arlathvhen | Calderas Inbox for Inquisitor Lavellan

They do show him mercy, she wants to argue, but stops herself before the argument can properly form. Because...they haven't shown it, not here. They've been actively hostile to him, and have all but ignored her. It did not assure her that they were feeling merciful towards him--how could she expect him to be assured in turn?

It occurs to her, the discussion that she's had with Solas about remembering this, when they return home. It was certainly possible, wasn't it? The leaders hadn't said anything definitive, and she only knew it to be true for Ashton. If the Veilguard went back, with the hostility they have shown in Caldera--

She makes a decision. It is a bad decision. But as soon as it's made, she knows that it is her only option. She straightens, anger transforming into a determination. It is breaking what she's tried to do since she's arrived, but what choice does she have?

"The knife." Her voice feels small. Worried. She tries again. "Your ritual dagger. They made a copy. It looks identical to my eye, and I've been assured that it would hold up under inspection to same even to those who have more knowledge of the craft. But they couldn't duplicate its ability to cut through enchantments. They planned to pull a bait and switch with you--give you the fake dagger, and use the true one on you when you thought you had won. That was the trap."

She sets the broom to the side, taking small, careful steps towards him. Towards his side, the choice that she's made, now. He hadn't let her, before. But she knows that it's the only one she could possibly make, with everything that has come to pass.

And he, half-turned away, stops. The dagger? That... would have worked. Whatever it took to kill Elgar'nan, it would not be easy, or simple, and surely there would be no time for careful thought. To bring the Veil down smoothly, rather than as an explosive cataclysm would require immediate action, and if in that crucial moment someone handed him a tool that would not, could not, sever the long resonance from its source and power...

That would have worked. And then, he would be flung back, and they would bind him to the Veil with blood, and thrust him into the Fade-prison from which he so recently escaped, so spend all his long, long lifespan trapped. Alone, in the grey nothingness, maddened, wounded, nothing more than a living power-source for their petty lives to feed on. An eternal torment, even if Beleth had been there— made far worse, for having her there with him, watching it destroy them both.

He looks back at her in confused horror, comprehending finally what it is she is doing. How many times had she told him she loved him still? As many times as he had doubted it, knowing that she could not, truly, understand what it was he had become, what he had done.

But if she tells him this secret, there is no undoing it.

There is no going back: she will have undone her allies plans, and gone over to his side. And so she has no power anymore to betray them or not, only for her faith in him to be answered or not. Solas' answer is at first inarticulate, a voiceless, pained denial, the sound of someone taking a fist in the gut.

She comes to him, and he opens his arms with trembling hands, and them abruptly pulls her closer, clutching, hard and desperate and frightened that she may go away, or change her mind. But he knows, he knows, she will not. Cannot. The die is cast.

"Vhenan," He whispers, broken-hearted. For the first time in millennia he truly is not so sure, and though he crushes it brutally, the question plants a living seed, somewhere down in the black heart of him: what if? "Thank you."

How can this truly be what she wants? He is not the man she fell in love with, not that gentle apostate, constructed equal parts from convenience and lies. And yet, true also that she had never wavered, had only seemed to strengthen as more and more of him came into her view. When had she known, when had she seen enough to know it all? But he knows the answer to that; years ago, when her body had been whole, and he had still thought their bond fragile enough to break. When first she had named him, her eyes bright with defiance: Dread Wolf. Fool. Prideful idiot.

Even then, it had been too late, and she had known it.

"Ar lath ma, vhenan. Thank you. I..." a quiet, bitter chuckle, "I have no words. I came hoping only for a callow apology. Perhaps one day I will learn not to underestimate the depths of your wisdom, and your strength."

Edited 2025-02-12 20:36 (UTC)

It would be a lie to say that she wasn't nervous, standing there and letting him grasp what she has told him, and the implications behind it. He will understand what she's done, of course, but she isn't sure how he'll take it. If he'll just be angry again, that she's once more chosen to prioritize him over what may be the wisest decision.

Well, it doesn't change what she's done. He can't unknow the knowledge.

And then he's reaching out, and before she can truly grasp what's happening, his arms are around her, and she's enveloped by her beloved, held like something desperately, ardently desired, and how can she do anything but reciprocate? She clings to him with just as much fervor, face pressed into his chest.

Perhaps it had been a bad decision, but it was the right one. The only one she could make.

Together, she had told him. They would walk Din'anshiral together. Wherever their decisions led. She had told him this many times, though she suspected that now, he would be forced to believe her. What other choice had he? She could not leave his side and go to the Veilguard, for when they found her betrayal, they would take it as seriously as they had done with Solas.

Which suited her just fine.

"I do owe you an apology." She mumbles into his chest, still holding him tightly. "I was composing it when you came in, but my temper got the better of me. I should not have spoken so casually of my intentions, and I knew you would be unhappy to hear them. I was unkind and temperamental. Forgive me, my love."

Solas scoffs a rough denial, with his face pressed against her hair, still clinging. Forgive, what a joke! She had done nothing worth forgiving, except perhaps permit him far too much of her patience. But he knows, knows from hard experience, how unwilling one can be to accept it.

"Always," He says, instead, "What could I not forgive, when you are my heart?"

So too it must be for her, he thinks, he hopes. He cannot bear to be as it was before, giving himself by pieces to another, only to find he has nothing more to offer, and she disinterested and—

No.

But no, it was not that, it was nothing like that. Because she had relented, had given him this gift of knowledge, this weapon. And trusted him not to wield it. And what was he planning?

To save her, he reminded himself, To save what I can.

Solas pressed a silent kiss to the top of her head and held on, trembling slightly on each inhale. It was not weeping, not truly; no tears came, no sobs, only the damnable trembling. Like seeing someone stepping back from a long and terrible fall.

"This cannot have been our first argument together, can it?" He asks, eventually. They have been in conflict with one another for nearly every moment of their acquaintance, and despite that always been polite, or at least civil. This indignant shouting match had been neither, "Ridiculous."

There are a long few moments where she does nothing but cling to him, soak in his touch. It is a gift, to be able to hold to him like this, feel his lips on her. But his tremors worry her, and one hand moves to slowly rub his back. Her poor heart, who had been so upset by the idea of her own hurt. Who loved her so much, that she had feared he would run again, to save her from him.

But he was here, and she would not let him go from her again.

"I recall you were less than pleased by my decision with the Abelasan, though I understand your anger now, more than I had when it happened. This was...sillier, I think." She tilts her head up, to press her lips to the corner of his mouth. "You call yourself an old man, but you argue like one half your age."

That was a joke. Because half his age is still old. It's very funny.

Solas does not laugh, but the huff of his breath is it's own expression of appreciation. Yes, alright, their difference in age was occasionally a fertile ground for humor. That she felt so comfortable as to joke about it felt... better. More than anything, he wished not to become a tyrant to her, only because he was the older, and more powerful.

He knew well what that felt like.

"When I am with you, I am truly young... In spite of myself," He teases, slowly relaxing; there is no rational need to clutch, after all, "And you have ever seemed to be wise beyond your years. Perhaps we meet in the middle."

If there was ever anything he didn't need to fear in their relationship, it was that he would turn into a tyrant over her. That she would even let him, indeed, would be its own fantasy.

Her silly joke pulling him into a mood for levity, and she was glad for it. Glad enough to give him another kiss, this time on the cheek. "Very well. I shall endeavor to act as a woman of several thousand years. I'm not sure I will be able to do this very easily, but if it is your desire, my heart, you need only consider it done."

Starting to pepper his face with little fluttering kisses is not, perhaps, the way to start off this declaration. But she does it anyway.

Solas smiles at her teasing, at seeing Beleth so easily brought to joy, even after so pointless and petty a fight. He allows her caresses with a strange, weary sort of contentment, still feeling scraped-hollow and relieved.

She could never know, could never be permitted to learn, where his mind had gone, nor how close to the abyss his plans had momentarily veered. Let that knowledge pass forever from her hands; it could only cause her pain.

"Vhenan," He says quietly, full of tenderness, "I will love you still, when you are old in truth. Be as you are now, for as long as you wish. There will be no reason to hurry."

No, she doesn't know what thoughts had run through his mind, or how grim they had been. But she does see a weariness in him, one that he seems to carry as naturally a burden as one's own limbs. Was it the fight? The worry of what she'd done, the risk she had taken, and how it would rebound upon her? Or maybe it was the hundred other worries that seemed to crowd his mind.

Either way, she was of a mind to soothe them.

Both hands reach up to cup his face, and she presses a firm, solid kiss to his lips. One, then another, and slowly begins backing up, towards the bed (one of the first pieces of furniture they'd brought in, luckily). Pulling him along, still cherishing him with long, slow kisses.

"Well, the me that I am now has a few ideas on what I wish for." That made no sense. Especially in the context of what Solas said. She doesn't seem to care.

He chuckles at her eagerness, allowing himself to be led. If the argument was bitter, then all the sweeter was forgiveness afterwards; His hands in her hair, and his lips on hers as she tips them backwards and onto the bed.

What he did not owe to this woman, could not be known. She was in everything he did, even now, and he no longer knows how or why he thought to run from her. He is only glad that the curtains are drawn, and the door firmly shut.

The rest would wait, for another day.

Calderas Inbox for Inquisitor Lavellan

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