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Typically, Lavellan would bring people with him whenever he went anywhere. A safety measure mostly, but also to fill the silence as they bantered and argued back and forth at nearly all minutes of the day and night. Tonight, though, the only sound to accompany him was the wind howling at his back. Part of himself regretted ever stepping foot in Ferelden. For being so eager to explore the world outside of his clan for once.
Granted, typically elves who venture beyond their clan don’t accidentally meddle in the affairs of a power hungry Tevinter magister with a powerful elven artifact and henceforth become the “Herald of Andraste” or the “Inquisitor”. He didn’t even believe in Andraste, but for all anyone else cared he might as well be the new Divine. He honestly hated it. Of course he wasn’t going to abandon the position, but he’d at least appreciate it if people stopped acting like he asked for this.
He sighed as he trudged onwards through the snow, the moon reflecting off the pristine surface. He was surprised it hadn’t been marred by animal tracks yet. Maybe they were all resting, though he doubted it considering that he heard wolves on his way to this little grove. He brushed the snow off of the makeshift altar, far from prying eyes. People seemed to forget that he wasn’t very openly welcome in chantries, nor did he have any desire to pray in one.
Lavellan rolled out his fur mat and kneeled on it so he wouldn’t freeze his breeches off. He couldn’t really afford to catch sickness at a time like this. Quietly, he let the wind take his whispered prayers to wherever the Creators may lay their head. He prayed for many reasons now, more for himself or just answers in general. He found it funny how nearly dying then becoming a prisoner then becoming the sole thing so many people looked to and relied upon would turn even the most faithless to some kind of higher power.
He groaned as he stood, huffing when he realized the sun had dipped below the treetops. He’d likely get an earful from Cassandra if she catches him outside of Skyhold at such a time. He slinked away from his hideaway temple and slipped in with a conveniently returning patrol. On a whim, he decided to pass through the rotunda. He didn’t necessarily have anything to talk to Solas about, nor did he really want to. Sometimes it was just comforting to have another elf around. Maybe, Solas wasn’t Dalish, but if you ignored the initial disdain for the Dalish and prodded him enough to tell you stories he wasn’t much different from a clan’s Keeper or a hahren.
Unsurprisingly, Solas was still awake when he opened the door from the gardens. Truly, he began to wonder if that elf ever actually slept despite how often he mused about dreaming in the Fade. Solas was turned away from him, facing the wall he was painting, but his left ear always twitched when he knew someone was behind him. He never brought it up to Solas in case the older would try and stop the reflex.
Lavellan was almost glad that Solas didn’t greet him or try to start a conversation. While he enjoyed listening to the older’s voice, sometimes he preferred simply sitting on the little couch on the side and watching Solas paint. Sometimes he got lost in watching the brush itself. Watching every careful and delicate stroke, each placed as if they were made of gold. Other time he would watch Solas, from the way his brows creased and relaxed depending on the line he was trying to make, or how his ears would tilt up or down depending on how satisfied he was with the look of a color, or occasionally, if he was close enough, he’d watch Solas’s eyes. The way the violet faded into the cobalt sea of thought. As inexpressive as Solas tended to be, his eyes were surprisingly open. Sometimes when he was truly satisfied with the way a portion of his murals was turning out, his pupils would dilate, or the way they contracted at even the slightest scent of tea when he used certain paints derived from their leaves.
Of course, Solas knew he stared. Gazed would be a better word. Perhaps even mooned. Yes. Mooned is a better word since Lavellan’s silver eyes on him always felt the same as feeling the magic of the moons wrapped around him on the first snowfall. Never did they scrutinize him, but instead wondered. As if they were silently trying to pull the secrets from his very spirit. Secrets he desperately wished he could allow to spill from his tongue the same way his tales did. Every wistful look and tender touch pulled at each thread of his carefully crafted persona. Sometimes he wondered if Lavellan knew who he truly was. The depth of his moonlit eyes suggested a knowledge of many stories untold. Of murals not yet painted. Of dreams even Solas has yet to walk.
Solas turned his head to meet the moons that shined upon him, silently studying him. He couldn’t truly imagine what went on behind those eyes. Without a word, Solas stood and descended the ladder. He was finished with that section of plaster and preferred that it would dry before he added any more plaster. Lavellan’s eyes drooped, but he stayed awake just long enough to shift and make room for Solas. Typically, the latter would guide their dreams, but for once, Solas was curious where Lavellan’s mind would take them instead.
Solas always brought them to places of old. Ruins he had studied, reconstructed in the Fade. Lands concealed from prying eyes because of flourishing woodlands, now open to them both. Now, as he settled next to Lavellan, he found himself aching to know what the man dreamed of unguided. He sighed as warmth surrounded them both, lulling them into slumber.
Lavellan was not beside him when his eyes opened, but Solas could still feel a distinct difference in forms. He was looking around the lush meadow for clues as to where the man may have gone when he was pounced on. Playfully, as usual. Lavellan’s now distinctly canine nose pressed against his, silver eyes sparkling with mischief. Even in dreams, the younger elf’s free spirit showed. Lavellan let Solas up, tail wagging as he trotted off through the tall grass. The sun glinted off his piebald coat, making him shimmer like hot coals. Solas followed, of course. This wasn’t his dream after all.
Lavellan bounded through the grass, yipping and snapping at the air when damselflies passed overhead. Solas didn’t really know what he was expecting, but he wasn’t exactly surprised either. The Inquisitor had a hard job and many responsibilities. He could easily see the appeal of wishing to simply retreat into the mind of an animal. To feel free from all other responsibility.
So he ran with Lavellan.
Grass and trees and flowers, all a blur as their padded paws thundered against the ground. Forest and field alike parted in their path, allowing the pair to simply run and forget until they collapsed together in soft leaves, chests heaving in unison. Solas huffed in amusement as Lavellan flumped over next to the older, contentedly pressing his fiery furred head to dark furred belly. Maybe being considered the Dreadwolf wasn’t so bad when he had another to run with.