew heavy on his shoulder. Her breath slow and deep, soothed by his voice (she so often said she loved it) and the even beat of his heart beneath her ear.
While she drifted in and out of sleep his attention began to falter. The sweet smell of her hair and her hand on his chest proved a lure too tempting to deny, and he was moved to return the intimacies she offered so easily. He put down the book, marked the page with a ribbon, and as her eyes fluttered open — a question on her lips — he caught her chin and kissed her.
It surprised her. Delighted her. Those occasions he initiated affection were so few and their time to enjoy it so rare. This was not a moment stolen between obligations, as most were, here he had the luxury of a kiss carefully measured. Savouring the slow glide of his hand along the curve of her waist. The quiet sigh as he pushed his tongue through gently parted lips. Encouraged by the sound, he touched his fingers to her spine, following the vertebrae up to her neck with the pads of his fingers.
Only once the blanket became stifling, tossed aside in a forgotten moment, did they part. Having toed too close to the boundary of desire.Bruised smiles and flushed cheeks begged one last embrace as soft goodnight… but he was gone before she could extend the invitation to stay.
He knew he would have accepted, if he'd let her.
That kiss was not their last before Crestwood, but their nearest to something more… until the library. She'd left the blanket where he'd cast it. A reminder — or a thorn — like the jacket he'd hung on his chair.
He turned from the chaise — from the memory — and caught a glimpse of melancholy on her face before she steeled it. Mourning the loss of what they'd almost had. A curl fell from her braid, bouncing against her temple as she looked away, and his fingers twitched.
A breeze blew in through the open balcony door. Lifting the curtain sheers and dimming the candles on the mantle. She shivered, hugging herself, and his eyes followed the movement. She'd always been sensitive to the cold. Unusually so, he'd thought, for someone raised wild. Few things soured her mood like those early autumn nights on the road before they'd thought to pack the thicker blankets.
The fireplace had yet to be lit for the evening, but was cleared and stacked with wood. He raised a hand to it and flicked his fingers. It was a simple, careless, gesture. Easy magic to light the hearth, and another turn of his wrist to stoke the flame and draw its heat into the room. Winding it around her shoulders like a shroud to ease the sudden chill.
It did not melt the ice from her gaze when she turned it upon him.
"Don't," she whispered.
He frowned. "I'm sorry?"
"Don't do that." She repeated, nodding to the fireplace. "I don't need you to warm me. Just like I don't need you to ask me if I've eaten, or worry about my nightmares, or look at me the way you do when you think I don't notice. Not if this is how it's going to be. I cannot take this back and forth where you shove me with one hand and pull me in with the other. Refuse to so much as speak to me in private yet still insist on acting as though you still care."
"You would rather I treat you unkindly?" he countered.
"I would rather you be honest with me about what you want!" she snapped. Her arms unfolded and she balled her hands into fists held tight to her sides, taking a single, furious, step toward him… but stopped before the second. Burned by her own ire, she deflated, and her gaze fell.
Only once she could speak without faltering did she continue.
"I don't understand any of this. What we were before… it felt real. And then you blindsided me: all those things you said about duty and distraction seemed to come out of nowhere. Since then you've worked so hard to stay out of my way. To be cold. Yet it is abundantly clear what we had did not simply vanish; you still harbour something. What that is or why it cannot be, I don't know… but it is there nonetheless." Her eyes flicked to the fire before meeting with his, and he saw a vulnerability there that managed to make him more uncomfortable than her remark on his desire. "You tell me it was real, take it back in the next breath, throw yourself at me, then run and hide. What is this? If you truly do not regret all that came before, then what were we doing? Was it all for nothing? If that's true, then what happened in the library? What would have happened?"
He was growing hot under the scrutiny; he felt it in his ears and on his neck. The flush made him restless. Rocking his weight between his feet and tugging at the sleeves of his jacket, suddenly and uncomfortably aware of all the layers he wore in front of a roaring pale complexion that gave up his secrets too easily.
"A mistake, as I said. It wasn't my intent to—"
"Then what was your intent?" she cut in, as if the answer were so simple. "What do you want?"
"What I want is of no consequence!" he yelled back. "Nor should it be! We are at war! The Inquisition is preparing for a confrontation that could very well end in all of our deaths. Our focus should be in ensuring it does not. You— we each have a part in this we must play. You are the Inquisitor: your time is better spent on those duties than in pursuit of an affair. It is a distraction. We are— I cannot—" He stumbled there, catching his tongue between his teeth before it betrayed something too near the truth.
I cannot stray from this path; I must walk it alone.
After a long pause, and a deep breath, he dragged a hand across his mouth and finished, "What is needed is for us to be able to maintain a working relationship that does not interfere with those obligations."
Suddenly her focus was razor sharp. Cunning in the tilt of her jaw. "But you do," she said.
It was not a question.
"Do what?"
It was a revelation.
"Want it. Me. This." Ah, there it was — that intellect he loved. Sharp and bright and so quick to find a chink in his armour. "Ra dea vindhru bellanaris. You never stopped," she quoted. Elvish spoken in his own accent made a cut far surer than any blade. "There is something stopping you… but it isn't concern over our ability to act objectively."
Tight-lipped silence was her answer, so she baited him into a better one: "Is there someone else? Are you bonded?"
His eyes snapped to hers. "Of course not."
"Then what has stopped you?" An accusation now — no more questions. It was not the first time he'd tested her patience tonight. "You dance around this acting as though it's brought you shame to disrespect my position as a leader, as if a lack of propriety is the worst offence you could commit, but duty didn't matter when you were flirting with me back in Haven. It didn't matter when I was first named Inquisitor, or at the Winter Palace as a guest of import. It didn't matter when you were watching me across the table of a banquet in my honour. It only mattered after you stood on my balcony and told me you were in love with me, and I think that is far closer to the truth.
"You're not the type to be intimidated by power. If your attitude at Halamshiral is any indication you're more than happy to enjoy a front row seat to the show. Your concern over my ability to lead is touching, and you save face for it, but that's not the reason why we're standing here, is it? So what is?"
That hawkish gaze narrowed on him, searching for loose threads. He'd let her too close before turning away: she'd had time to learn his tells. With uncompromising scrutiny she studied his hands fidgeting as his sides, the pull of his mouth, the stutter of his breath and the weight of his frown as he struggled to find an answer that would satisfy.
A half-truth would play better than a lie, but there were so few of either left to tell.
"A romantic relationship with one's leader is inappropriate? I made a selfish mistake? You deserve better? — Take your pick!"
He'd begun to pace, now. Quick steps back and forth in front of a fire that was far too hot in a room that was rapidly shrinking.
She laughed. A startled — charming — sound she did not quite bury in a cough. "I 'deserve better'?" she repeated, so incredulous he was nearly moved to take it back lest she mistake it for sarcasm. Her confidence as a leader was a fragile thing in the care of those she trusted; he was loath to add weight to those doubts. But when he dared to look, fearing the pain on her face, he found instead an expression of something like bewildered amusement. As though she had not quite settled on what to make of his answer.
"Here stands the mighty Inquisitor," she pantomimed, arms in the air. "A woman whose relevant experience for the role begins and ends with leading a hunting party! A Dalish elf forced into a position of power by a series of terrible coincidences. I was barely literate before coming to the Inquisition, Solas. I have no family to speak of, no wealth, no promises or obligations, no titles or holdings other than what has been thrust upon me for the duration of this conflict. I am no one. What would you believe I deserve?"
The answer came tumbling out before he could think to speak it — "Someone far better than I!" — and the argument came to an immediate, grinding, halt.
She stood and stared. Lips parted around a rebuttal she didn't quite manage to deliver before being stunned into silence. He thought to seize that chance to tear himself away. To leave — this was a mistake, you must go before it escalates — but found his feet rooted to the floor.
"Who are you?" she asked, and sounded almost as shocked to say it as he was to hear it. "What have you done? What are you part of? Where do you even come from? I know so little of you. You've offered nothing of your origins outside your experience living as a wandering, homeless, apostate: aman in constant danger of attracting too much attention yet miraculously skilled at evading it. It is abundantly clear that you are more than what you appear to be." She counted off on her fingers, "A soldier, a courtier, a scholar, a master of eclectic magicks either undiscovered or long forgotten. The breadth of your knowledge and experience speak to a life that has awarded you the privilege of education and status I could never hope to achieve… even as the Inquisitor! Fenedhis Solas, Sera doesn't goad you simply because she doesn't like you, it's because you carry yourself like an aristocrat with no justification you're willing to claim but just enough distain to imply it's not a point of pride.
"You have guarded this aspect of yourself as though it were a dark secret — one I have been content to let you keep — yet you are convinced you are unworthy of my affections? Is that what this has all been about? Some guilty sense of self-loathing tangled up in that darkness you carry?"
This he could not answer either; she'd left him standing in breathless silence. Unmasked and exposed. He was running out of cover.
Then her eyes narrowed, chin lifting, and, "No," she said at length. "Poor self-confidence is not it either. That's closer, but still not the whole picture. All this posturing about distractions… you don't really believe it either, do you? It was never for my benefit, it just made a good cover.
"A dozen times you kissed me in those months we had and none of them ever felt like that. I think that was because, for the first time, I was really kissing you — the part of you underneath all of this." She gestured to the whole of him. "You call it a mistake only because it was the most honest you've been since we met, yet you can barely stand to speak of it. That is not shame. That is fear. You are afraid. What happened in the library is the same as what happened after you told me you were in love with me: it frightened you. So much that you ran off like adog with your tail between your legs and spent the next week jumping at shadows, worried I was lurking around every corner waiting to ambush you into a conversation! You've been so afraid of facing me you haven't even bothered to come up with a strategy other than hoping I would just leave Skyhold! Not because you're ashamed of it, but because you're scared it'll happen again. Because you want it to. It would be easier to convince me it was all a matter of rank or confidence or disrespect because the truth is so much harder for you to bear. And that is that the kiss was not a lie, not a mistake, and you don't give a shit about my duty. You're afraid of this — of us — and I want to know why. Don't give me any more bullshit about rank and station, duty, propriety, and whatever you think I 'deserve'. Do you know what I deserve, Solas? The fucking truth!"
Stunned, he reached for a reply… but could not seem to find his voice. Nor any words to say, if he had. Managing only a quiet, choked, sound that caught in his throat.
"I…"
She was crossing the floor. Long, confident, strides that quickly closed the distance between them, her eyes locked on his. So proud that she had found a way past his defence… and a part of him shared that, too.
When she'd reached a point so near that she could touch him if she wished, he took a step back. Both hands raised in defence. It stopped her, and she frowned at him. Confused by his submission. He had no idea if her intent was to hit him or to kiss him but he could not allow her close enough for either. She was already too near. Too clever, and lovely, and right.
Too real.
The façade was crumbling — he was unravelling. She'd found the threads, and pulled him apart.
She took another step — slower this time, to telegraph her intentions. This was not a charge.
And this time he did not stop her.
He lowered his hands. This close he could see the tears in her eyes, unshed, and the flush on her cheeks from her fervour. That fallen curl rest against her temple, lifting when the breeze dipped into the room. The curious tilt of her head had his hands itching. Overcome with the desire to gently tuck it behind an ear, caress her brow, and pull her nearer still.
It would be such a simple thing to kiss her.
"You've called yourself a liar, but not of this," she whispered. "In this, you're a coward."
There was no malice in it. The words were not meant to pay him insult, instead to speak a truth both needed to hear.
"You are pushing me away because you are afraid. You're afraid of love. Of your own happiness. Of whatever it is you've done that has made you think you're better off alone… but I am not. You don't scare me, and if I deserve love then so do you. I choose this. You don't get to keep running away when I know you want to choose it, too."
Somehow he managed to find the breath to speak. Her name a plea. "Ellana—"
She cut him off. "You are afraid," she repeated, and the sound of it snagged on a rough edge of his heart. There was a tenderness there — he could not understand how, after all the hurt he'd caused, she could still regard him with such gentleness. This love was a gift she gave selflessly — openly — he dared not accept.
But he wanted.
With one last step she closed the space between them. Another, and her body would be upon his. She lifted a hand and let it rest, cupped, upon his cheek. A touch so fond and gentle that he could not help but lean in.
He swallowed hard and his eyes fluttered closed.
If he had any sense left he would leave. He should leave.
But she was so warm.
And he so lonely.
Her gaze flit to his parted lips. His breath stuttered.
"Terrified."
Time seemed to slow.
Permission was sought with the lightest touch. The barest hint of movement as fingertips slid along the curve of his jaw, over his ear, to the cradle of his neck. A pause, brief, before her other hand touched upon his bicep and skimmed up to his shoulder. She held him there in that space between. Close enough to feel the warmth of her body as she leaned in, pressing her chest to his. The soft exhale against his mouth. Intoxicating and inevitable.
There was a quiet gasp as she took a nervous breath and held it, her eyes heavy.
May I?
But what she wanted already belonged to her — she did not need to ask.
His hands found her hips, moving against his whim as if guided by reflex. He pulled her in.
If you kiss her now, said a distant voice, you will not part until morning.
When their lips met the world melted away, and he was lost.
It was gentle at first; small, careful, steps to temper the rush of desperation. How long she'd waited to give him this (how long he'd yearned), yet had the care to allow him the taking. Her kisses honeyed mead — sweet and nourishing — held to parched lips for him to drink of deeply. A taste of passion he had forgotten, revived in this ancient art of lips and teeth: the devotion of fingertips and prayers in tongues. The cradle of her hands made his mouth an altar, each kiss laid in ecstatic worship.
It stirred something deep within him. Anticipation building a low heat that simmered in his belly, roiling and bubbling until it boiled over. Spreading into his chest, his arms, his face… pushing back the darkness that lived there. He wrapped his arms around her body and pressed her to him, so tight he could feel her breath rising in his chest. Her heart rabbit-fast in his hands. Still not enough, his body cried, for he longed to drown her in that pit of heat and feel it grow. To feel her within him, around him, a part of him.
He touched his tongue to the seam of her lips and she opened for him readily. Sucking in a quick, sharp little breath each time his teeth grazed her skin. His hands curled around the sound as if he could grasp it; wrap it round his fingers and hold the moment in his mind in eternity. He was weak already. For all his schooled control she had managed to tear him asunder with a trace of mouth and breath and he was helpless in her hands. Unmade; delicate skin she'd shape with clever fingers, leaving tracts of fire where they raked, to sculpt his longing into something that fit with her. Something that clicked into place and sparked. From these broken pieces she would craft a form that moved her, and gift him bliss.
Renewed, he touched her. Rougher now, with hands that skimmed up the sides of her waist to rest beneath her breasts. She lifted her arms — granting him permission — and though the invitation was offered eagerly he still declined it. It was a struggle to pace himself. Instead, he twisted his fingers into the messy braid at her neck, working it free until the curls sprang wild and loose so he could wind them round his fingers and slow his wanton touch. But when he dug them deep enough to tugher scalp she groaned — and the sound cracked just a little at the end — and it sent him reeling. Lit by the same frenzy that had consumed him in the library.
This time there were no passing patrols. No sudden, slamming doors to startle them apart. No risk of interruption. No better place to be. There was only her, here in his arms, kissing him, with needy fingers pulling at his clothes and her soft sounds in his ears… and he could do nothing but give himself over to her.
So he did.
With a moan, raked his hands along her ribs and firmly grasped her breasts, dragging a thumb up over her nipple and pinching it where it peaked through the fabric. She writhed. Arching her back to push into his touch. The kiss broke with a gasp against his mouth — a soft 'ah!' — that had him instantly, painfully, hard. And then his lips were on her jaw: kissing, nipping, dragging his teeth along her skin, trying to gather enough focus to fumble through the bottom buttons of her jacket and bare her skin. But those hushed, urgent, sounds she made as his tongue laved along the column of her throat made it impossible. Driving his touch harder, deeper, until his nails dug into her clothes and he found himself grateful for the extra layers, even while he struggled with them, so that his bruising grasp would not hurt her. The more he coaxed from her the harder it was to hold back the feral, desperate, part of him that wanted to throw her against the wall and make such violent love to her that they would both be addled and screaming by the end.
But he could not— he would not — let senseless lust be what drove his hands when first they laid together.
He loved her.
He loved her.
And he needed her to feel love in his touch tonight.
He caught her mouth again, deep and long, and then with care skimmed a hand down her side to rest upon her hip bone. A small, guiding, push, and she understood. Unbroken they stumbled together — backward, forward, a clumsy waltz of crossed feet — across the room until the back of her legs hit the bed. The collision caught her by surprise and she faltered, eyes snapping open as she fell back onto the mattress, taking Solas down with her. He caught himself with a hand braced beside her head and his knee astride her waist, nose-to-nose, their eyes locked.
Everything stopped.
And for a long moment nothing happened.
They lay entwined, panting from exertion and excitement, darkened eyes watching each other. Caught in that nervous space between thought and action. If there were ever a chance to stop — to regret — this was it. The air was charged, electric, and the silence deafening.
They searched each other.
For reason.
For reassurance.
For something.
Seconds passed like hours. Ellana swallowed and tightened her grip on Solas' shoulders. Her eyes flit between his own, back and forth, waiting for his choice. She was afraid he'd pull away and leave her — again — even after this. He did not need to know her heart to see it; that fear was written plainly on her face.
The corner of his mouth curled. Reassurance offered in a little smile: nervous, but genuine. Then he tucked his thumb into the hem of her pants to find the pocket of her hip, and rubbed a circle there.
I will stay, the touch said, I want this.
If the night was to be spent in her arms he needed her to know that choice was made honestly — fully — and not as a consequence of blind frenzy.
With two curled fingers he traced a path up her body. Along her stomach, fluttering, over the curve of a breast — the line of her collar, shoulders, throat — until reaching a flushed cheek. There, he cupped it gently. Ran a thumb across her lips and watched, hungry, as they parted for breath. He was reverent in his study. Honest in his interest. Tonight he would show her the depths of his desire; what she meant to him, and all he'd longed for.
If she would have him, he would give himself to her.
He whispered, "Ar lath ma, Ellana," and pressed his mouth to hers in a fierce, bruising, kiss that left no room for doubt.
She laughed in her excitement — relief — and fumbled with the latch on his belt. Tugging at it with clumsy fingers for what seemed like ages before it finally came loose. He shrugged out of the jacket, letting it fall away behind him, and eased her knees apart. Pressed his leg against the apex of her thighs. The gasp she made was even sweeter than the shudder of her hips against him. A taste of friction to whet his palate.
Though he made quick work of the buttons on her blouse, she was faster, and managed to tear his tunic up and off his body before he'd gotten her half-way out of her own. Calloused palms made rough by years of archery ran, wild, needy, across the expanse of his chest. His back. His shoulders and arms. Every inch of freckled skin she could reach. His lips parted from hers only by necessity, gasping to catch his breath.
An age had passed since he'd felt the touch of another… his skin had forgotten. This was what it was to be desired. To be enjoyed.
It left him trembling; fragile, at the mercy of her hands. It would be embarrassing, how easily he succumbed, if not for the ravenous look in her eyes. She revelled in the prize she'd won. His submission excited her. So he held her gaze and let her see his helplessness as she raked her nails across his back.
Her mouth was on his throat. First a kiss to taste his racing pulse, then tongue and teeth to mark him. She paired the bite with a flick of his hardened nipple, sending a jolt of arousal straight to his core like a strike of lightning. So startling that he utterly failed to contain the noise that burst from his throat: a broken, breathy, groan that shook his chest. She devoured it. Thighs twisting around his leg, she ground herself upon him. Wanton, unabashed; she made no secret of what the sounds did to her.
If she loved it so he would gift her a symphony.
Again and again she teased him. Pinch and bite. Sucking bruises into his neck, she stole the very breath from his lungs. Leaving him light and dizzy. Every inch of his skin on fire.
This alone could ruin him, if he let it. It would hardly take a moment more. But first he would see her satisfied.
It took all his will to break free of the lure of a quick end and turn his attention where it belonged. Strength beyond measure to pull her hand from his chest and pin it to the bed. It startled her, the sudden switch from predator to prey, but her eyes were dark and hungry. And the soft kiss of penance left on her jaw was met with an approving moan. She'd always loved a good fight.
Eager hands touched her breasts. Cupped and kneaded, measuring the fit of each curve in his palm. An indulgence, but one he could not help but take when her back arched so beautifully.
He freed her of the blouse hanging loose and unbuttoned. It slid from her shoulders like falling water and floated to the floor behind him. He nudged her jaw to one side with his nose and kissed his way down, nipping at her throat to coax more of those sounds from it. Each gasp sipped like the finest wine. His head swam, drunk on lust. Every grinding pass against his thigh had him struggling not to rut against her in return; his erection straining against the seam of his breeches, desperate for friction.
She read his thoughts — or perhaps just his body — and her hand slithered between them, moving with clear intent. Worried for his stamina, he made to catch her wrist before it found him… but was not quite fast enough. She made sure of it. Clever fingers curled around his clothed length, rubbing just a little. Exploring what she could feel of the shape of him through his pants.
And when she squeezed…
In an instant he forgot all about their argument, about the turmoil, about weeks of enforced distance and even the reasons why he pushed her away to begin with. All that remained was this: heat, scent, need, touch, groans in his ears and the promise of a union he had only ever dared to dream in the dark. When tension and desire became so unbearable as to drive him to seek guilty relief in the palm of his hand.
There were sparks in his belly and her lips at his ear. A voice thick with promise that whispered to him — "How long has it been?" — as she ran a curled knuckle along the length of his arousal. Grinning, satisfied, when she felt him twitch.
Truthfully, he could not remember. Though whether the memory of past encounters were driven away by time or by present need, he could not say. So he shook his head. "Too long," he rasped, and kissed her soundly.
There was a growing need to see her bared. It drove his hands, quick and deft, beneath her back to draw her nearer. Pull them both upright in a quick, rough, motion and grab the hem of her undershirt. He urged it up, over her head, and off it flew somewhere else. The instant she was free his fingers were at the laces of her breastband, fumbling, near to ripping in his impatience, and soon enough it was on the floor with the rest.
A sharp tug on her breeches took them down over her hips. "Off," he whispered, and she obliged. Working with his hands until together they'd managed to loose the cords and tear both her pants and smalls off in one swift movement.
When she was finally bare to him he lowered her back down upon the mattress — gently, with care — and gazed upon her. On his hands and knees he leaned to one side to better take in the picture she made of silken, cinnamon, skin and curls of dark hair.
There had been times he'd seen her before. After battle, if he was called upon to heal breaks and bruises that potions could not, clothing was lost or moved aside without question. In other contexts, less often… as with her unexpectedly diving into a secluded riverbank he'd already laid claim to. The Dalish did not share the humans' sense of modesty; before a deeper connection was forged she treated him no differently than any clanmate. Shyness only followed the first sparks of attraction. And while he could not claim his thoughts were always pure in the presence of her body, those times they strayed were brief. Station, if not propriety, demanded it.
Here, there were no such bounds. She lay beneath him free and unashamed. Eager. Wanting. For a time he could only stare, entranced by the sight of her.
A soft breath left his parted lips and when he whispered, "You are so beautiful," it was as honest as he'd ever been. She smiled like she believed him.
Solas willed himself to move slowly. A feather-light caress across her stomach, following the curve of her ribs to the underside of a breast. Breath fluttered in her chest. He could see it in her throat, a grasp caught when knuckles turned to nails and teased a dark nipple erect. She groaned her approval, twisting her thighs around his leg as he rolled and stroked the nub between his fingers. When she bit her lip and arched into the touch — a silent plea for more — he had no will to deny her.
With an eager grin he cupped her breast in his palm and descended upon her, sucking the bud into his mouth. That quiet, choked, moan became a yelp — surprise, then pleasure. Hot tongue and sharp teeth rewarded him with curses and gasps. A whimper of his name. She writhed, helpless; unable to do anything but rake her nails over his scalp and pant. It made him bold — made him want — and he was growing greedy in his hunger.
How might she sound when…
He released her with a flick of his tongue and she was gasping. Then quivering, tense in anticipation as he kissed a trail across her chest. Pausing to exhale a puff of heated breath before laving the next breast as he had the first. She was sensitive — reactive — senses heightened by the excitement of having his hands on her. A mess in minutes without the wherewithal to be embarrassed by her state.
Each circle of his tongue had her grinding on his thigh. An effort to relieve her tension that only worsened his own, as the movement caused her leg to brush up against his groin. It was driving him mad. Every rock of her hips, so close to what he wanted, stoked the fire until his body was burning. Screaming for relief. It took only a few passes before the need to chase that sensation won out over any thought of preserving his modesty. With the next movement he gave in. Used the firm grasp of her hip to pull her body as close as she could get, and rocked, pushing his aching cock into the junction of her hip. A long, deep groan tore from his throat. Even clothed, the friction was exquisite.
In an instant she had shifted to provide a better angle, leaning into the movement in a way that had him struggling not to bite down on the delicate nub still held between his teeth. He was coming undone and she was revelling in the wreck of him.
He traced a line to her neck with his tongue to taste her skin. Another rock, and his lips were at her ear, holding there to let her hear his ragged breath when they moved against each other. She held his face in the cup of her hands and pushed him back to look in his eyes, and when he could stand to open them he saw only hunger there, raw and violent. An abyss of blown pupils ringed by verdant green. Shining, rapt, as she watched him take pleasure in her.
Months of restraint had given her only glimpses of the passion that lived beneath that mask of reserve. She had freed it now; that cover set aside. Laid bare the depths of his desire, and was enthralled.
He could see it on her face as she moved with him: the need to lead him to his end. Come for me. It was ready on her tongue, pressed behind her teeth. He'd hear it in her voice before the night was over.
She was methodical in her exploration. A turn of her hip, breath on his mouth, a hand skimmed down his back. Though she was naked beneath him, it was he that lay exposed. The reins of pleasure were in her hands.
It took a crash to break that hold. His lips on hers, his tongue insistent, while clever fingers tracked a wave of tension rolling from her chest to thighs. He followed it down, over her belly, to the peak of her sex. She was wet — hot — and her hips lifted to meet him. She did not ask. Nor beg and plead. But granted him permission with the parting of her thighs. A word unspoken, waiting in the space left by a broken kiss.
Please.
So dear was that need to be touched — to be filled — that when he finally slid a finger through the slick of her thighs, across swollen lips and into the heat of her, she bit his mouth. Hard enough to steal a sharp hiss. He stilled, surprised, but did not pull away.
A flush spread into her cheeks. Beautifully red beneath the spray of dark freckles. "Sorry," she breathed.
It was charming, in the moment. As they lay entwined, closer than they'd ever been, with his fingers just barely inside her, she still found cause to blush at the unexpected. Embarrassed by her own eagerness.
He laughed softly. "Do not concern yourself," he said, with his voice pitched low. Teased, "Aside—" as he slid two fingers deeper. Curled. And like a bow her body followed, bending off the mattress. There he held her steady. To give her time to adjust to the fullness. To breathe, so the next thrust of his fingers might gift him another beautiful groan. "—I did not mind"
He built a rhythm slowly. Agonizingly. Circling, drawing, playing; languishing in the curses that tumbled from her lips. He wanted her to want. To see her lose control. This would be a slow climb; a wandering path to her peak to grant him the time to exploring every silken inch. He would learn it all and revel in the wet, tight, flutter of her body needing more.
Deeper — she said it without words. One leg lifted and wrapped around his waist. More. A heel dug into his backside. Faster. She knew her pleasure well and was not a shy teacher.He matched pace with the rock of her hips and felt warmth rise in her core.She was soft. Inviting. Ravenous. So greedy for someone who had been so careful in her courting. The thought of sating her had him throbbing.
Had she yearned for him? Studied the shape of his hands the way he'd wondered on her grip? Did she touch herself? Cry out in the dark and shudder in a twist of sheets?
This would ruin him. He knew now what she sounded like. What she felt like. Never again could he close his eyes without seeing her as she was now.Lost, beneath him, with her eyes closed and her head pressed into the mattress. He was captivated; watching those final steps of her climb he'd never felt more excited. It twisted in his thighs, a fire that became an inferno.
The flutter around his fingers turned to squeeze as she began to crest, and when he heard her breath fall deeper he could resist it no more. He cast a spell. Something old and forgotten, from a time when nights like these would last an age. Nameless and precious — a magic made for lovers. He held the glyph between his fingers, within her depths, and when next she gasped he opened her. A flick of his thumb and whispered oath to tie their bodies together.
"Oh!"
Magic rippled beneath her skin, into her chest and throat, down her arms and out her fingertips where they met with his shoulder and side. Sensation split. Amplified, shared in blood and breath.
They were one.
Though it was hardly his first use of the magic, it was exponentially more intense than he'd experienced before. In his shock he cried out with her. When his fingers curled inside he felt the touch at the base his cock. Each stroke as if it were her hands upon him. Warmth pooled in his — her — loins. Coiled tight like a spring. He was rocking himself against her thigh, and though did little to relieve the pressure he could feel her taking pleasure from the friction. Her walls squeezing him with every pass.
There came a moment of startling realization as she touched upon a deep, endless, longing. Desperation beyond words. Her eyes snapped open, lips parting around a gasp of his name, but that shock only lasted a moment. Another plunge, another rock, and she crumbled before it. Swallowed by the tide she spiralled up, and up, and up. Each breath deeper and louder, growing until she could barely contain it. She bit her lip to silence the cry and felt his kiss follow.
"No," he urged, and it sounded pinched. Breathless. "I wish to hear you."
She could feel that desire: the need to see what his touch could command, to see her satisfied. He wanted it as much as she did. A deep, crimson flush had spread from his chest to ears, pink skin hyper-sensitized. When she dug her nails into his back she felt the tingle of pain — of pleasure — in her own. The pounding beat of their hearts in her ears, synchronized.
He pressed his lips to her temple and his eyes fluttered closed. In the instant before she peaked she felt him take a breath and hold it, struggling not to fall into the well of her gravity. This joining would not be his undoing… but it took all his strength to endure it.
When her body finally broke she cried out louder than she ever had in her life.
It was a cacophony of sensation. Breath in her ear, teeth on her jaw, her hands clutching at his back, the slick of her thighs and her body's tight grip on his fingers, the buck of his hips, and a curious mix of relief and desperation. Everything was sharper. Brighter. The slow glide of his touch drawing out her climax for as long as her body would allow.
The waves ebbed, but his study of her pleasure was far from over. A shudder turned to gasp as he plunged his fingers deeper and, "Another," he rasped. Rough at her ear. Bolder than he'd ever dared.
It was not just a demand.
A promise.
She could hardly remember the last time she'd indulged her body in such decadence. Pleasure won from another's hands was too often quick and clumsy. Hiding in groves and behind empty aravels. Little shocks from nervous fingers. There was rarely time for such luxury in those stolen moments. But here on a bed of silk and fur he could grant her that. And basked, greedy, in the throes as she fucked his grip.
Her second came so quickly she hardly had time to catch her breath between. Only cry and curse. This one deeper — longer — like he'd pulled the pleasure out of her… locked away all her life somewhere in the pit of her belly, never known, and waiting to be enjoyed. Wave over wave, it drowned her. She gasped, and drank the sea.
Only when her thighs trembled with exhaustion did he let her down; slowly, as he'd built her up. Using her breath as his guide to ease the magic's hold on her. Whole minutes passed from the peak of her high to the thick, drunken, afterglow. When he was through with her he slid soaked fingers through the dark patch of curls that wreathed her sex, delighting in the mess he'd made of her.
"Felas. Odhea, vhenan," he murmured, and kissed the corners of her mouth. He tasted sweet, like he'd sucked clean his fingers.
She looked at him with dizzied wonder. Eyes alight, ready with a hundred questions. But so lost in the haze all she could manage was a graceless stumble.
"What was…? How? I could feel— was that you?" It tumbled from her lips in a veil of giggles and she flushed a delicate pink. Embarrassed, but more amused by the giddy fluster.
To see a lover brought to ruin was the highest form of flattery, and he let the satisfaction show in his smile.
He stroked her cheek fondly. "Connection," he replied. "A form of healing magic that harmonizes the energies of two bodies. While typically used for diagnostic purposes it can also have more…. intimate applications. Namely, heightening awareness and sensation. If the joining is powerful enough, those feelings can be shared."
Her eyes sparkled with possibility. Ever curious, "Do it again," she said.
He grinned. Caught her chin with a curled finger and lifted her mouth to meet his: a kiss as reagent. He sucked a swollen lip while his thumb traced a circle beneath her jaw, drawing the line down her throat and across her collar. An open hand pressed to her chest cast the glyph there — flash and flicker — and she felt her body open once more.
It was quieter this time. He was careful to ease her into it; not give her too much at once, to allow her to explore the magic. She was so eager to test the bounds. They enjoyed a kiss while her fingers wandered down his sides, following the curve of his muscle, then splayed across his stomach.
When he flinched she broke the kiss, concern in the line of her brow and a question on her tongue. The sharing was too new for her to understand what she'd done. But he did not discourage her… so she repeated the motion.
Again he tensed, and she did too.
Understanding dawned with a slow, curling, grin.
"You're ticklish," she said. And with such awe in her voice that he was caused to laugh instead of answer.
Soon study guided her hand to more pleasurable trails. A pinch of a hardened nipple drew a synchronous gasp; a shudder when her nails left trails across his back. Emboldened, she lunged to bite the junction of his neck, sucking a mark into his pale skin. Her groan an echo of his own.
He rocked his hips and she answered with a firm grip. Palming his erection through his pants. Panting, she watched the enjoyment play out on his face. Tight with pain; slack with pleasure as she worked him through the fabric. Squeezing, rubbing, running her knuckles up and down his length. Her excitement fuelling his own until he'd led her in another climb. Not yet aware that she was chasing his release. It felt too good to stop — more than just the enjoyment of pleasuring a lover, that pool of heat was reflected back upon her. Her body wet as his was tight. When it spread into her stomach she was tugging his laces with her other hand.
If she is not careful…
Thought was not shared across the bond, but she felt panic flash in his chest amid the tide of desire, and so released him. Grateful though he was for the reprieve… he yearned. Never had he felt it so keenly. Beneath him she writhed with it. His, theirs, hers. When she squeezed her thighs together he felt the throb, and his fingers twitched. Eager to touch there and still wet with her. She was slick; warm, and ready. The thought of their joining made his stomach swoop, and she smiled at him for the tease.
He kissed her breathless.
"I have never known magic like this before," she whispered on his skin. Against his mouth, and lower, where reddened lips dragged across his jaw.
He laughed softly. Kissed her temple and the shell of her ear. A shiver ran through them both. "Shall I presume that means you've enjoyed it?"
"Gods, yes. I never want it to stop."
Her fingers played at the laces of his breeches, and with a kiss of encouragement she tugged them loose and slipped a hand inside. That first touch was blinding. He stiffened, not quite catching a groan as her fingers wrapped around him. The next, when she gave him an exploratory stroke, he didn't even try to stifle.
She did not linger to tease. Just squeezed him hard and rasped, "Ar isalathe ma".
He choked a reply, "Ma nuvenin."
Solas slid away from her, off the bed to stand and remove the last of his clothes, but never got past his knees. Ellana wrapped a leg around his waist and rocked him sideways with surprising strength. He fell back onto the bed with a grunt, his mouth a round 'o' of surprise, and she mounted him. Knees against his hips to pin him in place, she ground herself against him and swallowed the moan in a kiss. Offering one of her own as his hips jerked in response.
Eager hands leapt to his waist, worrying at the hem until she could finally tear his breeches down his hips. He kicked them off, barely managing a breath before she took him in hand, and he stilled. Fists balled at her sides as she lowered herself over him… not yet taking him in but gauging his need. Slick folds kissed along his length, watching with keen interest as he twitched and shook. Desperate, growing more so every second; he inhaled sharply through his teeth and pushed the back of his head into the mattress. When she teased him with another wet stroke, nestling the head of his cock in the lips of her sex, the next sound was more whimper than groan.
"Ah," he choked. "Ellana." His voice was dry, and it cracked as he spoke. Plead. The tremor had her biting her lip. Excited and nervous and a little incredulous that they were truly here, in this moment, lying naked with each other with his hands on her body and hers on his cock. Teasing kisses from her lips and all but trembling as he waited for her to take him in.
She stilled. Let her forehead rest against his own as she guided him to her centre. And with shaking breath, sank down upon him. The grip on her hips tightened to a bruising grasp, digging deep crescents into her skin. He groaned. A sound equal measures need and relief. Pushed through tightly clenched teeth as he tried — and failed — to control its volume.
When she'd seated him to the hilt she gave a strained, "Ah!" as he stretched her to her fullest. There she stayed a moment. Waiting, breathing, feeling how their bodies fit together.
With all his focus spent on trying not to move until he could do so with confidence, he did not notice the curious way she watched him. It was only once he opened an eye to check on the silence that had fallen.
She was beautiful like this. Flushed and a mess. Sweat on her temples and freckles on her pinked cheeks. The marks he'd left reddening on her neck. Her hair wild about her shoulders.
Bright green eyes he would surely drown in.
Never had he seen anything so perfect as she looked, here, in this moment.
"Alright?" she asked him softly.
What care she offered, without thought or hesitation. This love was a gift he did not deserve. He reached up to cradle her cheek and she leaned to meet him. Lay a kiss upon his palm.
When she shifted her hips, he gasped, and though her eyes fluttered so beautifully he was forced to beg, "A moment," in strained whisper. In this world his body felt different; more present, more sensitive. He had not used it this way since waking — there was no reason to. Tonight he felt as a young man would on his debut with love, rather than one who had once known it well.
Regardless, she obliged him. Not a moment of their union wasted: she leaned down and kissed him instead. Long, sweet, and slow, her tongue plucking notes from the bow of his lip until he'd had the time to find what strength he needed. Until he took hold of her hips, and she his shoulders, and together they began to rock.
They moved as one. Enmeshed and heady. Lost in the sweet relief that came of consummating a year's worth of slow seduction. To cradle her was a wonder. To guide her hips, divine. Every inch of her open to him; an invitation for his touch. Too many nights he'd thought of this, played it out in his mind when he sought relief from his obsession, but no mere fantasy could do it justice.
The effects of the Connection spell lingered in the air around them, linking them even as it faded. It had made a duet: their bodies caught in the gravity of each other, composing pleasure in the harmony of sensation. A score of breathless Elvish never sung as sweetly; psalms of worship in the space between gasps.
Sharp teeth and clever tongue coaxed ancient prayers from his throat; every touch winding a coil of tension where their bodies met. He felt ravenous. Greedy and senseless. Without thinking he thrust his fingers deep into the tangled mess of her hair, wound the wefts around his fingers, and pulled. There was a sharp gasp — not of pain — and her head rolled back. He dove for her, sinking his teeth into the tender, bruised, flesh at the base of her neck. She cried out and clenched around him. Their rhythm stuttered, and he groaned his pleasure into the soft curve of her shoulder, then laved at the mark with his tongue.
Quiet oaths dissolved into something less coherent once their slow, even, pace began to quicken. They found a rhythm to lead them to a desperate end. Matching each grind with an arc of hips. Bodies trembled and fluttered as they neared; a rush of short, staccato breaths. Pleasure so potent it was near to agony.
He could feel her climbing.
She could feel him climbing.
Each pulled along by the other, a rushing river of moans and needy whines. Cries at the peak of each rutting thrust.
Solas' hands slid to her hips and pushed, urging her to sit up. She obeyed, and he groaned when the shift awarded her a deeper seat of him. He was shaking now, a quake in his thighs that spread up into his stomach and chest as he struggled to hold his peak at bay.
But she was on knife's edge, he knew. If he could not last at least he would take her with him.
Fingers crawled along the back of her hips, moving to the dip in her spine. There he splayed his hand. Waiting until he saw the excitement — consent — in her eyes. And then, with a gesture, Connected them with a torrent of mana.
Far deeper than before, where one was gentle tide this was a storm-tossed wave. There was white behind her eyes, screwed shut, as her body buckled. Her hands braced upon his chest. She called his name — he'd never heard it as beautiful as it was torn from her throat in a sob.
She went up in flame; the burn of mana and shared sensation too much to bear. All at once she knew the touch of his hands, the squeeze of her legs at his sides, the slick of her spreading over his thighs, sweat on their brows, drumming hearts and hitched breaths. An ageless longing; drunk on lust as he watched her rock upon him. She saw into him.
It had been so, so long.
Not merely years but tens, thousands — a hundred lifetimes. Ages rising and falling with the sun. Swallowed and forgotten by depths of loneliness, awaiting the love that led them to connect in this single moment of ecstasy. Time seemed to stretch and roll, meaningless amidst the movement of their bodies and the collision of pleasures.
There was no war, no Skyhold, no one else in existence except the two of them. Locked in an endless dance.
Through him she could feel magic in the air. It was all around her. Tingling, dancing on her skin — flowing in and out as breath. It filled her lungs and coiled in her hands. Swirling. Searing. Tight and tense and tearing through her veins. A cocoon of warmth that cradled them; a thrilling energy urging them toward inevitable release.
His fingers dug into the meat of her thighs; so hard she felt the prick of his nails. When she looked upon his face she found it twisted, sweat-licked, so hard at work trying — struggling — to last through this final push.
She knew what he was waiting for.
So polite, her lover, so quiet and collected. Full of scholarly reserve. And here, now, a mess beneath her; holding tight to those last threads of control.
The words were ready on her lips as if she'd spoken them a hundred times. Permission. Command.
"Come for me."
With a groan, he broke.
His hips bucked as the surge in his belly pulled her over with him.
"Ellana," he called. The timbre of his cry told her it was a warning as much as praise. "Ellana, fenedhis… Ell-ah!"
It was an explosion. Light and heat, a bright burst of sparks that bloomed behind her eyes and spread all the way to his curled toes. Tearing through them both like a crack of angry thunder, the very air set aflame. Each pulling the other higher.
She could feel his climax as her own. The relief of being filled just as satisfying as the clench of her body. The welcoming depth of her. Warm. Wet. Flutter and squeeze that pulled more and more out of him. It did not seem possible to feel it all and yet she was lost to it…
For the briefest moment she thought, absurdly, that she could lose days to this. An endless swirling high. Chasing each other, like the wyverns, twisting and merging.
But inevitably — slowly, gradually — the crest began to fall.
That feeling of depth and heat receded. Like a tide, the shore of her body left changed by its passing. Buzzing, sluggish, and weak with relief his hands slipped away from her and the joining faded.
Spent and sated, she collapsed upon him with a grunt. He slung an arm across her back but did have the strength left to hold her. Instead, they lay like that. Panting, waiting for the pounding beat of their hearts to slow.
They stayed that way an age, in blessed silence, until they found the breath to speak.
"That was…" Ellana began — though could not finish. Her body still too heavy and her mind to addled to find the words.
Regardless, "Yes," he agreed, with emphasis. And a huff of breathy laughter followed.
Solas brushed damp hair off her forehead and tucked it behind her ear. She smiled, almost shyly, and so he followed with a kiss. The kind that always follows these things, when passion ebbs and fondness takes its place. A sort of worship all its own. His lips were soft and warm — she could kiss them forever; tongue teasing at his upper lip. Then tugging it, playfully, with a love bite before pulling away.
When she looked again she found him smiling brightly. Crinkles at the corner of his eyes and an almost crooked, satisfied, curl to one side of his mouth. He looked dazed and sleepy. As beautiful as it was, it snagged on her heart. He was more at ease than she had ever seen. That ever-present crease in his brow, gone. Smoothed away. The heaviness replaced by a drowsy grin, and a sheen of sweat that made him luminous.
He was… content.
Looking back with only love in his eyes. All the darkness chased away. For now, if not forever. In its wake left a man both vulnerable and happy. She'd felt it in his heart as true as if it were her own that longed. It should thrill her, and yet…
Why, if he loved her so much, had he never allowed them to come together this way before tonight? That glimpse into his spirit had found a deeply lonely man; a body so tender she had but to offer it the barest touch to bring him to his knees. She could gift him warmth, relief; the intimacy the longed for.
Was that so wrong?
Don't ruin it, she chided herself, and banished the thought. Laid her head upon his chest and sighed, content, as he languished in the afterglow by tracing patterns across her back. There was respite here. Countless months spent married to tension made this surrender too sweet not to savour.
But with one release came another, and no sooner had she let her worries go that tears began to prickle. Then fall. Embarrassed and confused, she brought a hand to her face to wipe them away before he noticed. But somehow, instead, only made it worse. A sob tore from her chest and she felt heat on her neck.
Solas' cradled her. One hand upon the back of her head and the other wrapped tight around her shoulders. "Atisha," he cooed. "It's alright." A kiss was laid upon her crown.
"I'm sorry," she murmured through a veil of tears. A dam had broke; there was nothing she could do to hold it back. Flushed and ashamed, "I'm— I-I don't know why…" she tried.
The hold on her tightened and, "No," he whispered. "You have nothing to be sorry for, Ellana. You were right." He sighed and she looked at him. The corner of his mouth lifted, but the smile did not reach his eyes. "I have been afraid; you're owed so much more than just an apology, but—" He wiped a thumb through the tears on her cheeks. "—Ir abelas, ma vhenan."
Her eyes darted between his, searching. There was so much there. Shame that ran far deeper than merely an acknowledgement of pushing her away.
But for now, that was enough.
She kissed him again. Tenderly, while he cradled her in both his hands and wiped her cheeks clean.
They parted — an ungraceful dismount — and she fell into the curl of his arm, wrapped around his body. Naked and shining. One hand on his chest and a leg slung over his hip. He linked both his arms around her, pulling her close enough to tuck her face under his chin.
"Stay," she whispered.
And he held her tighter. "Ma nuvenin."