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Solas looked down at the drawing he had just finished, and smiled.
It was a simple pencil sketch, made in the peaceful moments after camp was set but before the group sat down to eat. On the page Lavellan smiled up at him, the same easy smile she graced him with whenever their gaze met, and as always his lips curled up as if with a mind of their own. It was an automatic response to a gesture of kindness, and even though it happened without his conscious approval he couldn’t bring himself to stop. Apparently even an imaginary, drawn depiction of that smile was enough to trigger that instinct in him.
But as he compared the face on the page to the one from his memories, he saw a dozen little discrepancies that marred the picture. Solas felt his brow furrow as mistake after mistake came to his attention: the eyes too small, the face too round, the nose slightly sharper than it should have been. A spike of irritation went through him. He was not doing Lavellan justice, and what was the point of art that held no truth to it, that wasn’t able to represent if not reality itself then the essence of it?
A sudden laugh broke through his thoughts and Solas glanced up at Varric, who was shooting him an amused look over a notebook of his own.
“First you smile and then you frown? What exactly is going on in that head of yours, Chuckles?”
Solas allowed himself a rueful sigh. “What troubles most artists, I’m afraid. The end product does not fall in line with what I was trying to express.” He tilted his head towards the other man’s notes. “Surely as an author you have experienced this for yourself?”
“Hmm?” Varric had been shamelessly trying to sneak a peek at the drawing, and answered with an airy wave of his hand. “Oh, well, that’s what editors are for. I don’t trouble myself with thoughts like that while inspiration runs hot. More importantly, what exactly were you drawing that had you so mesmerised? A lovely landscape of the war-torn Hinterlands, half of which are on fire at the moment?” His expression ran sly. “A certain person perhaps?”
Solas drew back and struck a carefully prim and proper pose. “I believe in cases such as these, one offers their own secrets first before asking for another’s.”
“Geez, you’re a tough nut to crack huh? Fine, fine. Not that my answer is going to be particularly exciting. I’m just putting down my thoughts on our journey so far. Impressions and such. You know how it is,” his eyes danced, “in case I get the chance to publish another book about another public figure. Maybe this time the protagonist won’t even endlessly bust my ass about it.”
Solas hummed noncommittally, and turned a page. Perhaps a profile would work better.
“Hey, hold up!” Varric said. “What happened to your turn?”
“My turn?” A hint of mischief entered his voice. “I don’t believe I ever agreed to this exchange.”
The dwarf actually gaped. “Seriously?!” His indignation was so strong and pure that Solas laughed despite himself. It was almost charming, the way these new companions expected no trickery from him.
“Here is a piece of advice given for free: never relinquish what you hold without extracting a promise for its equal first.”
Varric grumbled under his breath but let the matter go with minimal fuss, though he kept giving him shrewd looks as he wrote. Solas for his part returned to the matter at hand, letting the interruption melt away as his focus resumed its previous course.
But for some reason the lines would not behave. He switched to a portrait style yet the gaze looking up at him still felt slightly wrong, lifeless. In vain he went over the features again, pencil tip pressing down insistently as he added details to the lips, the folds of the eyes. No, this was not Lavellan’s essence, her spirit. He absent-mindedly ran his hand over the page to clear it, and then again when all that gesture accomplished were some smudges and a puff of granite specks in the air. Magic ran so sluggishly in this world, and while it was never far from his mind—could never be far from his mind—it was the simple unthinking moments like these that stung the most.
Mood decidedly soured, Solas contemplated setting the sketchbook on fire.
Instead he forced himself to breathe deeply, and let his gaze soften. Perhaps he needed a break. He took in the area they were currently occupying, with its young forest and gentle sunlight. Some distance away Cassandra was methodically cleaning her armor with an already bloodied rag, while their Herald gathered the delicate looking herbs that grew by the riverside.
His eyes traced her movements as Lavellan tirelessly bent down and ripped the plants from the earth, each stalk placed with care into a satchel. Even in this she was graceful, creation itself moving aside to let her glide through. There was something nearly meditative about her pace, as if she had all the time in the world to complete this endless task. As if there wasn’t a war being waged somewhere beyond those green trees, smoke and desperation polluting the very air they breathed.
Solas suddenly remembered the first time he ever saw her fight. A spirit of Pride, grown fat and overripe with power and arrogance, its self-satisfied laugh echoing throughout the mountainside. Beneath him a small army of mortals, disquieted by the sight, hands uneasy on their weapons as the tear in the Veil spat out more and more disfigured spirits. In the midst of all that chaos Lavellan had been the only steady figure, stance rooted to the ground as she let her arrows fly.
Hurriedly he turned to a fresh page and set down the foundations of a new sketch. One powerful, uninterrupted line, from elbow to arrow tip as she drew her bow. Legs apart, braced. Her expression serious, gaze focused on the unseen horizon. As the drawing took life under his pencil he let his hand flow freely, adding emphasis to small details as his whim saw fit. The curve of her bicep. The feather fletching caressing her cheek.
It was all coming together, finally, and Solas felt satisfaction bloom inside his chest, that special sweetness that came when everything fell into place just so. He looked down at Lavellan’s drawn counterpart and marveled at the strength depicted there. A sentinel standing ready at her post, calm and unmoving. A warrior, a protector. Quietly competent, she would yield to no enemy. Any cause would be lucky to have her.
As he took in her image, fingertips touching the paper almost reverently, he visualized the figure turning her head towards him, that penetrating gaze staring him down. With a held breath, half desperate to keep this unnameable feeling intact, he attempted another portrait at the bottom of the page.
There was no smile this time, or even much of a face. Just a pair of striking eyes, staring up solemnly as if they could plump the depths of one's soul. A clear, piercing look. He exhaled slowly; this was it.
Needlessly he kept going over the lines, trying to perfect the exact curl of her eyelashes, the shading in the eye folds. With careful motions he started to fill in the rest of the face, from broad forehead to proud nose to small chin. But before he could get started on the lips he stopped with a start.
He had forgotten the vallaslin.
Solas was old enough by now to know that self-deception was the tool of the ignorant, and admitted his inner feelings freely to himself: he did not want to draw them. Accuracy be damned, he did not want to draw them, or see them, or acknowledge them. He did not want her to have them in the first place, forcing him to look at them every time he talked to her. Would it really be so bad if he omitted them? If one version of her existed without the stain of that dark history?
Coward. Don’t run from the truth. Grimly he set out to draw the graceful curves of Ghilan'nain's mark, and it really was the worst vallaslin anyone could have chosen, the most dehumanizing, so cruel in its deceptive beauty. His pencil traced curlicues and horns until one side stood bold and stark, but his hand stopped of its own volition before the symmetry could be completed. The face peering up at him from the page now looked insubstantial, elusive. A soul caught in a state of transition. Potential was in its future, but on which side would the balance tip?
Solas knew he shouldn’t indulge in hypotheticals, that the past held only ruin, but he couldn’t stop his imagination from showing him what he truly wanted. His People returned, alive and happy… and among them Lavellan. Why not? How well it would suit her, the freedom and the magic and the communion of it all. Did she not deserve that life, didn’t these unfortunate mortal elves have their birthright stolen from them? By Solas and his grand plan, his monstrous hubris?
Distantly he felt his hands clench into fists, tension building inexorably in his shoulders, his chest. His ears rang as a black miasma of emotion descended upon him, the claws of Despair scratching at his mind. There had been millennia among his dreams and an unending year in the waking world to get used to his actions’ consequences and yet the enormity of it all, the magnitude of his guilt, could still somehow catch him unawares.
Too late his brain issued a panicked warning, but by then his breathing had already changed for the worse, lungs gasping for air. With weary familiarity he resigned himself to the oncoming ordeal, knowing from long painful experience that there was no quick escape from this, that all he could possibly do was grit his teeth and bear it.
Somehow a muted part of him still managed to call for caution, even as his vision turned black and his hands started shaking. He couldn’t let anyone else witness this. He needed to leave, now, right now.
In one decisive move Solas got up, Varric’s surprised exclamation going unheard, and with a confident stride struck out blindly into the forest.
---
After a million hours, or days, or possibly years, Solas slowly started to sense awareness creeping in again, his fevered thoughts receding. He took a deep breath, felt the soles of his feet against the earth, and let the word back in. The forest wildlife became louder and louder, and when he opened his eyes the deep darkness of a moonless night greeted him. Sharp pins and needles ran through his legs as he turned and took his surroundings in. He had apparently walked in a single line and then stood motionless in one spot while his being raged and rolled.
Well. At least it was easy to find his way back.
As he retraced his steps Solas felt his shoulders sag with an immeasurable weight, exhaustion settling down over his bones. These attacks always left him tired physically as well as mentally, rubbed raw, nerves stretched thin. Putting one foot carefully in front of the other, cool breeze on his skin, he tried to construct a semblance of calm, put his thoughts in some kind of order. He needed to control himself better if he were to be part of this venture, this fledgling Inquisition and its many prying eyes.
Around him the woodland expanded dream-like into the infinite dark, the susurrus of gently swaying leaves accompanying an owl’s hoots. Solas sidestepped roots and mossy stones, palms grazing rough bark as he tried to ground himself in reality. Breathe in. Breathe out.
Eventually the trees thinned out, releasing him into the small field where the group had made camp what felt like a lifetime ago. He had almost expected to find the tents cleared, companions long gone, but they were still right where he had left them, illuminated by the half-banked fire. As he approached and his eyes adjusted to the light, the figure of Lavellan came into focus, shadows hugging her form. She was sitting cross-legged, looking calm and peaceful. Her gaze was a steady weight on him, expression inscrutable in the dark.
If she had been at all worried about him or alarmed by his belated appearance then she gave no indication of it, observing him as he took a seat with unsteady limbs. He felt a sudden rush of gratitude for her lack of dramatics, for how it saved him the need for explanations. Wordlessly she handed him a bowl of food. His dinner had long since grown cold, but he made an effort to eat. He needed to regain his strength, his equilibrium, and even tasteless bland gruel would work for this. He swallowed mechanically.
A surprisingly companionable silence fell upon them, the murmur of the river a soothing background. Solas felt his strength slowly return, and as it did Lavellan’s presence kept growing in his awareness. He waited for the inevitable questions or at the very least admonitions that were surely coming his way, but she seemed content to stay as she was. In the end it was he who made the first move.
“I hope I did not cause undue trouble with my absence,” he said. He thought briefly of making a joke, something about seeking inspiration in the forest, but chose a version of the truth instead. “I… I needed some time alone.”
“Varric said you were acting weird,” she finally spoke, voice low but musical. “Cassandra insisted on conducting a search for you immediately, but I convinced her it was better to wait for your return.”
His eyebrows shot up, instantly suspicious. “Why?”
He inwardly winced; that had come out too sharp. But she paid no mind to it, either used to his outbursts of mistrust by now or choosing to ignore them. “I figured you wanted some privacy,” she said slowly, worry making its appearance in her demeanor as she searched his face. “Everyone is entitled to it,” she continued, then suddenly snorted, uncharacteristically loud. “The gods know I could use some time with my own thoughts myself. How could I deny this to someone else?”
It was a kind sentiment. “Thank you,” he said softly, and meant it.
It should have been the end of the interaction, a nice note to end the night. But he found his attention kept being drawn to her, this quiet unassuming woman who carried the weight of the world on her shoulders without letting it crush her. Cataclysmic change had been brought down on her circumstances and everything she knew, yet she accepted it without complaint. Solas envied her composure, wanted to study it, understand it.
“Why did you take your vallaslin?” he blurted out.
She cocked her head in consideration. “Because I wanted to.”
He allowed a tiny smile. “And why did you want to?”
She huffed a soft laugh, then turned her gaze to the sky. “I suppose…” she started, clearly formulating her answer as she spoke, “...I just wanted to be an adult. Officially. A member of the clan for all to see.”
“You would have been an adult regardless of the markings,” he couldn’t help but point out.
She smiled at him, half exasperated and half fond, the same way as Wisdom sometimes did. “Even so, isn’t there something reassuring about the ritual of it all? About such a clear transition? One day you are one way, the next you have already changed. As simply as that.”
He stared. In the deep recesses of his memory Solas could still faintly recall impressions of life as a spirit, the abrupt explosion of sensations the moment he shifted irrevocably into a physical body. He hugged his arms uneasily.
“It marks you.”
“A mark taken willingly,” she shot back. A nod to her left hand. “Unlike some.”
Solas smothered his cringe, felt it ripple across his shoulders. After a moment of silence, she shot him a thoughtful glance.
“What do you see when you look at them? The vallaslin?”
He sucked in a breath as if punched. He could not, would not answer this. Yet the images still floated unbidden in his mind’s eye. A thrall. A slave. Heads downturned and spirits broken as body after body was fed to a rotten empire’s flame.
“It does not matter what I see,” he snapped, and to his mild horror heard his own voice fill with bitterness, “what matters is that the Dalish have once again adopted a practice in ignorance while insisting they have the right of it. Branding themselves like cattle, and calling it something to be proud of.”
He forcefully made himself stop, teeth clenching to stop the torrent of vitriol from pouring forth. It was not the right approach for this and he knew it, had in fact already resolved not to debate the Dalish with her anymore. But his nerves were frayed, and he always underestimated how deep and how painful that particular hurt ran underneath his skin.
He braced himself. Last time they had talked about this she had reacted with anger and an unexpectedly passionate argument as she defended her position, eyes blazing. Yet it seemed she had decided to change tactics this time. When he looked up her expression had turned resolutely neutral, once again observing him calmly. Unmoving. In that moment she looked like the very image of patient perseverance, an unaffected mountain letting the wind sing past it. The ambient noises of the forest filled the void her lack of reaction caused as the silence stretched, and stretched.
She was not going to say anything, he realized. He had witnessed her using silence as a weapon before, staring down the Seeker and the Nightingale and so many others, humans who doubted her or opposed her or wanted to use her for their own purposes. Even with Solas himself she had often refused to take the bait of his deflections, letting his statements hang instead of tacitly agreeing to change the subject. It was oddly effective, even more so in his current state. His hands were clenching again, he realized suddenly. He deliberately relaxed them. The rest of the world faded away as his focus centered entirely on her, the only living and vital creature in existence at this very moment.
As he endured the heavy weight of her regard, her eyes luminous with reflected firelight, the question reversed itself in his mind. What do you see when you look at me? The humble apostate, surely. An ally, hopefully. An outsider, fitting nowhere.
Did she see the anger he kept hidden deep inside? The desperation?
He was so tired.
“I apologize,” he said, and to his relief his voice had found the right tone. “I should not have judged so harshly. It is my own failing. It will not happen again."
A moment passed, two, and then finally Lavellan sighed, tension leaving both her body and the air around them. She nodded. His apology had been accepted, the matter put behind them for now. His shoulders lowered imperceptibly. The forest breathed. “It’s getting late,” she said, and although her tone was conversational the air of finality in her voice meant this was a prelude to the end. When he made no further comment she nodded again, this time to herself, and stood up. “I’m going to turn in for the night,“ she said while stretching, and turned to leave. “Goodnight, Solas.”
"May your dreams be sweet," he responded through pure ingrained habit. She stopped in her tracks and turned around, unmistakable surprise on her face. No doubt his words had been too archaic, too unconventional, and her laugh was tinged with a bit of honest incredulity. But then her expression softened, the corners of her eyes gentling as she smiled, and for the first time tonight Solas felt he had finally caught a glimpse of unguarded truth, a sense of connection coming to life between them.
And as he watched her quietly enter her tent he realized he meant it, genuinely. He wanted her to have sweet dreams, and peaceful sleep, and a happy life.
Sitting there with only the dying embers and the stars above for company, his mind kept going back to that smile she had shot him over her shoulder, quick as a wink. A moment of warmth in this cold empty world.
His hands reached for the sketchbook once more.