Archive of Our Own

Solas twitches his nose as he follows the Inquisitor into the sodden remains of Old Crestwood. The smell is… pungent, to say the least, but it fades from his awareness as he notices the only remaining residents of the drowned village.

Wraiths. His heart clenches as he recognizes their spectral forms floating aimlessly between the dilapidated buildings. They’re lit very faintly by an orange glow, putting him strongly in mind of the faded embers of a formerly merry flame.

Blackwall immediately draws his sword. “Demons,” he grunts, and takes a purposeful step forward.

Sera groans as she slings her bow from her back. “Ugh, more of these things?” She raises her bow, an arrow already nocked and ready to fly.

Solas purses his lips. Sera is an utter lost cause; he’s tried to explain to her about spirits, but she refuses to listen. She has repeatedly run away from him when he began to speak of magic, and on one noteworthy occasion she blew raspberries and plugged her ears rather than converse with him about Cole. Blackwall is more reasonable, and Solas can tell that the Warden tries to understand what Solas tells him, but Solas has been forced to conclude that the subtle nuances of spirits and demons, of physicality and the Fade, are simply beyond the understanding of a person with no magical aptitude whatsoever.

“Wait,” Elia says.

Solas raises his eyebrows appreciatively. Elia has stopped in her tracks, and she hasn’t pulled her staff from her back. She frowns curiously at the village, and Solas watches as her aquamarine eyes trace the benign paths of the floating wraiths.

Blackwall stops at Elia’s word, but Sera huffs with exasperation and doesn’t lower her bow. “Come on, Lavellan, we’ve got to get them before they get us! Let’s-”

“Hold your fire,” the Inquisitor snaps. She shoots Sera a warning look. “These aren’t demons. At least, I don’t think they are… Solas?”

She turns to look at him, and his ire melts away at the query in her expression. He’s not sure why he’s still surprised by her thoughtfulness, but somehow he is: every time she chooses thought over action is like a jolt to his heart. Her insistence on knowing before acting always gives him a breathtaking sensation of being simultaneously kissed and slapped.

Her face is like an open book waiting for his words to write another story of spirits, and he swallows hard as he returns her gaze. “You are correct,” he finally says. “Those are not demons. They are wraiths: the remains of spirits that have been destroyed.” He ignores Sera’s grunt of disgust and focuses solely on Elia. “It is likely that the wraiths once were benign spirits drawn to the tragedy of this place.” He sighs. “I suspect that they were killed by their corrupted compatriots. Draining the lake likely allowed the demons from the rift to access this village and attack the spirits. They may have been peacefully visiting this place for some time before our arrival.”

Elia’s eyebrows contract in distress. “You mean the spirits were killed by demons because we drained the lake?”

Solas gazes at her apologetically, and Elia sighs. “We should have gotten here sooner,” she mutters.

“Who cares?” Sera expostulates. “You had to drain the lake! Those creepy dead body things are attacking people, real people!” She waves her hand dismissively towards the drowned village. “These are just a bunch of bloody ghosts. Let’s get rid of them and close that stupid rift already!”

Solas glowers at Sera. He usually lets her foolishness roll off his back like the inconsequential prattle that it is, but the sight of all these wraiths - this glaring evidence of dead spirits littered through the village - is too painful. The memory of his dear friend being cruelly bound and tortured in the Exalted Plains is still fresh, and Sera’s thoughtless words are like watching someone spit on the site of a mass murder.

Before he can say anything, Elia steps in. “Sera, I would love if you tried harder to understand spirits. You want to help the little people? Spirits are the littlest people there are. They’re treated as badly as elves in the alienages. As badly as slaves, even. When they’re not ignored completely, they’re dragged across the Veil by force and chained by magic to do our bidding. It’s no less terrible than treating a person that way.”

Solas stares at Elia gratefully. He’s certain that her fondness for Cole plays no small part in her opinion of spirits, but it’s also clear that she’s taken their many discussions to heart.

Sera rolls her eyes and tuts loudly, but her cheeks are turning pink, and Solas can tell it’s a flush of shame rather than anger. Elia ignores Sera’s behaviour as she finishes her speech. “Every life matters to me,” she says gently. “Whether you understand the nature of it or not. Please try to remember that. For me.”

Her tone is calm and her expression kind, and Solas knows that this - her firm gentleness - is the only effective way of delivering such words to the hotheaded archer. This kind of dressing-down is Elia’s specialty: rebuke wrapped in a layer of softness, the perfect combination of correction and disappointment that spreads shame through the wrongdoer’s mind like a sweet poison.

Sure enough, Sera lowers both her bow and her head, and Solas takes no small satisfaction from the sight of the younger elf subdued. “All right, fine,” she grumbles. “Whatever you say, your Gracious Ladybits. What d’you want us to do?”

Elia smiles, then jerks her chin toward a rage demon down by the shore. “Kill only the demons. Leave the wraiths alone. They might be able to tell us something about what they’ve witnessed here.”

Sera rolls her eyes again, but follows Elia’s command without further protest. Blackwall nods and follows suit, and Elia takes a step forward to join them, but Solas reaches out and grabs her hand.

A beautiful grin lights her face as he pulls her against his chest. “What are you doing?”

“Kissing you,” he replies smoothly. “I would have thought that obvious.” Without further ado, he captures her lips with his own.

Elia’s fingers twine in the cord of his necklace as he lingers on the plumpness of her lower lip for a few sweet seconds. She pulls back with a breathless laugh, and Solas grins at the rosiness of her cheeks. “You sweet talker,” she whispers, then releases his necklace and runs off toward the shore.

The demons are eliminated with minimal fuss, and Elia leads them through the village in a systematic search of each waterlogged cottage. Before they have a chance to investigate more than one or two sodden huts, an odd polyphonic voice catches their attention.

“Move! No, the other way! Move, I said! I command it!”

Elia’s eyebrows jump high on her forehead. “Is that…?”

Solas murmurs an acknowledgement. “That is the voice of a wraith, yes. It must have been a particularly vocal spirit.” He’s surprised as well; it’s very rare for a wraith to retain anything more tangible than a hint of the spirit it once was.

They head in the direction of the voice, and Elia and Solas approach the wraith while Sera and Blackwall hang back. Immediately the wraith snaps at Elia. “You! You there! I order you to tell me why nothing here heeds my command!”

“Hmm.” Solas eyes the wraith thoughtfully. “This should-”

“Silence!” the wraith barks. “Let the other one speak.”

Solas frowns, and Elia squeezes his hand soothingly as she takes a cautious step closer. “You were a spirit once,” she says quietly. “What did you embody? Compassion? Justice? Wisdom?”

“Soft virtues all,” the wraith announces grandly. “I am more. I am Command.”

Solas can’t help himself. “Or Pomposity,” he retorts.

Elia throws him a shocked glance, and he shrugs. He has no patience for conceit, or for people who interrupt. It’s so very rude.

She turns back to the wraith. “What’s so distressing about the real world?”

The wraith shimmers with agitation as it replies. “It ignores me! I order the rocks to part, but they do not. I bid the sky draw close, and it stays still! I don’t know how you mortals stand it.”

Elia shrugs helplessly and glances at him. “Spirits are your expertise, Solas.”

“Then tell me why nothing here changes!” the wraith barks.

Solas raises one eyebrow. He’s of half a mind to refuse out of spite, but it would be far too cruel to deny the wraith yet another command. More importantly, Elia is gazing at him with those big expectant eyes, and he can’t deny her when the question is something he can so easily answer. “This realm follows different rules from the Fade’s,” he explains. “Will alone cannot overcome what you see.”

“Then what’s the point of it?” the wraith demands.

“A solid form is both shackle and strength,” Solas says softly. “It affects more than you imagine.” His gaze drifts back to Elia. The turquoise of her eyes is more vibrant than ever in the sheeting rain. He remembers the feel of her hands gripping his back, the heated weight of her body on his, the sheer allure of her solid form. The moments he spends with his Dalish lover are the only times he’s ever appreciated any kind of shackle.

A bolt of lightning jags across the sky, and Solas’s chest squeezes with bittersweet adoration as Elia’s smile is rendered brilliant by the flash of light. She turns back to the wraith. “Why haven’t you gone back to the Fade?”

“I will not be denied,” the wraith announces. “I refuse to leave until something obeys my orders!”

Elia straightens and lifts her chin. “Then I feel compelled to help you. I pledge myself to your service.”

Solas gazes at her with renewed appreciation. Her actions truly should not keep surprising him; they have travelled together for months, and he’s watched her do everything in her power to help whoever she can, and yet he’s still discombobulated by the sight before him: a corporeal being - a Dalish elf, no less - agreeing to follow a spirit’s command. It was unremarkable in the days of Elvhenan, but in this time and age, Elia again proves herself unique.

Despite his appreciation, a tiny wriggle of worry begins to tap at the back of his mind. Elia’s agreement to serve the wraith was easy - almost too easy. Solas knows his Elia; she and Cole have equally tender hearts for the plights of those in pain, and Solas knows she wants only to help the wraith return to the Fade in peace. But suddenly he worries about the limits of Elia’s empathy - or, more accurately, the lack of limits.

Elia tries to see every side of a story. She seeks alternate perspectives where most would not. He’s watched her judging prisoners at Skyhold, and he’s seen her giving second chances where many would give a death sentence. And for the umpteenth time, Solas wonders how she would judge him.

Sometimes he lies awake at night, wasting precious time from the Fade to wonder if she would come to understand his purpose. He stares at the sooty crescents of her eyelashes on her sleeping face and wonders if anything would ever convince her to leave behind this world she loves so much.

Now, as he watches her listening carefully to the pompous wraith’s demand, he realizes there is a real chance that she would want to join him on his dinan’shiral, and the thought makes his blood run cold.

In the days of his youth, Solas may once have embodied pride. But when he looks in the mirror nowadays, all he sees is duty. His footsteps are heavy with the weight of responsibility, the weight of ancient lives that cannot be cast aside. There is nothing he will not do to repair this world he’s unwittingly created, and once the orb is back in his possession, there is nothing - and no one - that will stop him from doing what must be done.

He can’t let Elia see what he will become. He can’t let her witness the depths he will plumb to rectify the mistakes he’s made. She is pure in a way that he never expected, nearly a spirit of empathy in her own right. The thought of bringing her down to his level - of corrupting something so wholesome and good...

This thought seizes him with sudden fear. It is only now that he realizes how much of a mistake his joining with Elia truly was. He sank into her open arms with the full knowledge that this would end in heartbreak, and it’s a truth that continues to haunt him every day. But by binding her with the shackles of her love, he’s made her even more likely to empathize with him - to become something terrible, to change - and he can’t bear to let that happen.

Elia nods respectfully to the wraith and moves off to rejoin Sera and Blackwall, and Solas trails behind her with a churning mind. They continue their search of the village, and he’s so distracted he almost forgets to remark on the whispers of the ancient artifacts along the shore. Eventually they find the entrance to the cavern that will lead to the subterranean rift, and Blackwall promptly takes point with Sera close at his heels. Solas steps forward to follow them, but it is Elia’s turn to grab his hand.

“Is everything all right?” she says quietly. She gazes up at him with a worried frown, and a bite of guilt pulls his sunken mood even lower.

“Yes,” he lies. “Come, Inquisitor. You have a rift to close.” He releases her hand and starts to move away.

She takes his arm before he can take more than a step. “Solas,” she says. Her voice is firmer than before, an implicit command, and he can’t help but frown slightly as he turns to face her again.

She reaches up and cradles his neck tenderly in her hands, and the softness of her expression immediately humbles him. She rises on her tiptoes and presses her forehead to his. “If there’s something you want to talk about, just let me know,” she whispers. “I’m right here. I’m not going anywhere.”

That is exactly what I fear, he thinks. Guilt and worry hound his heels, but Elia’s hands are as warm as her gaze, and he selfishly draws comfort from her in spite of himself.

He gently pulls away from her and brushes back a sodden tuft of her raven-black hair. “Do not concern yourself with me, vhenan,” he says softly. “The world already holds enough concerns to occupy your mind. Now come; let us deal with that rift before Sera gets hungry. I pity the demon that stands between that da’len and her next meal.”

Elia smiles at his joke, but her eyebrows remain lifted with anxiety as they jog toward the entrance to the flooded caves, and Solas sighs quietly to himself. His Dalish lover may be patient, but she is sharp as a raven and twice as tenacious, and he resigns himself to a new task tonight: finding a way to explain his melancholy to her without explaining much of anything at all.

**************************

Elia smirks as she watches Sera polishing off her fourth block of travel rations. Blackwall donated one of his own rations to the gamine archer, and he huffs fondly as Sera licks the crumbs from her fingers. “Just don’t come whining to me in the morning when you’re hungry again,” he advises. “I’m saving my remaining rations for the journey home.”

“You should thank me for taking your extras off your hands,” Sera retorts. “The kitchens are being a little too kind to your gut, if you ask me.” She stares pointedly at Blackwall’s nonexistent belly.

Blackwall snorts at Sera’s impudence, and Elia smiles as she listens to their banter, but half of her attention is on the main gate. They’re staying at Caer Bronach for the night instead of making the trip back to Skyhold, but one of their party has yet to return: Solas has gone off on his own.

He was quiet and pensive during their time in the dwarven ruins. Elia is familiar with his mercurial moods after the months she’s spent in his company, so it didn’t surprise her when he pulled her aside and told her he wished for some time alone before joining them at the Caer. But she can’t help but worry at the thought of him travelling the hills of Crestwood on his own as night falls. There are still bandits at large, and they aren’t far from where that dragon has chosen to roost.

I’m just worried about the danger, she thinks. I’d be just as worried if Blackwall or Sera went off on their own. But if Elia is perfectly honest with herself, she knows why she’s really worried: there’s an insecure corner of her heart that’s scared he won’t come back.

She thinks of his abrupt departure after his spirit friend died in the Exalted Plains. Solas is usually the epitome of logic and mild-mannered calm, but that was the first time Elia realized how volcanic his emotions could be and how completely he could fall prey to them. She can still taste the relief she felt when he greeted her at the gates of Skyhold later that night.

She pokes idly at the fire with a stick and tries to ignore the tiny thrumming of agitation that sits just beneath her diaphragm. She knows Solas loves her. She knows he’s with the Inquisition for the long run, and that sometimes he just needs time. But she can’t shake this nagging feeling that he constantly has one foot out the door.

Some time later, after Sera has drifted off to play cards with Leliana’s people, Elia is sharing a drink with Blackwall when a gentle hand squeezes her shoulder.

Solas crouches at her side and nods briefly to Blackwall before speaking softly into her ear. “I found somewhere more private to stay tonight,” he murmurs. “Come with me?”

His lips brush her ear with all the delicacy of a butterfly’s wings, and a tiny shiver of happiness trickles down her spine. Already her chest feels looser now that he’s back at her side. She looks askance at Blackwall. “Do you mind if-?”

Blackwall waves his hand. “Go on, your Worship. We’ll be safe here. I trust you will keep safe as well.” He shoots Solas a quick glance.

Solas nods a confident affirmative as he helps her to her feet, and with a brief word of goodbye to Blackwall, she follows him to the gates.

Once the gates are closed behind them, he brushes her temple with a kiss. “Come,” he repeats. “I have cleared a path for us.” He takes her hand, and they set off to the northeast at a brisk jog.

Eventually they make their way through a short cave system and emerge into the spot Solas found for them: a secluded clearing featuring a beautiful lucid pond ringed with lush ferns, supplied by a gently tumbling waterfall and framed by two towering ancient statues of harts.

Elia slowly steps into the clearing and gazes at the lovely locale with wonder. It’s ringed on all sides by steep slopes of rock punctuated with verdant flora, making it very private indeed.

She turns to Solas, who’s watching her reaction with a tiny smile on his lips. “How did you find this place?” she says quietly. It’s such a peaceful location that she feels an odd compulsion to whisper.

He shrugs as he approaches her slowly with his hands clasped behind his back. “I followed the trail of a wyvern to this pond. It seemed a shame to waste such a perfect spot as this. I could imagine no better complement to the beauty of this place than to bring you here.”

She smiles shyly at his flattery, then allows him to lead her to an impromptu pallet of thick furs that he’s arranged near the edge of the water. A veilfire torch is sunk into the silty border of the pond, and Elia makes herself comfortable on the of furs as Solas waves his hand and lights the torch, illuminating the darkness of their retreat with a cool green glow.

She settles on her side and smiles at him, expecting him to join her, but he fusses idly with the torch for considerably longer than necessary, and Elia eventually sits up.

“Solas,” she says coaxingly. “Come here. Talk to me.”

He runs one hand over his scalp, then suddenly speaks. “You were quick to defend those wraiths in the drowned village. You acquiesced to that wraith’s demands without question.”

He sounds oddly accusatory, and when he finally turns to face her, his brow is creased with a frown. Elia crosses her legs and tilts her head quizzically at him; she can’t understand why this would displease him. He loves spirits. She didn’t do anything he wouldn’t have done.

“Yes,” she says cautiously. “It needed help, and it wasn’t hurting anyone.” She smiles tentatively. “I do listen when you talk about spirits, you know. I believe you when you say their nature is benign. Besides, if Cole isn’t proof of a spirit’s goodness, then what is?”

Solas gazes silently at her, and she watches with consternation as the sternness of his expression slowly morphs into something inexplicably sad.

He finally comes and joins her on the pallet of furs. “Spirits are not all benign and unequivocally helpful,” he says gently. “A spirit of mischief can be downright obnoxious, and spirits of sorrow can linger when you truly wish they would go away.” He studies her face carefully as though he’s taking in every trait. “This is one way that beings of spirit and flesh are similar: none is perfect, and each is capable of harm, whether intended or not.”

Suddenly Elia realizes why he’s been so taciturn, and she claps her hand over her mouth in horror. She’s treated all spirits the same way based on her experience with Cole. She’s allowed her assumptions about one spirit to colour her treatment of the entire group. Suddenly she understands why Solas was upset: her assumptions have been benign, but they’re assumptions nonetheless, and Elia is ashamed that she’s been so ignorant.

“Oh no,” she blurts. She can feel her face getting warm, and she covers her cheeks with her hands. “Oh, Solas. I’m so embarrassed. Of course every spirit is different. If I’m going to give them the same due as any other person, I shouldn’t be treating them all the same…”

She trails off with renewed confusion at the startelement in his face. A small smile lifts his lips, but somehow he looks sadder than ever. “I say this not to shame you,” he says. “I say this for your own benefit. I do not wish to see you come to harm.”

Elia runs her thumb across his eyebrow as though she could wipe his frown away. She doesn’t understand why he’s so sad. “Why are you worried about that?” she asks. “I’m not sure which spirit you think is going to harm me.”

He regards her in silence for another moment, then sighs and looks away. “I’ve been foolish,” he says softly, almost as though he’s talking to himself. “I’ve done you a disservice.”

Elia shakes her head. She’s more confused than ever, but the one thing she knows for certain is that he’s done her no wrong. She cups his jaw in her hand and forces him to look her in the eye. “You’ve done no such thing,” she says firmly. “All you’ve done is teach me things I was always interested in but couldn’t learn from my clan. All that time you’ve spent in the Fade has value, you know.” She smiles mischievously. “You do have your moments of wisdom. They might be brief and fleeting, but…”

He huffs in amusement at her feeble jest, but finally he relaxes and wraps his arm around her, and Elia snuggles her head happily into the crook of his shoulder. “I mean it,” she says. “You always seem to have the answers. You always seem so assured. I wish I had your confidence.”

He barks out a sudden laugh. “I promise you, I do not know the answers to everything. I wish I did.” He pulls away from her slightly and tips her chin up, then lightly traces his thumb along the path of her vallaslin. “Everyone makes mistakes sometimes,” he says softly. “Even me.”

Elia studies his face carefully. His eyes are the dark grey of stormclouds before the rain, and she’s dismayed that he’s even more melancholy than before. The air between them seems oddly fraught with tension, and she’s uncertain how they got to talking about such a heavy topic.

Then Solas speaks again. “Tell me something. What is the strongest motive that drives you? What is the cornerstone that underpins your actions?”

She frowns slightly. His gaze is penetrating, and she gets the distinct sense that there’s more to his question than meets the eye. Still, she’s discovered that sometimes the best way to figure out Solas’s thoughts is to explain her own.

She lies back on the pelts and folds her arms behind her head. The stars are so brilliant that they’re barely overshadowed by the veilfire torch, and she gazes up at them pensively before answering. “I suppose… I think everyone deserves to be heard. Everyone has a story. We all have something we want to share. Sometimes a fight can be averted by just… listening.”

Solas slowly stretches out beside her, and she turns her head to look at him. “Did I ever tell you what I said to Corypheus when he attacked Haven?”

Solas shakes his head mutely, so Elia tells him. “I asked him what he wanted,” she says quietly. “I was so… I was terrified, Solas, and so angry. He killed so many of our people. And that archdemon-dragon-thing, just howling that horrific beam of lightning down on them like they were nothing...” She takes a deep breath. “I wanted to scream bloody murder at him. But… I asked him what he wanted. I thought if we knew what he wanted, we would understand him better. If we understood him better, we could figure out his weaknesses, how to stop him. And maybe… Maybe if he just told us what led him to this point, he wouldn’t be so… I don’t know. I was hoping he could be reasoned with.”

Solas is silent for a long time. His face is half hidden in shadow, his expression inscrutable, and she wonders if her answer disappoints him.

Eventually he speaks in a voice no louder than a whisper. “You cannot change every person’s mind,” he tells her. “Some paths are permanent, winding out into plans more unchanging and unstinting than stone.”

Elia shrugs in resignation. “So we have to kill him,” she says simply. “Corypheus is a religious fanatic. There’s no reasoning with someone like that.” She shakes her head. “I would parley with him if I thought it would save lives, but he has no mercy. So there’s no choice but to bring him down for good.”

“So there will be no swaying you,” Solas says. “There is nothing he could do you to convince you that his way is right.” The question is implicit in his words if not in his tone, and Elia gives him an odd look; how could he think she would ever side with Corypheus?

“Of course not,” she says promptly. “He would destroy everything and everyone in the name of his own perfect world, but that’s ridiculous. There’s no such thing as perfect. Nothing built in the image of a single person’s mind can ever be perfect for everyone. It’s a complete logical fallacy.”

Solas exhales slowly, and even in the dim light of the veilfire torch, she can see the tension leave his shoulders. He bows his head briefly, then shifts closer until she’s penned between his forearms. He cradles her neck in his hands, but he says nothing, and his eyes are still sad.

She reaches up and strokes his wrist. “Why are you asking me this?” she whispers. “What is this all about?”

He shakes his head slightly. “I’ve witnessed many empires fall and all the mess they leave behind. Tales of war ring loud through time: a knell that cannot be ignored.” He sighs. “I’ve seen too many wars, vhenan. I did not wish to see such horrors again.”

She hesitates for a moment before replying. He sounds as though he’s speaking of his journeys in the Fade, but that doesn’t really explain the degree of his sorrow. This is a delicate path to tread, however, and she doesn’t wish to push him too hard. “Will you tell me about it someday?” she asks.

She watches the movement of his throat as he swallows. After a long, quiet moment, he nods. “Yes,” he says finally. “Someday I will tell you.”

She tilts her chin up and gently nuzzles his nose with her own. “Then I’ll be right here when you’re ready.”

His fingers tighten in the hair at the nape of her neck, and he lowers his head and presses his cheek to hers. “You are stronger than you think, Elia,” he whispers. “Never doubt that. Your strength will be your saving grace. This I know.”

His words are a non-sequitur, and Elia wraps her arms around him and hugs him tight. At times like this, he seems so wrapped in a cloak of mystery and misery that she worries he’ll never come free. Somehow she thinks that if she holds him close enough, if she wraps herself around him instead, she can wipe away his sorrow.

She slides her cheek against his own until her lips meet the corner of his mouth. Gently and softly she kisses the edge of his lips, a tiny press of affection that coaxes him to turn his face to hers.

She kisses him slowly and savours the smoothness of his lips. She cradles the nape of his neck and imagines her love seeping into him through the tips of her fingers. Her chest is flush to his, her leg wrapped around his waist, and she imagines her hope sinking through his armour to pierce the pessimism that guards his heart.

Reluctantly she releases his neck and watches his face as she slides her fingers to the buttons of her coat. He sits back on his knees to watch her, and his expression warms with each button that comes undone. When she shuffles off her coat and shirt to bare her skin, he rewards her with a smile, and yet his eyes are sad.

She rises to her knees to match him and reaches wordlessly for his clothes. She slides the wolf fur shawl from his shoulders and gently untwines the necklace from his neck. His tender gaze traces her face as she unbuckles his belt and tugs his tunic over his head, and when she presses herself against him skin-to-skin, his smile reaches the corners of his eyes, and yet his eyebrows are sad.

She kisses the line of his jaw and unbuttons her trousers, then slides them off before taking his lips in a languorous kiss. Slowly but firmly she takes his hands and places them on her naked body in a silent but powerful invitation. The warmth of her body and the heat of her affection is his for the taking, and all she wants in return is to burn away his melancholy for just a little while.

She runs her palms along his back in a coaxing caress. He explores her skin in kind, his fingers sliding down the line of her spine and over the curves of her hips to cup the roundness of her bottom. He pulls her carefully against his still-clothed groin, and Elia breaks from their kiss with a tiny gasp as his hand slides around the column of her thigh and towards her pulsing center.

She opens her eyes and meets his gaze. His steel-grey eyes are fixed on her face as he runs his fingers along the inside of her thigh, and she nods her head in response to the silent question in his eyes.

He strokes her swollen bud with a featherlight touch, and Elia clasps his neck and presses her cheek to his. His left arm encircles her waist while his clever fingers push her unerringly towards her peak, yet the thing that pleases her most is the heated press of his skin and his distracted breath against her ear.

He slips one finger inside of her, and she buries her face against his neck to smother her moan. His shoulders are hot and solid in the shelter of her arms, his chest hard and lean against her own, and she shivers apart with a muffled cry at the insistent touch of his talented hand, but the sensation she most enjoys is the gentle caress of his lips against her shoulder and the firmness of his arm holding her close.

With eagerly trembling hands she reaches for his breeches, and he watches her with tender approval as she unlaces and pushes them away. They lay together on the pelts in a tangle of hands and hearts and heat, pressing close and arching in to ward off the cool night air with the shared warmth of their skin.

His hands trail along her thighs, her calves, her ankles. He flexes into the rise of her body as they roll together, surging and crashing together like waves against the shore. The pleasure he brings is smooth and sinuous, a powerful pulsing roar that pushes her higher into the brilliant light of her own mind.

His left hand holds her thigh for leverage as he joins with her in a sweet and rhythmic dance. His right hand travels carefully across her body, and Elia can tell he’s appreciating her form like the artist that he is: he sculpts the shape of her breasts, strokes the lines of her ribs, skims his nails lightly along the soft inner curves of her thighs before piercing firm and true to the bead of pleasure between her legs.

Elia throws back her head and arches silently into his touch. She offered herself to him without reservation, but it’s Solas who is giving now, who offers a deep and dreamlike ecstasy that lingers long beyond the simple act itself.

She gives herself over completely to the expert ministrations of his hands. A long, luxurious moment later, she fractures for the second time. She’s complete, fulfilled by his thumb on her swollen nub and his manhood filling her up, but the thing that brings her the most completion is the satisfaction in his face as he watches the convulsive trembling of her body.

He looms over her, penning her again between the shelter of his arms before ravishing her mouth with his own. The veilfire shines on his skin, highlighting the silhouette of his shoulders, the drop of sweat that rolls toward his chin, the glittering intensity of his eyes. His hands slide into her pixie-short hair and his skin slides against her, hot and slick as his cock between her legs, and even as he drives her deeper into mindless rapture, Elia knows she’s gotten what she really wanted: there’s no sorrow here, no sadness in the angles of his beautiful face, nothing but the passion of him and her together, here in this exquisite place.

His teeth scrape her shoulder and nip her earlobe, a tiny bite of pain that’s soothed by his gasping breaths against her cheek. She scores his back with her nails, lifts her hips high, arches into his heat and his wiry strength and his desperate affection. He steals her breath with a kiss, then releases it with a moan as he trembles against her with a final hard thrust.

They breathe softly in tandem in the aftermath, and his lips skim her neck and collarbone with all the delicacy of a painter’s brush. His fingers loosen in her hair, the tightness of his grip softening into a sweet caress along the nape of her neck. He lifts his face and smiles mutely down at her, and she tenderly smoothes her fingers along the angle of his cheek; she’s chased away his tension for now, and she won’t let it return tonight.

The veilfire torch wavers and flickers silently as they roll onto their sides, twined together from forehead to chest to ankle. She strokes the smoothness of his scalp and slides her thumb along the tight knots of his neck until his eyelashes flutter shut with sleep.

His face is calm and peaceful as he sinks into the Fade, and Elia admires him contentedly for a long moment before sliding carefully out of his arms. Quietly she crawls around behind him, then nestles against his back and slides her arm around his waist.

Solas sighs softly in his sleep. His fingers slowly grasp her wrist to pull her more tightly against him, and Elia gently nuzzles the line of his spine until he grows still again.

She smiles against his skin, then closes her eyes. She cherishes the talks they share and the gems of wisdom that she plucks from his mind. But in quiet moments like this, as she savours the skin of her serenely sleeping lover against her lips, Elia realizes that sometimes the language of their bodies can resonate more powerfully than the finest words.