The air was thick and sticky-sweet, but it was the warmth that woke her.
Ellanna's nails scratched against something bare and rough beneath her. A rocky floor covered in a thin layer of dust – but no snow. It wasn't even cold to touch. She clenched her hand into a fist, realising she could feel her fingertips (she could feel with her fingertips) for the first time in days, stinging with pins and needles as the frostnip faded.
Grateful as she was for the relief, it begged the question of where she'd ended up. It was hot enough to have her drowning in all the layers she wore. Flush to the point of nausea, sweat pooled uncomfortably at the small of her back and in every fold of skin.
She passed a hand under her hood, through the front of her hair and around her neck and jaw, searching for injuries in need of urgent attention, but found only cuts and bumps. A muck made of blood, sweat, and dirt was caked on every inch of exposed skin. Smeared along the sides of her nose and the backs of her ears. Thick, sticky, mats of it caught in her hair, and it stung her eyes when she worked to blink them open.
The shapeless dark faded to grey as her eyes adjusted. Shadows became features: piles of rock fall, a cluster of stalagmites, and stalactites dripping water into brackish pools. The air was musty and oddly sweet – like fruit left too long in the sun. Far from the sharp sting of snow back in the ravine. She felt strangely comforted by it. For the novelty, if nothing else.
She was on her back with her rucksack crushed beside her, still hanging off one shoulder. The canvas was enchanted and difficult to destroy, the seams intact, but a glance told her the contents weren't as lucky. Her bow did not survive either. She found it lying nearby when she managed to turn her head, cracked in half with the frayed string caught in a buckle.
A single beam of daylight pierced the darkness, a few metres from where she lay. A spotlight full of curls of dust and fallen snow, surrounded by haphazard piles of rock fall. Though she could not see its point of origin, she could guess by the size that it came from whatever hole she'd fallen through.
Slowly, carefully, she sat up.
The whole world turned over (and her stomach with it), she had her hold her breath to keep from retching. But more worryingly, she was immediately, painfully, aware of all the injuries she hadn't noticed while lying prone. With her pounding head cradled in one hand, she used the other to search the back of it. Flinching, when her fingers brushed against a large, soft, lump — and came away bloody.
"Shit," she croaked. It was not a wound she could leave untreated. The room spun so violently she could barely tell up from down. It made her feel dizzy and strange. Like she couldn't quite pin down her thoughts.
By some miracle there were still a few unbroken vials tied to her belt, and she searched them for the heavy-bottomed swell of a healing potion. On finding one she slipped it free and pulled the cork out with her teeth. Her throat was dry and cracked – it hurt to swallow, and the pain nearly sent it right back up again – but she managed to keep it down long enough to take effect.
The scatter of surface wounds faded with only a sting; the dizziness ebbed and her vision cleared, but almost too late she realised the pain in her leg was from a break. Only barely managing to brace the fracture in time for the snap as the potion did its work.
When she cried out, it echoed unexpectedly. Reverberating off the walls around her before moving on to somewhere else. Somewhere larger – wider – where the sound travelled for some time before fading away.
This was not just a niche she'd fallen into.
A distant voice replied, "–isitor?"
Dorian!
She tried to reply – 'I'm here!' – but the sharp breath sent her into a coughing fit. Between gasps and hacks she eventually managed to pull herself to her feet and take the few jerky, halting, steps into the light. One hand raised to shield her eyes as she searched the sky for a familiar silhouette.
One popped into view almost immediately.
"She's here! I see her!" Dorian yelled. Another shape – Varric – joined him, and they laughed in relief. They were so far away she could only barely differentiate between the two; nothing but shadows against the midday sun. "You're alive, thank the Maker! We were about ready to mark your grave. Is Solas down there with you?"
The question didn't make sense, at first. She was still disoriented from the fall. She frowned. "No, why wo–?"
Then all at once she remembered.
An old fear had stilled her feet.
Solas acted quickly: when she couldn't come to him, he came to her. Appearing by her side in a flash of violet. There was only a second to spare before gravity caught up, so he hooked an arm around her waist and raised the other. His eyes flashed white, preparing a Fade Step powerful enough for two, but time ran out before he cast it.
Those last seconds were in flashes. His cry of alarm. The snap of a barrier. The ledge giving way beneath her feet. A strong, hard, shove that sent her flying, and her sleeve tearing as they were ripped apart.
He had pushed her free, but at the cost of himself.
Heart in her throat, she turned and ran for the rock fall. Stumbling clumsily over every loose stone and crack in the floor along the way. "Solas?" She held out her marked hand for the dim, green, light. Searching for any sign of him. "Solas! Where are you? Can you hear me?"
A loop of canvas caught her eye, about two metres up, trapped between stones. Somehow, before she'd even had the thought to move she was already crouching over it. Digging through the rocks and dirt with her bare hands.
"Come on, come on, I know you're here," she begged.
The smell was stronger now. Jarred preserves he'd packed for the journey had smashed apart under the rubble. It was sickly sweet, and it turned her stomach, but it meant he was down there too, and that made it bearable.
"Please be okay. I need you to be okay. You did not make it this far just to die under a pile of rocks in this blasted wasteland. I-I can't, I cannot lose– You were right, alright? Is that what you want to hear? This was a stupid idea and I only did it because I was angry with you! I could've waited, but I didn't want to, because I was being stubborn and stupid and you've been such a fucking asshole this whole–!"
There was a lump in her throat, and her hands trembled to the point that she was dropping half of what she picked up. She had to force herself to pause; to find strength in a deep, tremulous breath. Fear had a terrible grip on her. Rarely had it felt so sharp.
When she could push on, "Come on," she pleaded. "I'll let you gloat the whole way back. I'll say you were right in front of everyone. You can call me a child. I'll put it on a banner. Anything you want, just please–"
Her fingers brushed against something soft and thick in the debris. The sleeve of his winter coat. She recognized the stitching on the cuffs, having patched it herself just days earlier. Time slowed to a crawl as she dug down. Tearing through rock and snow, skin and nails, not caring if she cut them to the bone, before finally – blessedly – she came across an arm.
An elbow.
A hand.
Unmoving, pale, but warm. The scrap of her sleeve still clutched in his fingers.
When she slid hers into it he twitched to grasp it, and she all but sobbed in relief.
Somewhere in the far distance she could hear the sound of Varric and Dorian calling for her, worried over the sudden disappearance, but she had no mind to answer them until she knew Solas was safe. 'Alive' was not enough. She needed to see his eyes and hear his voice. She needed–
She needed him.
A century could have passed in the time it took to uncover his shoulders, chest, and head – and once she had, it was poor comfort. He looked terrible. Having taken the brunt of the fall, there was blood dried all over his face and jaw, running down his neck, from lacerations that stretched from nose to ear. His face was badly bruised, to the point that he was near-unrecognisable. But, he was breathing – if only slow and shallowly.
When she brushed her fingers across his cheek there was a tingle and ripple of iridescence as a tonic faded. Somehow, he'd managed the wherewithal to take one during the fall. A moment of quick thinking that likely saved his life. She didn't want to think about what would've happened without it.
Two fingers on his wrist counted heartbeats over seconds as she searched for another potion. His pulse was steady, it seemed the tonic had spared him a crush injury, but she had nothing left to treat what needed healing. Most of her vials were shattered, and she'd used the last healing potion on herself.
"Hang on, I'll be right back," she told him. He gave no reply as she clambered back down to the floor. Half-falling, half-running, tripping over her own feet a dozen times in her rush to get back to the spotlight.
The shadowed figures were still there when she arrived. She waved her arms. "I found him!" she called up. "But he's badly hurt and I don't have another potion. Do either of you have a spare?"
"I've got it," Varric answered. Disappearing and reappearing with another round-bottomed vial. He waited until Ellana had manoeuvred herself to stand as close to 'directly beneath' him as she reasonably could, then whistled sharply for attention before dropping it.
She caught it out of the air with both hands, and gave him a quick wave of thanks before running off again. Back to Solas' side in seconds. With shaking hands she took hold of his chin and pinched his lips open, muttering every prayer and promise she knew to steady herself for the task.
Still, she faltered. Cursing, frustrated, as a stream of red dribbled out one side of his mouth and pooled under the collar of his jacket. "Come on," she urged. She placed a palm gently on his throat, pressed, and tilted his chin up – encouraging him to swallow – then counted seconds until finally, mercifully, it began to take effect.
The lacerations on his face knit closed, leaving raised, pink, scars behind that would fade in time. The swelling went down, unblacking one eye and bringing a blush of colour back into shock-white cheeks. His fingertips brightened as circulation returned, and a deep gash through his lip healed to a light tear, turning them pink from a dusky blue.
He took in a sharp, ragged, breath. His brow twitched – knit – then he gave a long, pained, groan.
"Oh, thank the Gods," Ellana whispered. She took his head in both hands and pressed a firm kiss to the centre of his forehead. "Don't you ever do that to me again."
He winced, and lifted a hand to touch her wrist. Delicately, like a question she answered with another, softer, kiss. You're okay, I'm here. When he could open his eyes she was ready with a smile, but rather than return it he just looked… confused. Frowning deeply as his eyes darted between her own, searching for familiarity.
Then, the lines smoothed. His lips curled into an equally happy, if not a little lopsided, smile. Head lolling heavily to one side. He blinked, slow and sleepy, like she'd awakened him from days of slumber.
Or, he was concussed.
The hand on her wrist lifted, finding gentle rest upon the curve of her jaw, and he touched her mouth with his thumb. His eyes were bright, but his gaze did not appear even remotely lucid as he whispered a soft, "Ane ina'lan'ehn. Mith'em garas."
It was so startling, and so deeply sincere, that she was briefly lost for words.
Then the deluge of relief, amusement, and sheer absurdity caught up to her and she dissolved into sputtering laughter.
He's concussed.
That seemed to give him the shake he needed. He blinked his gaze clear, frowning as he pulled his hand back. "Ellana?"
Nodding, laughing, "Yes," she replied. She wiped her tears on her sleeve, leaving a streak of dirt across the bridge of her nose.
His gaze slipped over her shoulder to scan the room beyond. Flitting from feature to feature as he weighed the scene. Low, to her pack on the ground, the broken bow and shattered glass; high, to the hole in the ceiling, the scattered debris, before finding its way back to her.
The frown deepened. "What happened? Where are we?"
He sounded almost as terrible as he looked. She untied a waterskin from her belt and offered it to him, explaining as he drank, "We were caught in a collapse. I think we've crashed through that old mine entirely, into a cave beneath it. That's probably why construction didn't get very far in this area; they couldn't expand without compromising the entire structure.
"I'm not sure how long we were out… but I woke up on the ground over there." She nodded over one shoulder. "Your injuries were far worse than mine. Varric and Dorian are safe on the surface. Also–" She tugged at her collar. The air was thick and heavy; she was suffocating. Digging him out had not made it any easier to bear. "Also it's very warm down here."
Between hungry swallows, "Hot springs," Solas choked. "There are hot springs nearby. The last scouting report we received mentioned a high dragon seen nesting near them. That suggests geothermal activity. Likely responsible for a number of features in the area."
It took him less than a minute to drain the skin, and once he'd passed it back to free his hands he braced them at his sides and began twisting back and forth. Moving arms and hips to loosen up the debris. Ellana joined the work, and together they quickly dug him out to the waist. From there, it took only one mighty heave to free him of the vise, crawling out on hands and bloodied knees.
He moved stiffly, wincing and flinching as Ellana helped him to his feet. Most of his clothes were ruined; leather pants torn to ribbons and the bottom half of his coat ripped apart, both rendered useless against the cold. Dozens of dark stains told a harrowing tale of what he'd suffered in the fall. The worst was healed by the potion, but he'd need another at minimum – and at least a few days' rest – before fit to return to the field.
They dug out his pack next, finding it in much better shape than Ellana's, and with more of the contents spared. That first morning they'd left Skyhold he chastised her for not taking time to properly wrap and stow the vials she'd packed, for exactly this reason, but she was irritated with him at the time and so chose to ignore the advice. It was the first of many arguments they would end up having.
He said nothing to that point, but the look he gave her as he retrieved the unbroken vials for inventory underlined it well enough on its own.
Between the two of them were a pair of lyrium potions; a cracked, half-empty healing potion, and a single fire bomb. Basic supplies were intact – a handful of rations, water, bandages, and torches – but their weapons weren't as fortunate: Ellana had only a pair of daggers and Solas a small hunting knife. His staff was found buried in the rubble, shattered beyond hope of repair. Not even the rune could be salvaged. Without a focus he'd be forced to rely on what could be summoned in hand alone.
To that end, he rolled and flicked his fingers. Calling on a spell for light; something small and easy to control as a test of his ability. But rather than a gentle glow, a ball of fire appeared. So large it briefly filled the room and blinded them both.
Solas' startled jump backward would've won him another hard fall had Ellana not managed to catch him first. She called out a warning – "Careful!" – followed by a cry of alarm as the surge of adrenaline caused the Anchor to trigger. It sparked against the inside of his wrist, where her palm was pressed.
The mark had caused her pain since the day she woke. A deep, cold, ache at rest – like a broken bone that never healed right – but when called upon, it seared. Old magic smouldered in her veins, burning up her blood like kindling; a little more of her gone with every rift closed. This was not a power meant for mortal hands.
Solas could calm it, if she asked, and with an ease she often envied. He never complained. Even when things between them were not so simple, and those late night visits had become awkward over intimate. Not once had he ever implied that to do so caused him any discomfort.
So it came as something of a surprise when he cried out and wrenched his hand away.
With the blind panic of someone actively on fire, he scrambled to loosen the ties on his jacket sleeve and tear all the layers back. Once down to bare skin, he ran his fingers over his wrist, up into his palm and over the back of his hand – seemingly surprised to find it unchanged. When he looked up at her, eyes wide, it was as though he expected she'd have an answer for him.
But she'd yet to hear the question.
"Did that hurt you?" she asked.
Solas blinked – then frowned – but did not answer. Merely stared down at his hand, turning it back and forth. It was a strange reaction, and she got as far as parted lips to ask what'd caused it before he finally explained.
"I– no. It is–" He shook his head, straightened, and tugged his sleeve back into place. "The discomfort was mild, but the strength of connection startled me. The flares are not typically so strong. Additionally, there is something affecting my ability to channel: the energy exchange is difficult to control, as you saw. The Veil is thinner here – perhaps due to the presence of red lyrium." He nodded to her hand. "It may be what is affecting the Anchor as well.
He tried the spell again, this time pinning a finger to his palm for better control. There was a sputter, and a flicker of tension in his brow, before a ball of light appeared above his open hand. Small, but stable. With visible relief, Solas nodded to her, and together they made their way down to the cavern floor.
Once they stood beneath the light, "He's okay!" Ellana yelled. "I've got him!"
Other than an initial exclamation of relief, what words were exchanged by their friends could not be heard. But they could infer by the wide, excited, gesturing that a rescue plan was being made.
They dipped in and out of the scene for several minutes, before, "Are you guys okay to climb?" Varric asked. "We can drop a rope down!"
"We are too far!" Solas answered. "This depth is more than twice what it could reach."
It was true, but the more pressing issue was his injuries. The slow blinks and the fog in his eyes; the way he swayed, just a little, while standing at rest. Without additional healing Ellana would not trust him to climb a chair, let alone a rope.
Dorian asked, "Do you see another way out of there?"
Solas looked to Ellana for the answer, but she could only shrug. There'd been no opportunity to search – all she'd cared about was finding him – so, "A moment!" he said.
The ball of light sparked and spit as Solas directed it further into the tunnel. Around a curtain of flowstone, down a slight decline, into a room so large that the walls disappeared in shadow. It continued onward, unimpeded, until only barely visible. Nothing but a distant flicker twinned upon the surface of dark water. Then, and with visible effort, he turned a clenched fist to increase the flow of mana until the light shone so brightly it revealed the full scope of the chamber.
It was much bigger than either had thought. They'd crashed into a large gallery – as tall and wide as Suledin Keep herself – and currently stood in one of several natural pockets bordering an underground lake. Its surface smooth and still as glass, but for a soft ripple at the western bank, where a lazy stream trickled in. From where they stood they could only barely see the wall beyond it, where the ceiling dropped sharply, narrowing into a tunnel that followed the feedriver around a corner, upward, and out of sight.
To the others, "It appears we're in a cave that is part of a larger system," Solas reported. "Likely the same one we were tasked to investigate. There is fresh air and flowing water here. We may be able to follow it back to the surface."
One of the shadows – Dorian – left briefly and returned with an unrolled scroll. The two men merged to a single shape as they studied it. Speaking and gesturing to each other quietly.
Then, "The closest marked entrance is around the other side of this ravine," Dorian said. "It'll take us a few hours, but we can wait for you there. How are your supplies?"
"We're good for rations, water, and topical medicine – but down to daggers," Ellana replied. "Our weapons were destroyed in the fall. We'll be fine for the day, but a second will stretch us thin."
Dorian made a valiant effort not to let the worry show in his voice, but the cracks and hesitation showed his hand. "Well… provided the way is clear you should be out well before that. If we don't see you by tomorrow morning we can leave supplies in a cache nearby and return with a rescue party." He paused. Then, and with far less confidence, "Try not to spend the night down there if you can avoid it," he added.
"And try not to run into anything that daggers won't kill!" said Varric cheerily.
What little supplies they had on the surface would need to remain there, even at the risk of leaving an injured party vulnerable. The dangers on land were too great to take the risk. Spiders and deepstalkers might roam the underground, but dragons did not. And they were much harder to evade if disturbed.
There was an uneasiness in their parting. Hesitancy in the last goodbye. Dorian lingered at the edge of the abyss, fidgeting with his jacket sleeves as he silently searched the darkness for a better solution. Only convinced to go once Varric called out to him a third time, and he'd given them a final, reluctant wave.
Left alone, Solas and Ellana made their way to the water's edge. Using the dim light of the floating spell to guide their path around the perils of rocks and pits. They'd hoped to find a way around the lake, but upon reaching the shore found it was less a 'body' and more of a 'flood': the entire floor was underwater. They would have to go through it, instead.
Fortunately, it was not deep. And they were assured of its safety both by the signs of creatures having drank at its edge, and by Ellana herself: who sipped the water from a cupped hand and declared it clean (a scientific method Solas whole-heartedly disapproved of).
After stowing what little, salvageable, remains they had of their winter armour they stripped down to smallclothes for the swim. Ellana went first. To weather the shock she jumped in all at once, but found the temperature unexpectedly comfortable. Refreshing even, after having spent the last hour drowned in her own sweat. A little cooler than their skin and clear as crystal.
At its deepest the water reached her chest, leaving hands free to carry their packs over their heads and walk across with relative ease. Solas reached the opposite bank before Ellana, owing to his being taller, and once there kneeled at its edge to wash his face. She followed suit once she arrived, tossing her bag on the shore and ducking underwater to better work the mats out of her hair.
Beyond what they'd earned in the fall was the layer of grime that always accompanied a hard journey. There were no inns or camps once they crossed into the Highlands – there wasn't even a proper road – warm water was a luxury they'd not enjoy again until the lodge. The smell of four unwashed bodies crammed into a single tent shared for warmth each night had not made the journey any easier. Stumbling over a subterranean lake both clean and warm enough to wash in was an opportunity they were not about to pass up.
Blood and dirt had turned the water murky brown by the time Ellana finished and joined Solas on the embankment. Now in only his breeches, he sat faced away from her, wringing the water out of his shirt. She took the opportunity to give him a proper once over, ostensibly to check his wounds… but also to enjoy the view. The linen smallclothes – rendered almost completely transparent when wetted – offered her a particularly pleasing one.
It wasn't until he turned to look at her, having sensed the leering, that she noticed a bump by his temple. Whatever quip he'd had ready on his tongue was lost when she walked up and grabbed his head, turning it to align with the light.
"You've got quite the bump there – does it hurt?" she asked. She touched her fingers to the raised edges of the swelling, and his smile turned to frown.
"Only when touched."
"Are you dizzy at all? Do you have a headache?" There was no pause between questions to allow him the chance to answer. By the time he caught up she'd already moved on to the next part and was standing in front of him holding up a finger. "Look here."
"I'm fine," he insisted, though did as he was bid. Dutifully tracking the movement side to side. "I was briefly disoriented upon waking. It has passed."
"Do you remember what we were doing before we ended up down here?"
"Arguing."
She rolled her eyes. "Besides that."
"Were we doing something else? If there was a point to our being there, I had yet to discern it."
"Cute," she said flatly. "But it's not your contempt I'm measuring, it's your recall."
He sighed, and conceded to her a begrudging, "Looking for a shard."
He gave no protest as she examined him, allowing her to palpate and prod as needed; turning his head to and fro in the cup of her hands. The touch was clinical, part of a standard series of tests performed for any head wound, but the longer it went on the more aware both started to become of how little intimacy – or privacy – they'd shared since leaving Skyhold.
It was weeks as her fingers skimmed under his jaw and down the line of his throat. Months, once they curled around the back of his neck, up over his head and behind his ears. He swallowed hard – before she asked it of him – and his skin grew warm beneath her touch.
She chose not to call attention to it. "And after?"
"Ah, after–" A cough didn't quite clear the rasp from his voice. "–after, you found what you believed to be writing. I'd intended to examine it, but before I could reach you the scaffolding collapsed, leading to an avalanche. I attempted to…" Something stopped him there, and he trailed off. Leaving the account unfinished. His eyes grew distant – lost in his thoughts – before struck by a sudden clarity. He looked up. "Ellana," he began, more gently. "Are you afraid of heights?"
There was no judgement in the question – only concern. In the time they'd known each other she'd faced much higher, more perilous climbs, yet never shown any hesitancy.
The first answer was reflexive, but she stopped herself just shy of giving it to consider the question more carefully. Settling on, "Not really," after further thought. But that wasn't quite right either. She bobbed her head back and forth. "Not anymore, at least. Once, as a child, I lost my footing while climbing up a cliffside, and fell. I was fairly high up when it happened – it was a hard landing – and I was so badly hurt I had to be carried back.
"Dalish healing is not as sophisticated as what we have at Skyhold, so it was weeks before I recovered well enough to get around without support. I missed that year's harvest and very nearly the Arlathvhen. For years just the thought of climbing something was enough to make me nauseous, but I grew out of it. It hasn't bothered me in a very long time."
Pride had sent her up the wall – both then and now – and that hubris left a scar in the shape of the rocks that caught her. When she'd stared down at Solas' open arms, too paralysed by fear to leap to safety, those marks burned fresh as the day she was branded. Standing there clinging to the wall she felt all the same terror of that day; too small to hold on tight, and the ground rushing up to meet her.
Solas touched two fingers just below her breastband, tracing the lines of jagged, raised, flesh that followed the curve of her ribs. There was a question in his eyes – here? – and when she nodded he covered it with his palm. Laying it flat upon her skin so she might feel the warmth of his care.
"I've not seen you so frightened before." He slid the hand around her back, joining with the other, so she was held within them. Safely cradled in the circle of his arms. "Are you alright?"
"I'm alright," she affirmed with a soft smile.
His fingers found rest in the dip of her spine. Trailing over her skin so softly, delicately, that she shivered. The warmth of it – the gentleness – raised goosebumps. It had been too long since they'd exchanged any real intimacy: what rush that absence had created, when offered such chaste affection.
It spurred her into a confession she might not have made otherwise. Tumbling from her lips before she had time to think better of it. "To be honest, you frightened me far more."
The honesty was unexpected, and he tilted his head curiously. Causing the light to catch his eyes, painting them a pale grey amid the shadows. It made such a lovely picture that she could not help but continue. If only to keep his attention a moment longer.
"I couldn't find you, at first. You were buried in the rubble. And once I did, and you were so badly hurt, I was– I-I–" She struggled both to find the words, and to stop them coming out all at once. She could not seem to stop talking. "I panicked. I had already used my last potion on myself. I didn't even think to ration it. If not for Varric's spare, I don't– I thought…"
Fear did not often grip her this way, and never for a lover; none had ever earned that place in her heart.
It softened a little more when he smiled to reassure her. "I'm alright."
She returned it.
A comfortable silence fell, and in that peaceful space she could forget it had ever been different. That they'd ever found reason to argue. She was drawn to the gravity of that ideal; the truth of this moment, but this moment only. Here, the warmth of his love, the tenderness of touch and his arms around her waist, had made her heart light with relief. Near intoxicating.
It was lovely, the way he looked. The way he looked at her. The way his skin glowed; soft light painting highlights on cheek and ear. Parted lips, so supple and inviting, with his face at rest in the cup of her hands. Kneeled beneath her now, with his eyes so full of honest adoration, he looked like a gallant knight from those grand ballads she used to hear; the kind sung of ancient loves, dedication that moved mountains.
She felt the want – the need – to kiss him then.
Staggering in its intensity, something more than mere desire: she yearned for connection. To pull him in, and be reminded of all they shared. It was so demanding that to deny its draw would be unbearable. Impossible! Like a dagger through her heart. An age had passed since last her lips touched his… she could not stand it another moment!
Even before she moved, there was heat in her stomach. A swirl of excitement as her eyes fell to his mouth, and his lips parted in response. There was a lift as his hands slipped low, to her hips, and at once she felt like she was floating. Held only by his arms.
She took a breath. His eyes closed. He pulled her in, and she met him.
It was soft, at first. Gentle and familiar. No meaning or motive other than to soothe their worried hearts. No promise signed by lips and tongue, until hers flicked against his teeth… and suddenly everything changed.
The smell of sun-ripe fruit hit her nose and she breathed deep. Let it fill her lungs, heavy and thick as sweetwaters. Her head swam with it.
Her pulse quickened up as Solas' grip on her tightened, teeth sinking into her bottom lip. Tugging, then tearing. Kissing her with such ferocity that she was left gasping.
She raked her nails over the back of his neck, dragging a sound from deep in his chest. He grabbed the curve of her ass and squeezed. Thumb catching just inside the hem of her smalls, so that to clench his fist would pull them down just a little.
Whether by accident or intent, the possibility set her ablaze: now it wasn't just his kiss she needed, but to see him crumble. She wanted to rip every scrap of clothing off their bodies with teeth and claw and taste the sweat she could smell on his skin. The only thing stopping her was the distant awareness (quickly fading) of where they stood. Deep underground, with no map or direction, and no idea what might be lurking in the dark with them. They couldn't possibly see this through.
That restraint lasted all of three seconds. Right up until she connected that smell to a memory, and all higher function simply… stopped.
There was a plum tree, in the Hinterlands, that they'd kissed beneath. Not long after their affair rekindled. The ground around it was littered with fallen fruit that smelled so rotted sweet she could taste it in the air. Taste it on his tongue, where she'd placed a slice upon it, and he'd closed his lips around her finger.
It was only a stolen moment, not the time or place for more, but when she felt his arousal press into her hip she ached with emptiness. If not for their friends returning moments later, she would've taken him there. Told him to brace her up against the tree and make reckless, violent, love until exhaustion claimed them. The wait for nightfall was nothing short of torture, and the hours had sharpened their need to such a fine point that not even the thin walls of an inn could stop them.
How he'd smiled, so wicked and satisfied, when he made her come so hard she let slip a single cry in the dark.
How sweet her revenge, taking him to the very brink of pleasure, only to pull him back again and again and again, until he begged her for release.
She could feel the same burn now – taste the same sweetness – not just tempting but demanding. Ordering. Screaming! And he had to need it the same as her, she knew. She could feel it in his arms and hear it in his breath. It was only once she'd dropped to her knees on the ground with him that he showed the first sign of hesitation. His hands stuttered, dragged to the briefest halt across the expanse of her back before grinding back into motion again.
"Ellana," he whispered.
It was quiet and pinched; praise to her ears. She ran a hand up over his shoulder and down his chest.
"Ellana, vhenan, I…"
Her teeth were on his jaw. Then his neck, where his pulse fluttered. Tongue darting out to taste flushed skin. He gasped. A single nail caught on a hardened nipple on its way to the tie on his breeches, and he made a strange, choked, noise in the back of his throat.
Suddenly his fingers were locked around her wrists. "Vh- wait!"
They parted, and she felt as though she'd been ripped from a dream; a bubble popped, and the deluge of reality rushed in. All her senses suddenly and keenly aware of the existence of a world beyond the two of them. Somehow, she'd forgotten there was ever anything else. She was left floating – disoriented – awash in a strange mix of shock, bewilderment, and disappointment. Her body burning where his hands had touched her.
He had to work to catch his breath, but his eyes never left hers. Wide and deep; unreadable beyond the fluster. For a truly agonising moment they remained that way, on their knees before each other, panting, as his brow twitched and furrowed. Caught in a squall, unable to move forward.
When he could speak, "Not here," Solas said. More firmly than she thought she deserved.
It felt like scolding, and at once she was embarrassed by her own eagerness.
"Sorry," she replied, with a bite of sarcasm. Perhaps more than he deserved. She quailed when his brows raised at the peevishness, and the second attempt had at least passable sincerity. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean– I'm not sure what came over me."
The grip on her wrists loosened as he turned his hands, gently taking hers, and moving them away from his body. Returning them to her sides as though they were things she'd misused.
"That's alright," he assured. He spoke with the sort of slow, careful, precision one might use when approaching a cornered animal. "We survived a harrowing experience, and the response is natural. It is only…" There was another pause. To consider his words – or to cover for his own indecision. "Not here. It isn't safe."
"Right," she replied, a little curtly. "Of course."
She did not give him a chance to admonish her further, and pushed to her feet. Leaving him behind to grab their packs from the water's edge. From her own she grabbed a pair of pants and a clean chemise, spare undergarments that were light and breathable so not to impede her on the journey ahead. She threw Solas' pack in his direction so he could do the same.
In the time it took her to dress he'd managed to find himself a second, dry, pair of breeches – but nothing else. He'd turned away when she disrobed, and was struggling to pull the still-wet shirt back on by himself. The damp edges caught on his shoulder and upper back, rolling up in awkward places he couldn't quite reach.
She chose not to offer any help.
Once he'd finally managed to tug it into place, "You may regret that once it gets cold again," Ellana told him. Wearing it couldn't possibly be more comfortable than going without.
"It is warm enough down here for it to dry quickly," he replied. "I'm more concerned with the issue of protection: neither of us are carrying light armour, and wearing what we have left of the cold weather gear would quickly lead to heat exhaustion. If we encounter resistance, we will be at a significant disadvantage – hopefully the way is clear. Once we reach the surface we'll have to rely on spells against the cold, which cannot be sustained for long."
"Or at all, if whatever is impacting your ability to cast is still a problem," she added pointedly. He hummed a reply, but said nothing. "We could get lucky and run into a supply cache, otherwise you might need to borrow from Dorian once we meet back up. He often brings extras." There was a pause for thought. "Actually, I do have a spare breastband in here somewhere. Might be more comfortable than the shirt, though I don't know that it would fit you quite as well as it does me."
The quip succeeded in breaking the tension: their eyes met briefly as he shouldered his bag, and he gave a wry smile.
He turned to face the light, to get a better view of the buckles on the straps as he adjusted them to fit without the bulk. Having finished with her own, Ellana stood with arms crossed and watched him work. Eyes following the movement of his fingers as he twisted ties and buttons. Lingering, shamelessly, on the muscles in his arms and chest that tensed when he tugged at the fabric.
If she'd had more to say to him on the subject of clothing, or any subject at all, she could no longer remember. Standing there, watching him, all she could think about was an orchard full of overripe plums. The sun beating down on their backs, and the taste of his kiss.
She shifted uncomfortably. "Do you remember that day in the Hinterlands, there was an orchard where–?"
"Yes," he cut over her. Their eyes met again. "I noticed it as well."
"The smell? Is it the preserves? If the jars broke we might as well eat some of it now." She nodded to the water. "And wash out your pack before it dries into a worse mess."
"We ate the last of them this morning," Solas replied. He gave one of the straps a sharp, rough, tug to pull the slack through, then folded it back through the buckle. "Dorian was carrying the jars. Beyond our standard supplies, I have only the herbs we gathered over the journey and the potions you saw earlier."
She frowned. "What about tonics?"
Solas stretched his arms and shoulders to test the fit. "I did not carry any tonics on this journey," he reminded her.
"But you used one earlier, didn't you? In the fall?"
Once she'd said it aloud she realised it couldn't possibly be true. Those rare times he packed elixirs, it was only those used for healing and mana; very occasionally, for damage. He had no use for enhancements of strength and vigour. For those that did, the tonics were distributed directly. Given the time and material cost of their production, there was no room for risk of loss.
(Additionally, after once consuming what he believed was a fire resistance potion Sera had replaced with an energy tonic, Solas would no longer carry anything he didn't prepare himself).
A barrier would drop once he fell unconscious, and they had no regeneration potions left after the last skirmish, several days earlier. If not an armour tonic, she wasn't sure what would account for the flickering she'd seen. It looked and felt like magic, but if not his own–?
He was looking at her strangely. "Did you notice the scent before now?"
"Back when I was digging you out, yes," she answered vaguely. "It was quite strong in the rubble. I was so sure…" She waved a hand, dismissing the question for a more pertinent one. "Is it coming from the cave itself, then?"
He considered. Then, after a moment, gestured for her to follow him, and together they began the long walk to the surface. Following the little river that fed the flooded cavern floor.
"Decomposition can smell sweet at certain stages," he said. "As can some algae. Or, it may be some sort of fungus. There are several varieties of deep mushroom that release spores said to have a sweet aroma."
That was not reassuring. Warily, "How sure are you it isn't toxic?" she asked.
"Very." The reply was immediate. "Had it been, it is unlikely we would've regained consciousness. That aside, the scent is familiar. While I can't yet place it, I'm reasonably sure that it's benign." He tilted his head. "Do you feel unwell?"
"A bit dizzy, maybe. But I think that's just from the shock."
"You've also been behaving impulsively. Are you certain you did not sustain head trauma?"
The question seemed completely genuine up until she turned to answer, and saw the slight curl at the corner of his lips. The single brow raised in anticipation. When she scowled, the smile widened into a grin that was entirely too satisfied. Too charming. And with the light spell following so close behind them he surely wouldn't miss the blush that warmed her cheeks.
But rather than succumb to embarrassment she rode a sudden rush of boldness. Teasing, "Perhaps I should walk ahead of you so I don't have to watch your clothes dry and become tempted to behave 'impulsively' again."
A chuckle caught in his throat. He snorted, and the sound was ridiculous enough to get him laughing properly. She tried to keep her composure, but his amusement was infectious. Rare enough – lately, at least – that it was hard not to follow. This was the longest they'd gone without arguing since they set off on the journey, and the first instance of actual gaiety shared. Despite the circumstance, she wanted to enjoy it.
And so was only a little disappointed when he slowed down and waved for her to take the lead.
Translations:
Ane ina'lan'ehn. Mith'em garas = You're beautiful. Come closer [to me]