I should have left him back in Skyhold, immersed in his research, pondering his scraps and remnants, but I can't leave my heart well enough alone, can I? Varric says little, merely raises a brow and sighs at the campfire, shoots a glance at Cass, who continues working on one of her swords while pretending she hasn't noticed. I'm that obvious. My attempts at reading by lamplight are clearly a ruse for the fact that I'm trying (and failing) to appear busy. By this time, Solas has usually retired to his tent more than an hour before, his quietness absolute. He might as well not be there if it weren't for the burden of his magical presence. Two weeks in the Hissing Wastes closing rifts and putting down pockets of Venatori resistance, and all I can get from him is "yes Inquisitor, these are ancient dwarven ruins" or any other minutiae related to our continued exploration.
The silence yawns between us and chews relentlessly, and I am helpless. I may be able to close rifts but I cannot close this distance between us.
And yet…
His unguarded gaze is brighter than the sun, when he thinks I'm not aware of him watching me. We play a game of not caring, of being unaware of the other's regard, masked behind polite, professional conduct.
In pitched battle, we dance in concert, complementing and coherent; we are poised in our perfection, synchronous as others can only aspire. It is easy to believe that the world is at our feet. In unguarded moments, he flashes me a smile, a nod, and my heart soars.
Talk to me, damn you.
Silence suppurates once we return to the firelight and I have no way of gauging whether I should be the one making the first move. I have brought you here with me, after all.
Cass would not presume to lecture me on matters of the heart and Varric hints at a roundabout way that this cannot remain unresolved much longer, but I'm at a loss as to how I'm to approach Solas. It's not so much as a fear of losing face, but a terror of having him turn his back on me. The end result is that I eventually create the opportunity for him to follow, leaving breadcrumbs in my wake on a night before he retires, because this night I catch his gaze before I am the one to slip away first.
It is neither safe nor sane to wander from beyond the ring of firelight in the wastes at night, but it is a calculated risk I take – not unlike those nights while we explored the Hinterlands. An eon ago. I won't stray far, and I trust in our sentries' awareness of potential threats. It's not like those early days, when the little Dalish girl wilfully courted danger. I know what to expect.
Our encampment is situated on a ridge overlooking a dune field. The moons bathe the landscape in a pearlescent gleam so I can see for miles in each direction. To the northwest lies that peculiar mountain with its distinctive three outcroppings that appear windswept, melted through the action of the elements. Though it's late spring, winter's chill still has the land in its grasp, and I wish I'd brought a coat with me. My Mark is quiet, but the bones of my left arm feel hollowed out after the rift we closed today. Where the Pride demon's whip caught me across my shoulder, the skin is blistered despite the salve Cassandra applied for me.
Granted, I'll be dying of heat once the sun is up. This region see-saws between such extremes of temperature I'm amazed anyone or anything can exist here – yet we've encountered the odd hunter and prospector hardy enough to brave wild beast, relentless sun and thirst.
To the casual observer, this is a wasteland, yet those who know will see life abounding, from the trapdoor spider in its burrow and the rock buntings whistling among the ragged thorn bushes to the hardy fennec and peregrine falcon. Water can be found if one digs in the right places though during the heat of the day, it is better to seek shelter until the shadows lengthen.
I crouch at the edge of the rock and peer down at the scattering of old stone carvings that are the remnants of some dwarven outpost. We should poke about to see why the Venatori have been so active.
Solas's tread on the sands behind me is so light, it's like a ghost whispering across my grave. I bite the inside of my cheek to quell the slight twist of smile that wants to find its way to my lips.
"Is it 'vhenan' or 'Inquisitor' tonight, Solas?" I ask.
He sighs and crouches next to me, close enough that we nearly touch, but not quite.
For a few heartbeats I'm afraid he'll remain silent. "Ir abelas," he allows. "I have been…"
My bark of laughter is without humour. "You're too proud to say it."
"I have been distracting you from your duties."
"You're more of a distraction trying not to distract me," I point out, unable to hide the acerbic edge from my words. I sit back, swing my legs into nothingness, like I would if I were still a child.
"I… I realise that."
He mirrors the way I sit, and we remain so in silence for a long while, watching the stars, merely listening to the wind in the grasses.
"What am I to you?" I ask.
"An unexpected, unasked for delight, vhenan," he answers.
My heart constricts painfully and my breath catches. I have to squeeze shut my eyes to stop the tears from forming. I don't need to tell him how I feel; it should be abundantly obvious. Our fingertips brush, but it is Solas who makes the first move, trapping my hand beneath his palm. His skin is cool, and his magic pushes against mine the way a cat would rub against another.
I can't help myself; I lean into him and he shifts so that he can sling his arm around me like that time when we were at the elven ruins.
I nuzzle into him, breathe in his wildness, the darkness of my dreams.
"Ma manalas," he whispers.
"Ma nuvenin ne."
"Ma sa'lath," he says, the words barely a breath against my ear.
"Promise me," I reply, "promise me that you will not turn your face from me again like you did."
His lips find mine then he kisses the tears that run down my cheeks. "Please don't cry, vhenan."
"I… I can't help it. Sometimes everything… It's all so overwhelming. These moments that we can snatch, these small bright sparks. I want to hoard them so that they never run out, that when times are bleak I can take them out and examine them and remember every instance where it seemed that there was hope."
"There is always hope," he says. "Tel'enfenim."
I choke back laughter, but then he kisses me again, and all my fears flee even though we are seated upon the edge of a precipice. Somehow, I find myself on my back, pinned beneath his weight, his thighs between mine and his hardness pressing against me. Small stones might bite into my skin, but I'm more intent on the way he steals my breath and the way his treacherous fingers find their way to the lacings of my breeches.
My clothing becomes too constricting and when I'm a little too rough shrugging out of my tunic, I tear fabric – but I'm past caring. When he takes a nipple into his mouth, he gifts me with the whisper of teeth against skin, and the zing of pleasure travels to other parts.
I can think of dozens of reasons why this is not a good idea, but rational thought flees with each sigh, each low groan as we bare yet more flesh. Our coming together is desperate; we clutch at each other, strain at the limits of our endurance in a conflagration of desire and magic, and I swear my damned Mark flares when I come, bathing our little corner in sudden wash of emerald.
Afterwards, we lie tangled, sand adhering to our skin, flesh cooling, breath still ragged.
"Solas?" I murmur.
"Mmm?"
"What's to become of us?"
Because I can't ever see myself bringing him to Clan Lavellan. If I'm brutally honest, I can't see myself returning home either. I've been changed, tainted. My world grown so much bigger, restless among the shemlen and their troubles. The Dalish girl is a broken bird caught in a hunter's snare, and even if she's released, she'll never fly again.
Lying here, with my lover, beneath the uncaring stars, I don't see a happily ever after – not in the way our keeper would tell the stories of bonded mates. What Solas and I have is like the wind stirring the grass – it is ephemeral.
We are caught up in a bigger story, one that does not care that we have sought comfort in each other's arms for this short spell between demons, blood and madness.
He sighs, pulls me closer. "Let's not concern ourselves with tomorrow, please, vhenan." There's a tremor to his muscles that hasn't been there before. "I don't want to think about what the day will bring, nor what will follow in weeks, months to come."
"Why do you love me?" I ask. "For that matter, why do I feel the way I do about you? You're like a sickness, one that I welcome gladly – a fever to ravage my body."
"Vhenan."
"And, I worry… What will happen. Will this fever run its course? Will we become strangers to each other one day?"
He crushes me to him. "Hush now."
"Solas?"
He's still, doesn't breathe. Tense.
"Will you sleep with me in my tent tonight? I don't want to be alone. I want to wake up with your arms around me. I want to pretend that this is forever. Even if it's not."
"And what of the Inquisitor?" he says.
"Sod the Inquisitor. This is for Rosala."
"Now you sound like Sera." But he laughs, tightens his embrace, and I know he's acquiesced.