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They must have been at this for well over an hour at that point, long enough for the sun to begin its descent and dip into the horizon. Nialen had enough physical strength and energy to keep running after that damned halla in rocky terrain all day, but she wasn’t sure about her companions—notably, Dorian had complained a few times already about rocks in his boots and flies refusing to leave him alone. Nialen only had eyes for the golden fur ahead of them.
“Why don’t we just kill it?” Iron Bull whispered during a short break for everyone to catch their breaths a moment.
“Hanal'ghilan is sacred,” Nialen hissed back before stretching a bit and resuming their jog. “You can go back to camp if you wish.”
“Oh, thank the Maker,” Dorian sighed. “Be careful, and all that.”
Iron Bull chose to follow him, but Solas remained with her, and her heart beat faster, not just because of their running—which if they were not currently doing, Nialen would have reached for his hand. In any other circumstance, this would have been quite a romantic affair, but as it was, she was growing somewhat frustrated and tired, and though they did enjoy Solas’ company, it would have been more enjoyable if they hadn’t spent a ridiculous amount of time chasing a stubborn halla who refused to be herded. Still, Solas kept up, and did not complain.
“I thought you were supposed to be good at this,” Solas’ voice appeared right by their ear, warm and teasing. Nialen could practically hear its accompanying smile.
“I’m a hunter,” she said as she brushed away a lock of hair that escaped from her braid. She could feel Solas’ eyes on her, following the movement of her hand.
“Is this not like a hunt?”
They turned their head to glare at him, and there was that wicked and lovely smile, the one she always looked at a little too long, this time enough to lose track of Hanal'ghilan—again. She swore under her breath and picked up the pace and followed its tracks until she could see it once more, its fur almost glowing under the setting sun. Over the tall rocks was the orange and red sails of the aravels. Just some more gentle coaxing, and—
“I can track, which I have done, since we found what we were looking for. I never said I could shepherd. There’s a reason I wear Andruil’s vallaslin and not Ghilan’nain’s.”
For a second, a deep sadness veiled Solas’ eyes, but it was gone before they could reach for him, or ask about it, or anything at all. It was around the same time that they finally reached the Dalish camp, Hanal'ghilan well ahead of them, already settling with the clan’s herd. Nialen took Solas’ hand, now that she could. It seemed to surprise him for a second, but again, that look quickly vanished from his features. Nialen deliberately bumped into his shoulder, which he did as well, keeping their fingers intertwined.
“Ma serannas,” she said. “For staying.”
His smile was kind, but the sadness was not fully out of his eyes. Perhaps it would never truly leave. Nialen could only tighten their grip on his hand, for now.
“Of course, Vhenan.”
There was that word again, from his mouth, setting her heart ablaze, and it still felt so surreal to her. She leaned closer, hoping for a kiss, and he obliged, dipping his head down to press his lips to hers. When they parted, Nialen noticed that Solas’ eyes lingered on her vallaslin. On their walk back to camp, they couldn’t help to think of Solas’ lack of one, despite his knowledge of their culture—
“You have done a lot of good today,” he said, pressing his forehead to hers. “Helping them.”
“I couldn’t—” they stammered. “It hurt when Keeper Hawen said he couldn’t trust me. Like I wanted this title. The shems decided I was their god’s chosen.”
Solas wrapped his arms around them. “These names are never kind.”
“No.” Nialen tucked their head under Solas’ chin. “I was happy to do this. Even herding Hanal'ghilan, annoying as it was. It felt like I was back home.”
Solas hummed in her hair and rubbed her back in their embrace. His hands were cold.
“You must be tired,” Solas gently led her the rest of the way to their camp. “Come, I will help you with your braids.”
Nialen followed Solas to their tent, which recently had become shared. With a quick flick of his hand, the small lantern in the corner flickered alight. After shedding their armour and weapons, they sat cross-legged together on their bedrolls, Nialen’s back to Solas, who deftly began to unravel her tightly braided hair—a ritual they both came to relish. Solas’ cold fingers were a balm against Nialen’s scalp as he meticulously untangled the curls at their root before separating them in strands and re-braiding them in a simpler fashion for sleep. Nialen had only shown him once, but he seemed to remember every detail of the routine perfectly.
Now done, Solas ran his hands down Nialen’s back, settled them at their waist, and leaned forward to hook his chin on their shoulder. Nialen reacted in kind by pressing her cheek against his.
“Thank you, Vhenan,” she said quietly, as to not disturb the peace in their tent, purposefully using the name Solas had given her—not all were kind, but this one was. Solas slid his arms around their midsection and pressed himself close. Outside, crickets chirped their tune, the Inquisition field agents on their watch paced and whispered stories of their day to each other, and a not-so trained ear could pick up the Iron Bull’s snoring.
“Sleep, then?” Solas asked, as quiet as them, his voice low in their ear.
Nialen just hummed against him. For a moment, in the dim light of the tent, surrounded by nature, it was like they were home again.