Archive of Our Own ^beta

Like a creature, Solas watched Ellana from the shadows, his gaze following the graceful line of her as she clutched the railing, her head tipped back to let the cool sea breeze play across her flushed face. This late in the evening, the waves below glinted like liquid silver in the moonlight, and the expanse of water was so large, the night so dark, that she couldn't see land on the horizon. If she pretended, Solas thought, if she didn't look too hard, the ocean almost looked like rolling hills and plains rather than water, and that instead of a ship this was just a particularly large aravel.

She never spoke of home. Solas recognized the longing for it just the same.

Another rock of the tides had her swaying though, her sure footing turned unsteady and unnerved by the vastness of the ocean. Or perhaps it was the wine.

The vessel itself belonged to Queen Celene—its current voyage and use a token of gratitude following the Inquisition's delicate handling of events at Halamshiral. Saved from assassination and embarrassment, the queen had insisted on hosting the Inquisition's leaders aboard this luxury cruise, a week-long respite that had begun in Val Royeaux and would end at Denerim's port with no expense spared. More than a ship, the vessel was its own floating palace of decadence, adorned with gilded railings, intricately carved wood, and a hull painted in shimmering blues and silvers. Even the sails bore designs of Orlesian artistry, white and gold against the darkened sky, as if they needed to impress the sun and clouds themselves.

For the first few days, the novelty had been a welcome change—a chance to breathe after months of battle and endless responsibility. But the novelty had worn thin for Ellana, and quickly.

Solas understood her discomfort all too well. While Celene herself was not in attendance, the Orlesian nobles aboard were as insufferable as ever, their conversations full of flattery that hid knives. Their 'game' never truly ended. Even her companions had been swept up in the decadent atmosphere: Leliana vanishing into whispered intrigues, Varric deep in a card game with some Marquise or another. Vivienne was thriving, in her element and basking, while Sera and Iron Bull were likely plotting mayhem in the lower kitchens.

It was only by keeping Dorian's company that Ellana had survived at all. Though the queen had made this itinerary and voyage as a gesture of thankfulness, there were still many in Orlais who were uncomfortable with this Dalish Inquisitor. Outsider. Untrustworthy. Other.

Solas sighed, his gaze lingering on Ellana's profile. He too had made himself scarce, content to position himself on the edges, watching without interacting. At Halamshiral, he had been perfectly appeased to masquerade as her servant, slipping through the crowd unnoticed by all but her. He remembered the way his gaze had lingered on her from the shadows, the quirk of his lips when their eyes would meet, the feel of her hand in his on the balcony as he asked for a dance. Tonight, though, he had slipped entirely out of reach, unable to deny the temptation of her company while also unwilling to indulge in it.

Her fingers tightened around the stem of her glass as she stared out over the horizon. He knew she hated the sea—the way it rocked beneath her, unsteady and endless, the way the open expanse moved. The forest had always held her, the earth staying solid beneath her feet. The Dalish may not have been perfect, but they meant what they said and there was no 'game' of courtly intrigue to manage. Perhaps they were too simple for it, he thought, the notion both hurting and relieving him. There was always something larger to worry about than the gossip and good opinion of those called 'noble', prattling on in riddles with more lies than words.

Solas ached to comfort her, to offer his steady presence in this sea of uncertainty. But he knew he could not. Not when his own actions would soon rip apart everything she held dear.

He had always been a hypocrite.

“Escaping the festivities, I see,” he said finally, his voice low as he stepped out of the shadows.

Ellana turned, too quickly, her balance faltering as the world tilted. Solas's hand shot out, steadying her, warm and sure. She looked up at him, eyes wide, and his breath caught at the sudden proximity. Her stomach twisted, not from the sea, but from his presence.

He watched as she straightened, swaying slightly as she faced him. The movement made the liquid in her glass slosh dangerously close to the rim. “Well, look who it is,” she said, every word slow and carfeully sculpted to suit, chosen through sifting sand, as though unveiling some great discovery. “My shadow, finally stepping into the light. What's wrong, Solas? No more corners to lurk in?”

A faint smile tugged at his lips, though his heart raced. How easily she pierced through his carefully crafted masks.

“You've had more wine than is wise,” he said calmly, his gaze flicking to the sloshing glass and then to the railing at her back. “And you're leaning too close to the edge for my liking.”

“I'm fine,” she said, waving her glass. The motion sent it spinning from her grasp, and they both watched as it arced over the railing and disappeared into the dark waves below.

“Shit,” Ellana muttered, blinking at the empty space in her hand. She swayed as she laughed softly, the movement unsteady, and her other hand slipped briefly from the railing.

Solas's hand shot out again, gripping her arm firmly as she tipped forward. His steady hold pulled her back, and her laughter faltered at the closeness of him. “Ellana,” he said, his voice low but firm, “the ship rocks unpredictably. And you, as I'm sure you will recall once you're sober, you cannot swim.”

She could not swim. Could not breathe magic. She had no connection to the Dreaming. Could not survive what was to come when he tore down the Veil. She’d been dying from the moment she was born. The thought sliced his heart to ribbons, bleeding between his ribs, into his vision—how fragile she was, how mortal. She could not heal herself. Could not shape the Fade. Could not live forever. And yet... and yet she was the strongest person he had ever known. She faced dragons without flinching, bore the weight of empires on her shoulders, carried an anchor that should have killed her. She was extraordinary precisely because of her limitations.

She was confounding. She was beautiful.

Ellana blinked up at him, flushed with wine and embarrassment. “It's not like I plan to throw myself overboard. I'm clumsy, not suicidal.”

He didn't release her arm right away, steadying her until he was sure she wouldn't stumble again, and a full step back from the railing. “Clumsy or otherwise, you seem determined to test the ship's safety measures. I cannot let you wander too far like this… though I admit, the stars tonight are a fair excuse for wandering.”

His hand lingered a moment longer before he stepped beside her, positioning himself close enough to block the breeze. He couldn't ignore the way his heart raced in her proximity, couldn’t help but notice that she was watching him far more intently than the waves or the horizon.

Ellana laughed softly, and his heart clenched. “It's not the stars. I wish it was the stars. I used to—”

She wobbled again, gesturing upward. “—watch them every night when the rest of my clan was asleep. Stars are friendly. They don't make snide comments. They don't wear those insipid masks, unless you count the clouds as a mask when they cover them. Which I don't.”

He almost smiled at that. In the Fade, he had spoken to their spirits, ancient, gentle things that sang songs of light and distance. They were indeed friendly, these ageless observers of the world below. They would love her, he knew. How could they not? How could anything not love her? She drew light to herself as naturally as breathing, her own magic, her own gift. Even he, who should know better, who had every reason to keep his distance, found himself drawn inexorably into her orbit.

Solas listened, his chest tightening again at the longing in her voice. “I must admit, I was surprised to find you out here so overcome. I thought you'd be thriving amidst the intrigue and transparency of their games following your success at Halamshiral.”

Ellana snorted, laughing.

“Thriving? Oh, yes. I’ve always dreamed of being patronized and stared at like some exotic beast. ‘ Oh, Inquisitor ,’” she mocked in a high-pitched tone, “‘do all Dalish dress like that? And with bare feet! Isn’t it quaint ?’ Or even ‘I’ve never seen anyone braid their hair like that outside of the scullery maids, though it is very fetching on you, Inquisitor ’. Or worse, when they don’t know what to say it all, and they just stare at me, my ears, this foolish dress. And now, following that business at the Winter Palace, there's this air of… ‘oh, what trellis might she scale next ?’”

The memory rushed back with startling clarity—Ellana scaling that trellis, hair wild and in the wind, determination set in every line of her body as she prevented an assassination that would have thrown Orlais into chaos. She had moved through that nest of vipers with an instinct that had surprised even him, playing their game while refusing to be played herself. And later, when the danger had passed, she had turned those same skills on him, drawing him out of the shadows, making him want to dance again after centuries of solitude. Making him want.

Solas's faint smile returned as he listened to Ellana, though there was something softer beneath it. “You unsettle them,” he said. “Not because of who you are, but because they cannot place you neatly within their world. You're an elf, and Dalish at that, but also the Herald. Now Inquisitor. You force them to see what they don't wish to, and awaken fears that their own subjugated servants will see that they too could climb to higher posts.”

“That sounds nice in theory, but it's exhausting in practice. I miss just being myself.”

How well he understood that particular exhaustion; the weight of masks, the burden of expectations, the desperate longing to simply exist as oneself. He, who had worn so many faces—rebel, god, apostate, trickster, liar—that sometimes he scarcely remembered which was real. The difference was that she remained true to herself despite it all, while he...

Solas tilted his head slightly, his eyes searching hers. “Perhaps. Yet you endure.”

Her lips curved into a small, crooked smile, though the weight of his gaze made her turn back toward the sea. The ship rocked gently beneath her feet, the horizon stretching endlessly before them.

“You know,” she said after a moment, her voice softer now, “I think a lot about that night. You were the one that was thriving on the 'heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex.' I was… managing. I hated Halamshiral. The masks, the lies, all of it. Almost all of it.”

Solas's gaze didn't waver from her face. “Almost? There was something you enjoyed?”

“You,” she said simply, glancing at him from the corner of her eye. “I enjoyed you, clinging to the shadows and the sidelines, as smug as a prince in that… stupid, horrible, hat. You shouldn’t have been so handsome or charming wearing that, but you were. And you danced with me. You didn't have to, but you did. And now you're here, again, when you don't have to. Why?”

The truth tasted bitter on his tongue, even as his heart swelled at her words. “You're tipsy and standing alone,” he replied, his voice calm but edged with quiet insistence. “Both of which are reasons enough for me to ensure you remain upright by being 'here'. And as far as dancing with you, I won't pretend to have a loftier reasoning other than this: I wanted to.”

He knew he should keep his distance. His very presence beside her would raise eyebrows—another elf, an apostate no less, alone with the Inquisitor. The nobles would whisper, her reputation would suffer, the carefully cultivated image of the Herald would tarnish. But he had always been greedy where she was concerned, taking more than he should, wanting what he could never keep. She made him defy his own rules, break his own barriers.

If they were discovered now—alone, intimate, eyes half lidded, his arm steadying her waist—it would already be scandal enough.

He watched the way her expression shifted, the tightening of her chest, and knew he had given himself away, though not how .

“And tonight?” she asked.

“Tonight,” he said slowly, “I think... I still do.”

The music from above drifted down to them, a familiar waltz. Without thinking, or perhaps thinking too much, he held out his hand to her. She took it without hesitation, letting him draw her into the steps of the dance. They moved together in the darkness, her body fitting against his as naturally as breathing. The moon caught in her hair, silvering the edges of her face, and he couldn't help but lean down, pressing his lips to hers in a kiss that tasted of wine and want and inevitability.

He was damned.

A burst of laughter from the deck above had them both freezing. Footsteps approached—Orlesian nobles, by the sound of their voices and clicking heels. Without warning, Solas moved, pressing Ellana back into the shadows beneath the stairs. His body caged hers, protecting her from view, though the position left them pressed chest to chest in the darkness.

Ellana's breath caught. The wine made her head swim, or maybe it was his proximity, the heat of him, the subtle scent of parchment that clung to his clothes. His hand was still at her waist, steadying her, though now the touch felt like it burned through the silk of her dress.

Above them, voices drifted closer.

“The Inquisitor has been missing all evening...”

“And that elven apostate of hers...”

Solas tensed, barely perceptible, but Ellana felt it where their bodies met. His eyes found hers in the darkness, a silent warning to stay still. But the wine had made her bold, reckless, and the press of him against her was too much to resist. She tilted her chin up, challenging him with her gaze.

His expression shifted, something dangerous flickering in his eyes. “Don't,” he breathed, so quiet she felt it more than heard it.

But she was already moving, closing the last breath of space between them. Their lips met, and whatever protest he meant to make died in his throat. His hands tightened on her waist, pressing her further into shadow, though whether to hide her or to get closer, she was no longer sure.

The kiss deepened, turned desperate. His tongue slid against hers, tasting of wine and want, and she gasped into his mouth. The voices above them faded, forgotten, as his hands began to wander. One palm slid up her ribs, thumb brushing the underside of her breast through silk, while the other gripped her hip, holding her steady as the ship rocked beneath them.

“Ara’esha,” he murmured against her mouth, the word half-warning, half-prayer.

She responded with a hum, by threading her fingers through the fabric of his shirt, pulling him closer. The movement made him growl, low in his throat, and suddenly he was pressing her harder against the wall, one thigh sliding between hers. His mouth moved to her neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin there.

The cool night air on her flushed skin made her shiver, or perhaps it was the way his fingers traced patterns up her spine, ancient symbols she couldn't read but could feel burning into her flesh. His touch was reverent, desperate, as though he was memorizing her. As though he knew their time was limited.

“Solas,” she breathed, and felt him shudder against her.

He pulled back just enough to look at her, his eyes dark with desire and something else - something that looked almost like grief. But before she could question it, he was kissing her again, harder this time, stealing the words from her lips. His hands found the laces of her dress, clever fingers working at the knots with ease.

The silk of her dress whispered as it loosened beneath his fingers. Just enough. Ellana arched into his touch, and Solas made a sound like he'd been wounded. His forehead pressed against hers, breath uneven. Every point of contact between them was exquisite agony—her warmth against his chest, her fingers sliding beneath his collar, the soft curve of her waist beneath his palm.

“We shouldn't. You've had too much wine. You don't know what you're asking,” he whispered, even as his hands continued their reverent path along her skin. Each touch was a transgression, a selfish indulgence he had no right to take. “This is...”

This was wrong. He was wrong. A creature like him, with so much blood on his hands, had no business despoiling her purity, her trust. She was radiant, a light in the darkness, the sun , all that was good and meant to be gone, and he was only going to snuff it out. A moth drawn to the flame, he would consume her without even meaning to.

“This is...” he began again, but the words caught in his throat just the same. How could he explain the ruin he would bring her, the pain and betrayal that awaited her at his hands? The truth was a blade he couldn't bear to twist in her heart, not now, not when she was looking at him like that—flushed and wanting and trusting .

“If you say unwise,” she breathed, her hands sliding against his ams to leave shakes in their path, “I swear by the Creators—”

He silenced her with another kiss, fierce and claiming. The foolish words of her fallen gods—his fallen enemies and tyrant mages—had no place here, not between them, not when he—

The thought burned like acid in his chest. She had no idea what she was invoking, who she was offering herself to. If she knew the truth, she would recoil from his touch. And yet he couldn't bring himself to stop, couldn't force himself to be noble when she was pressing against him like this, trusting and warm and real.

Solas forced the thought away, focusing instead on the soft sounds she made as he traced the line of her throat, the way she trembled when his teeth grazed her collarbone. He would carry these moments with him, he decided, hoarding them like a dragon with precious gems. When the time came, when everything burned and she looked at him with hatred instead of love, he would remember how she felt in his arms tonight. How she whispered his name, not his true name, but the only one that had ever felt real on her lips.

“Ara sa’lath,” he murmured against her skin, the endearment tasting like ashes in his mouth even as his heart swelled with the truth of it. She was his heart, and that was exactly why he shouldn't be doing this. And yet he couldn't stop himself from saying it, couldn't stop his hands from mapping every inch of her as though he could memorize her by touch alone, couldn't stop his heart from breaking even as it soared with love for her.

She deserved so much better than these stolen moments in the shadows. She deserved someone whole, someone who wasn't carrying the weight of millennia of mistakes, someone who wasn't going to destroy everything she held dear. But he was selfish, so selfish, and she was looking at him like he was something precious instead of something to fear.

When she reached for him, fingers tracing the line of his jaw with such tenderness, it nearly undid him. How many ages had it been since anyone had touched him like this? Like he was worthy of gentleness? He turned his face into her palm, pressing a kiss there that felt like a confession.

“Solas,” she sighed, and his name in her mouth was both benediction and curse. The way she said it, like a prayer, like something sacred, made him ache. If only she knew the bitter irony of worshiping a false god in such an intimate way.

He caught her wrist, pressing it back against the wall above her head, needing somehow to both cherish and punish himself with her touch. His other hand slid beneath the loosened silk of her dress, tracing the curve of her breast, and she gasped, arching into him. The sound broke something loose in his chest—some last thread of resistance snapping.

“Ar isalan na, ar ame ir abelas,“ he whispered against her throat, the ancient words spilling out unbidden. “Ma’sal’shiral.“

Dangerous words, true words, old words she couldn't possibly understand but that he needed to say. His grip tightened on her wrist, gentle but firm, as though he could anchor himself to this moment, to her.

The waves rocked the ship, and he pressed her more firmly against the wall to steady her. But she was anything but steady in his arms—she was wild, dangerous, devastating. Her free hand slipped beneath his shirt, nails scoring lightly down his back, and he shuddered. Every touch felt like lightning, like magic, like something he hadn't felt in thousands of years.

This was madness. This was salvation. This was everything he'd denied himself, everything he shouldn't want, everything he couldn't resist. She was nothing like the calculating nobles above them with their painted masks—she was real, achingly real, impossible , and that made this all the more dangerous.

“Please,” she breathed against his ear, and that single word threatened to undo millennia of careful plans. For her, he would burn the world. For her, he would save it. For her…

For her, he was losing himself, drowning in the taste of her skin, the soft sounds she made as he traced ancient promises along her collarbone. His carefully maintained control was slipping—had been slipping since that first dream of Haven, maybe even before, if he was honest with himself. And honesty was a dangerous thing these days, especially with her.

When she rolled her hips against his thigh, seeking friction, he groaned. The sound echoed in the small space between them, too loud, too revealing. But he couldn't bring himself to care, not when she was looking at him like that, eyes dark with desire and trust he didn't deserve.

“Ellana,” he warned, though whether he was warning her or himself, he wasn't sure anymore. His hand slid lower, gathering the silk of her dress, and she shivered. “If we continue...”

“I want to,” she said, fierce and certain in a way that made his chest ache. “I want you.”

Those words—so simple, so devastating—broke the last of his resolve. He kissed her again, deeper this time, pouring everything he couldn't say into it. His grief, his love, his desperate need to memorize every moment with her before it all came crashing down.

The ship rocked beneath them, and he used the motion to press closer, to hide how his hands trembled as they mapped her body. She was so warm, so alive under his touch, responding to each caress with a frankness that left him breathless. There was no artifice here, no game—just Ellana, trusting and wanting and his.

His. The word echoed in his mind like a curse, like a blessing. She wasn't his, could never truly be his, and yet…

“Wait,” he breathed against her throat, even as his hands continued their reverent exploration. “Wait, I... there is much you don't know. That I have not told you. I would not lie with you under false pretenses.”

She pulled back just enough to meet his gaze, her eyes bright even in the shadows. Despite the wine, despite the desire clouding her features, her voice was steady. “Do you love me?”

The question pierced him like an arrow. He could deny her this, should deny her this. It would be kinder in the long run. But he was tired of denying, tired of holding himself apart, and the truth spilled from his lips like wine.

“ Yes ,” he whispered, the word rough with emotion. “More than you could know. More than—more I should.”

Her fingers traced his cheek, gentle and sure. “Then that's the only truth that matters right now.”

“Ellana...” Her name was both plea and protest on his tongue.

But she was already pulling him down for another kiss, soft and certain, and he was powerless to resist. She tasted of wine and trust and everything he'd denied himself for millennia. His hands found her hips, drawing her closer, and she gasped into his mouth.

“Show me,” she breathed against his lips. “Show me how much you love me.”

The words undid him completely. With a groan, he lifted her, pressing a leg between her thighs, pressing where he was wanted most. The position aligned them perfectly, and they both gasped at the contact. Even through layers of clothing, the heat of her was overwhelming.

She deserved better than this - better than a shadowed corner beneath a wooden staircase, better than hurried touches and stifled sounds. She deserved silk sheets and candlelight, deserved to be worshipped properly, thoroughly. She deserved far better than him. And yet here he was, unable to deny her anything she asked, anything except the truth. The irony was bitter that he who had once been worshipped as a god was now on his knees for her, metaphorically if not soon literally. He owed her everything for what he would do, what he had already set in motion. The least he could do was give her this.

He took her weight easily, shifting their positions enough for his hand to slide through the loosened gap of her skirts—not enough, just enough—her skin burning against the sea-breeze cold of his fingers as they found the velvet expanse of her thigh, then soft downy hair, the obscene gush of her wet cunt.

Ellana gasped, the sound muffled against his mouth, as he stroked her there, learning the shape and texture of her in aching, reverent detail. She was slick and swollen with need, rocking into his touch with wanton abandon. He swallowed each whimper, each sigh, as though he could drink in her pleasure and make it his own.

It was. To please her was pleasure itself.

Guilt and desire warred within him, each fighting for dominance. She deserved tenderness, worship, not this frantic coupling in the shadows. But her fingers had found the laces of his breeches, tugging them open with a single-minded focus that left him shuddering. When her hand finally wrapped around him, he had to bite back a groan.

“Ellana,” he breathed against her lips.”Vhenan , you—”

She cut him off with another searing kiss, her hips rolling to meet the slow, maddening strokes of his fingers. “Don't speak,” she whispered, her voice ragged. “Just feel.”

And oh, how he felt. Every stroke, every gasp, every desperate press of their bodies was a revelation. She consumed him, drowned him, set him alight.

Her leg pulled at his hip, insistent. Begging. It may as well have been an order from divinity. She need not ask him for anything, she would have it, save for the one thing she deserved most. Solas kissed her, drunk on the taste of her lips, the shivers beneath his fingers. He pulled her up, her back against the wall as her legs wrapped around his waist, and his cock jut against the soaking aching of her.

A ragged groan escaped him as he pressed forward, sheathing himself in her slick, dewy warmth. The sensation was overwhelming, needy and desperate and reverent all at once. Ellana arched in his arms, a breathless cry caught in her throat, and he swallowed the sound with another searing kiss.

His hips rolled in a slow, rolling rhythm, savoring the way she clenched and fluttered around him. Every slide, every thrust, was agony and rapture combined. Solas knew he should be gentle, should worship her as she deserved, but the urgency within him was a living thing—the need to claim her, to brand her as his, to lose himself in the sweltering heat of her until nothing else mattered and it was just them, only the two of them, in a world of nothing else.

Ellana met him thrust for desperate thrust, her nails scoring lines down his back as she clung to him. The familiar ache was building, coiling tighter with each movement, and she broke the kiss to gasp for air.

“Solas,” she breathed, the word a prayer on her lips. “Vhenan.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, burying his face against her neck as the endearment unmade him. It was too much, all of it—the way she clung to him, the slick glide of their bodies, the trust and want and love in her voice. He was drowning in it, lost to everything but the worship of her, the reverence in every touch.

When the end came, it crashed over them both in a shattering wave of ecstasy. Solas swallowed her cries, holding her trembling through the aftershocks, his own release spilling into her in pulsing, molten bursts. For once, his mind was blissfully, mercifully blank. There was only the steady thud of their hearts and the fading echoes of their passion.

Afterwards, they stayed pressed together in the darkness, their breathing slowly steadying as they began to right their disheveled clothing. Solas held her close, one hand tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder while the other remained protectively at her waist. The gentle rock of the ship matched the rhythm of their hearts.

Every moment they lingered increased the risk of discovery, and yet he couldn't bring himself to move. Not when she was curled against him like this, her face tucked into his neck, warm and trusting and his . The possessive thought made him tighten his hold instinctively, even as guilt twisted in his chest.

“Your heart is racing,” she murmured against his skin, her voice soft and sated.

He pressed his lips to her temple, breathing in the scent of her. “You have that effect.”

She laughed softly, the sound rumbling pleasantly against his chest. But then she tilted her head up to study his face, and he could see the question forming in her eyes. “What are you thinking about? You've gone all quiet and serious.”

For a moment, he considered telling her everything. The words burned in his throat—about who he was, what he'd done, what he still had to do. Instead, he brushed his thumb across her cheek, memorizing the way she leaned into his touch. Later. He would tell her. But later.

“I'm thinking,” he said carefully, “that you deserve better than stolen moments in the shadows.”

“I deserve what I choose,” she replied with characteristic stubbornness. “And I choose you.”

The words were like a blade between his ribs. If only she knew what she was choosing. Who she was choosing.

“I choose you,” she repeated softly, and pressed a kiss to his jaw. “Whatever complications that brings.”

If only she knew the true weight of those complications. Solas closed his eyes, allowing himself one more moment to hold her, to pretend that this could last. Above them, the sounds of the party had begun to fade—the night growing late, the nobles retiring to their cabins and moving about.

“You should go,” he said finally, though every word felt like glass in his throat. “Before you are missed.”

She nodded against his chest, but made no move to leave his embrace. “Will you come to my cabin with me?”

The invitation hung between them, tempting and dangerous. How easy it would be to follow her, to lose himself in her arms until morning. To pretend, just for one night, that he was simply a man in love with a woman, and not an executioner.

“Vhenan,” he breathed, the endearment both answer and apology. “I cannot.”

She pulled back slightly, searching his face. Whatever she saw there made her expression soften. “Because you think the nobles will see? We’ll be careful. If they didn't find us here, they won't find us there. Trust me.”

He did. She was the one that shouldn’t trust him.

“Yes,” he said finally, seizing the excuse she'd offered. “The nobles... they would notice. Better us not tempt fate with their further scrutiny.” The lie tasted bitter on his tongue, but it was kinder than the truth. Better she think him cautious than know him for what he was.

Her expression softened with understanding. “Always so careful,” she murmured, reaching up to trace his jaw. “Always thinking three steps ahead.”

If only she knew how many steps ahead he had already planned, how many futures he had mapped out that all led to her heartbreak. He caught her hand, pressing a kiss to her palm.

“Go,” he said softly. “Sleep well.”

She hesitated only a moment longer before nodding. Rising on her toes, she kissed him one last time, sweet and lingering, before slipping away into the darkness.

Solas remained in the shadows, watching until she disappeared from view. Only then, alone with the sound of the waves and the memory of her touch, did he let his mask slip, let the weight of what he'd done—what he would do—settle over him like a shroud.

The sea stretched endless and dark before him, like the future he'd already chosen. But for one night, he had found harbor in her arms, existed a outside of shadow in the bright moments of her company, and that would have to be, would never be, enough to light the way.