Chapter Text
He thinks about the kiss in the Fade more than he should.
Her fingertips tracing along his jaw. The warm press of her mouth against his. His shock at the spark of desire that flared inside him in response.
And then she had pulled away, the shade of worry in her eyes, like she was unsure of the boldness of what she’d just done, and that desire had burned in his chest. He had moved without thinking, tugging her back into him, deepening the kiss until her lips parted.
He is no stranger to the physical act of sex; in the courts of his youth, he had been quite the consort of it, hotblooded and cocky, delighting in the feel of being desired, but nothing more than that. It had been passing fancies; nothing like this. This want .
He has never wanted before.
He tries to pin down where these feelings started, hoping that by discovering the source he might also find a cure. Of course he had noticed that she was attractive, graceful and powerful in a fight in ways he loved to watch, but many were beautiful and powerful without holding any temptation for him. If she had only been those things, perhaps he would not have…
The little gasp she had made when he captured her mouth with his. The dig of her fingers into his clothes. The heat that had spread low in his stomach at the sensation of her body fitting perfectly against his.
It was at Haven; it had to have started there. With the conversations they’d had, how she’d questioned and challenged and surprised him at every turn. Until he found himself looking for her, hoping at every moment to see her walking toward him.
Foolish. He retreats to his studies and his painting. He lists every reason why it would be madness to go any farther down this road. He dismisses the exquisite pain pounding in his chest as nothing, a mere passing infatuation.
It will fade soon enough.
* * *
And yet it doesn’t. It only gets sharper and more consuming. He finds he cannot take his eyes off her whenever she is near. And when she is not, his mind is constantly drifting to her. It is equal parts frustrating and fascinating, wondering how anyone functions with this terrible feeling taking up all the space in their chest.
They travel Thedas, and he notices how she sags under the weight of her responsibilities when she thinks no one is watching. The lives that she must guide and shepherd. Every decision, a crossroad and a tipping point.
It pains him to see her like that. He knows those feelings intimately, in a way no one else in the Inquisition can.
Most nights during their travels, he sits up by the fire, too restless to sleep after everyone else has retired to their tents. And he hears her sometimes, tossing and turning, crying out. Nightmares of Haven, of loss, of war. He slips into her tent and lays a hand feather-light on her forehead, soothing her with a simple spell until she relaxes into peaceful sleep. Then he slips away again, with her never the wiser.
He sits under the stars and fails in not thinking of her and fails at not naming the emotion burning through him. He has known its name far longer than he can admit to himself.
Love .
* * *
It is the mission in the Exalted Plains that settles everything. Not just her understanding, her responsiveness, her sympathy when he comes to her and begs her to help his friend – but after. When he returns, his heart heavy, and she is there, waiting for him.
The next time you mourn, you don’t have to do it alone.
He has always been alone. He has always been seen and yet not seen. He has always been a tool to be used, an arrow to be pointed. Thousands of years in service to others as an advisor, as a general, as a god, sharing their burdens, but finding no respite for his own.
He has never been just a man. Mourning. Heartbroken. In need of a safe place to shelter and actually finding one.
In her.
* * *
He has not been in her quarters since the day he kissed her on the balcony and let slip the words that had been written on his heart for weeks.
Ar lath ma, vhenan.
He isn’t entirely sure why he’s here now. It is late, the snowcapped mountains surrounding them piercing up into a blanket of deepest night and shimmering stars.
No good decisions are made at this time of night. He should go.
Instead his feet carry him up the stairs to her bedroom. A fire burns in the grate, but the air is chilled and smells of snow. Likely because the balcony doors are thrown open, and she is standing out there, a thick blanket wrapped around her and her head tilted up to the sky.
He steps through the balcony doors, a wry smile on his face. “I suppose catching your death of cold is one way to avoid all the expectations of the Inquisitor.”
She looks over at him with a grin. “It’s so clear tonight. I was foolishly trying to pick out the constellations.” She shrugs, the blanket slipping a little from one of her shoulders, baring her skin. “One of those things I was never good at but always wished I was.”
“I find it difficult to believe that there is anything you are not good at.” He holds out a hand to her. “May I?”
At her nod, he stands behind her, dropping his head down to that bared shoulder so that they’re cheek to cheek. He’s close enough to hear the hitch in her chest as his warm breath brushes against her neck. Curling his hand around hers, he points their fingers up into the sky, moving with her, his voice low and quiet as he shows her the constellations he can find up there. The Maiden. The Thunderbolt. The Oak. The Watchful Eye.
And yet only half his mind is on the stars. He is too aware of every place his body connects with hers, of how she leans back into him, of her racing heartbeat pulsing against the underside of her wrist, as fast and hard as his own.
No good decisions are made at this time of night.
When he runs out of visible constellations, he straightens, clearing his throat awkwardly, and pulls the edge of the blanket back up over her shoulder. “You’re shivering. We should go inside.”
She doesn’t object, and he follows her from the balcony, closing the doors behind him to shut out the cold. The chill in the room lingers, though, and she moves to the fireplace, the light from the flames dancing over her face. He ought to say now that he’ll leave her to get some rest, but he can’t bring himself to do it.
“Solas,” she says after a moment, looking up. “I’m glad you’re here. That you came, I mean. I feel as if you’ve been avoiding me, even after…” Her eyes flick to the balcony briefly and then away.
He shakes his head as he joins her in front of the fireplace. “I am sorry, vhenan. It is not you. I am unused to feeling like this.” He can smell the faint traces of the perfumed oil she likes to wear. The soft orange glow of the fire flickers across the bare skin of her throat. He wants to kiss her there. He wants to kiss her everywhere. “Every time I’m near you, it is like I am unraveling.”
She steps closer, even as everything in him sings that it isn’t close enough. They are toe to toe, her chest nearly brushing his, and it is still too far. “In a good way or a bad way?”
“Good,” he admits with a little smile. His hand drifts to her face, lightly touching her cheek and her jawline, thumb skimming along the line of her bottom lip. “But also terrifying.”
Her face is only a few inches from his. Her face is his entire world. One in which he has no other cares or claims but the ones he chooses for himself. Where he is simply Solas.
He just wants to be Solas for tonight.
He takes a breath, but it is shallow and shaky. As if he cannot breathe properly. “I should go.”
Her gaze drops to his mouth and her lips part ever so slightly. The heat of that look hits his blood like a lightning strike. “If that’s what you want.”
It isn’t. Tell me to stay. “I must leave. It is not appropriate. Me, coming to you like this, in the middle of the night – ”
“Solas.” She presses her fingers lightly to his lips, stopping his words. He can barely hear her over the racing beat of his heart. “I don’t think I’ve been unclear about my feelings for you. But I also don’t want to make you uncomfortable – ”
It is too much. His resolve breaks, and he kisses her, hard and desperate, cutting her off before she can give him an excuse. He does not want an excuse.
He simply wants .
Isalan hima sa i’na.
She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling him closer, her lips opening to his, exploring, consuming. Or being consumed. Or both.
The blanket falls from her shoulders to the floor, leaving her only in her nightclothes. Thin, barely anything. But still too much. He slips it from her body without breaking the kiss, her own hands pushing and pulling at his pants, at his shirt, shedding layers as they move backward and tumble onto the bed.
She is beneath him, her fingers digging into the muscles of his back, and he has never known a hunger like this. He kisses every part of her body, drinks her in like a book, like a font of lost knowledge, like a vision in the Fade. Let him be a scholar of the hollow of her throat and the lines of her hips, every sensitive spot that makes her cry out and clutch him tighter. Let him be an expert in the feel of her and the expression on her face when she pulls him into her, how she looks at him with such desire and love that he could drown in it. This is the only wisdom that matters to him now.
Ar lath ma.
She whispers the words against his skin, breathes his name into every kiss. It feels like a miracle or even a prayer. Not to the Dread Wolf. Not to a distant god, beloved but not loved, worshiped but not known. But to him, warm and real and present and moving inside her, his head buried against the curve of her neck as the pleasure builds and builds and then breaks and they’re left breathless, face-to-face, her legs still wrapped around him. She is flushed, eyes bright, a sheen of sweat on her forehead and cheekbones, along her collarbone and breast.
She has never been so beautiful.
She traces a finger along the line of his ear. “If that’s what you leaving is like, I can’t wait to see what it’s like when you intend to stay.”
He laughs softly, dropping his forehead to hers, so close that their noses touch and their breath mingles.
“You are, though? Staying, I mean?” The note of wary caution in her voice makes him lift his head, see the slight shadow in her eyes.
If she knew how he truly felt, how he wasn’t sure he’d ever be able to leave this embrace, let alone this bed or this room… But of course, she doesn’t know because he has been holding her so desperately at bay.
Foolish again. As if he had any power to deny the tide.
“Ame amahn,” he says and kisses her. “I do not think I could drag myself away.”