Solas heard the rushing water before he saw it. He made his way toward it, eager for to suspend his weary body in some river or stream. He approached what ended up being a small pool. An immense waterfall cascaded down from some detached chunk of ruin floating far above and splashed noisily into the pool below. He removed his armor, punctured and cracked, and discarded it. He shivered as he waded into the pool but the water was deep to his chest, enough to envelope most of his body and give his aching muscles some reprieve. He carefully wiped the blood and ichor from his face. He had been able to muster enough magic to heal the most superficial wounds, but two of his ribs were still broken and throbbing. Between the severity of the injury and his weariness, he'd had to endure the pain for several days now. He still was not strong enough to repair them, but by now his body had made the progress his magic would have made in seconds, had he the strength.

He gave his body for the water to hold, and lay there, naked and broken. He closed his eyes and, with effort, allowed his mind to still. He took in a long breath. Perhaps weak in mind as he was in body, he allowed himself to indulge in a memory he'd returned to often on lonely nights, before his departure from the Inquisition rendered the memory a searing branding iron to his heart. He released his breath slowly. As the memory played out, the corner of his mouth curled ever so slightly upward.

...

Though the ballroom at Halamshiral contained enough frills, lace, fine fabrics, and priceless jewelry that one would be forgiven for believing Dorian had styled each and every guest personally, Ell drew every eye in the room. Among the precious pastels that filled the place, she was an intriguing if formidable vision in her formal attire, black and grey, with gold notions for accent, long leather gloves, and fine leather boots, adorned with gold fastenings up to her thighs. She wore an elaborate hand chain which centered a large peridot on the back of her left palm, representing the mark. A black, ceremonial demi-staff topped with a severe carving evoking the eye of the Inquisition hung from her hip. The golden emblem of the Inquisition was emblazoned on the black cape that draped from her shoulders. Her light hair had been intricately woven away from her face and into a low bundle at the nape of her neck. She was confident, commanding. The pride in his heart—there was a dangerous kinship with something else. Desire?

She had played the game expertly, softening key players with a well-timed compliment and discerningly deploying her cutting wit. She did not present the Inquisition as dictatorial or authoritarian, and in truth it was not, but neither did she give any advantage without seizing more for herself. On the rare occasion she made eye contact with him, always aware of who might take notice of a lingering look between them, a crease appeared between her brows, as though she had just gotten a whiff of one of Iron Bull's exotic Qunari spirits. Surely she was aware of how well the evening had gone for her Inquisition. She had secured the Orlesian throne for Celene and thoroughly endeared herself to the Orlesian nobility, sympathetic and unsympathetic alike. It was unnerving that he could not identify what it was that could be troubling her so.

As the evening drew to a close and the guests slowly trickled out of the palace, several swaying tipsily, Ell at last extricated herself from a pair of dukes and made her way toward him. When her eyes found him, her expression fell. As she stomped over to him, with urgency he began, "Inquisitor, is there something—"

"This fucking hat…" she had finished saying just as she closed the remaining distance between them, snatched it off his head, and flung it—flung it—out the balcony doors where it plummeted to the garden below and landed with a metallic clank.

Oh.

He looked down at her and grinned, relieved to have finally discovered the source of her agitation. Her face softened, and he took her gloved hands in his. A close-lipped smile slowly spread across her face, as if she had been trying to suppress it. "So? How'd I do?" He allowed himself to take her in, and in the moonlight, she was breathtaking. For a moment he could only respond with a reverent stare.

"You were exquisite," came the words, low and soft. He pulled her onto a nearby balcony. Remote. Quiet.

The moment they were out of sight he pressed his lips into hers, warm, soft, with the lingering taste of fine wine. With one hand around her waist and the other at her neck, he pulled her body into his, and relished the writhing heat of her against him. Since she had kissed him that night in the Fade, he had tried repeatedly to convince himself of the imprudence of growing close to her. That he would be wrecked twice over if he were to indulge his desire only to have to relinquish her. When he had finally permitted himself to have her, telling himself that he would find a way to keep her, he had become as intoxicated by her body as he was by her spirit. Even so, he had refused her many invitations to bed her. Though they had both taken others to bed before, to lay with her when she did not know who it was she lay with, not truly, felt like something more than a lie by omission. Moreover, drawn as he was to her spirit, he could not be sure of the ramifications of consummation. There was a permanence to the physical world, extending to the physical acts of its inhabitants. There was a weight to such acts. Had they been truly alone in her chambers in Skyhold, he would have taken her now, he knew. He had allowed himself this moment, knowing the prying eyes nearby would stay his lust for her.

Well, he'd thought so anyway. He opened his eyes as he felt a hand drifting toward his belt and then moving to unfasten it. He took the offending hand by the wrist. "Vhenan," he whispered against her lips, which still pursued his with a predatory focus.

"You are ready," she retorted.

He chuckled. He could not deny it. They stood silent for a moment, both panting. Ell appeared finally to have thought better of it and released her grip. He closed his eyes and exhaled. He kept both hands on her waist, placing some distance between them, and slowly took in a deep, shaking breath, in an effort to still his chest and stifle his desire. Finally he returned his gaze to her. Her eyes were grey in starlight, and there he found not frustration but adoration. Devotion. Gratitude.

"You are exquisite."