Chapter Text
"I don’t think I’ve properly thanked you for helping me, have I?”
Yavven and Solas sat in the older elf’s shack in Haven, door and windows shut closed against the frigid air and snow outside. A snowstorm was raging outside the wooden walls, hindering the Inquisition’s early efforts at growth; there was little they could do at the moment but talk.
The two of them had been having their first full conversation when the winds had begun to pick up, and within short order had made their way into Solas’ little home. Still chilly, but there were numerous blankets and furs, and both could easily conjure up heat with their own magic should the hearth they huddled around prove inadequate.
“I was only doing my duty, but I appreciate the thanks nonetheless. And so long as you possess the ability to seal the Breach, I intend to continue to aid you. Cassandra offered me little choice in the matter to begin with, but I am glad that you are not as… abrasive a person as you could have been.”
Yavven lifted an eyebrow, warming his hands around a mug of tea (which Solas had served him while neglecting to pour himself a cup). “You thought I might be ‘abrasive’? And here I was, thinking I had a charming face.” He flashed a smile, humor in his tone.
Though he wore the markings of Sylaise on his skin, they were framed and interrupted by numerous deep scars. Some were clearly from a blade; others from nasty burns. A few had origins that Solas couldn’t quite discern. It was obvious that the man had been through quite a lot before the Conclave, and no matter how friendly his smile was, he had a visage that would intimidate most people.
Solas’ own smile was thin but not humorless. “I never said you or your appearance were lacking in charm. My dealings with your people in the past have been a bit rough, and I was worried that problems may arise between us. Whether or not the future proves us to be friends or distant acquaintances, however, our start has been a pleasant one.”
“So that was the problem. I’m Dalish.”
“This is perhaps not the best topic to discuss during a snowstorm,” Solas pointed out. “We will have disagreements, but I would not want the esteemed Herald of Andraste to freeze his ears off on account of a poor conversation with me.”
Yavven rolled his eyes with a grimace. “Very well, but you could at least call me by my name instead of that awful title.”
“Regardless of your rejection of the title, posturing is necessary, Herald.” He grinned. “But as you wish. I will call you Lavellan from now on, then.”
“Yavven. My name is Yavven.” The younger mage took a sip from his mug. “You just go by Solas?”
“Some may think it odd, but yes. I have no other name.”
“It is good to meet you, Solas.”
“And you, Yavven.”