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Like most nights, Inquisitor Lavellan could not sleep.
There were many ways to pass the time, especially here at Skyhold. He was tempted to start working, but his sister had placed a charm on the War Room door. She said she kept finding Cullen there at hours he should not be.
Lavellan remembered a gift he had received after visiting the Winter Palace—a violin. He used to play it back in his clan. He must have mentioned it to some noble.
Carefully, he grabbed the instrument from its box. What a magnificent object it was, carved from high-quality wood. Running his fingers over its surface, Lavellan had no doubt—it was ironbark, a rare and precious material among his people. Lavellan was impressed—likely the sender’s intent.
Lavellan examined the violin more closely. The name of a Dalish clan was carved into one corner. He would make sure to send them his regards. He would also send a letter of appreciation to the Orlesian noble who had commissioned it. He would ask Josephine in the morning.
For now, he had to try it.
Violin in one hand, bow in the other, Lavellan stepped onto his balcony. He looked up at the sky for a moment before glancing down. Even at night, people—his people—were always at work. Soldiers, chantry sisters, surgeons… Skyhold was as lively as it was during the day.
“Alright,” Lavellan sighed, placing his violin under his chin. “I hope I'm not too rusty.”
There was no way he would be; it was just plain modesty—and low self-esteem. Lavellan spent his whole childhood playing instruments such as the guitar and the violin. He might even have learned to play before he could speak.
Naturally, Lavellan drew the bow across the violin's strings, drawing out a soft vibration, a sweet melody. It felt like a greeting; he was going easy, letting the instrument reveal itself. High-pitched and strong, its sound was one of a kind.
Once he felt he understood the instrument, Lavellan began to explore different techniques, unconsciously searching for the right one. Eventually, his fingers settled into a continuous spiccato. That was it—at first, slow and careful. He was in control.
Lavellan lost himself in the music; his mind drifted as he became one with the violin. Then he began to play faster and faster, not allowing silence to intrude. Lavellan was testing the violin's limits—or perhaps his own.
Confusion. Was it the music, or him? Everything began to blur.
He sounded almost angry as his playing grew frantic. It was not anger, but anxiety—the pressure on his shoulders, the uncertainty of tomorrow, the murk he was sinking into. Lavellan was drowning, struggling to breathe as the bow bounced against the strings.
A string snapped, all of a sudden.
It jolted Lavellan out of his trance. He blinked rapidly, breathing heavily, and then his eyes fell on the instrument. It had happened before. Lavellan used to play too hard, too long. He could not recall how many strings he had broken back then.
“You are full of surprises, Inquisitor,” said a voice behind him.
It startled Lavellan. He definitely should start locking his door.
“You might want to play a little more gently.”
“I tend to get carried away,” Lavellan said with an awkward chuckle, setting the broken violin aside.
He did not need to turn around to recognize the elven apostate. Solas stood near the stairs, observing him with a peaceful expression. Was he too loud? He certainly was. He had not even considered whether he might wake anyone. Hopefully, he had not disturbed too many people.
Lavellan sat on the edge of his bed, his hands resting against the mattress.
“Did you need me for something?” he asked as Solas approached.
“I was just drawn by your music,” he smiled. “That is a rare gift.”
“That's not a gift,” Lavellan denied, waving his hand dismissively. “That's called practice.”
Solas caught his hand before he could put it away. Lavellan noticed how red it was. He hurt himself playing like a madman. It was nothing serious, but Solas used magic to soothe it.
“Thank you,” Lavellan whispered as Solas pressed a tender kiss to his hand.
“Are there any other secret talents you're hiding?” Solas asked him, a sly smile on his face.
“You have no idea,” Lavellan teased him.
“Please, enlighten me, ma vhenan,” Solas echoed him with a teasing smile, sitting next to him on his bed.
What could Lavellan do? Many things. His father was a man of many arts, who excelled in each and taught his son all he had to offer. Dancing and singing became second nature to Lavellan, and the violin was not the only instrument he could play.
“Maybe if you could…” Lavellan said, glancing at his broken instrument.
He did not need to say more. With a firm hand gesture, Solas brought the violin and the bow to him. Solas ran his fingers over the strings and effortlessly repaired the violin.
Lavellan thanked him with a bright smile. Enthusiastically, he stood up, violin in hand. Something felt different—the instrument, somehow, felt… different. It seemed that Solas had not merely repaired it, but infused it with his magic.
Once more, Lavellan put the violin under his chin. He played a few tentative notes. It felt smooth, almost natural as if a part of Solas was playing alongside him. What a romantic thought. Aware of his own sentimentality, Lavellan quietly chuckled to himself.
“Right,” Lavellan said, pulling himself together. “That doesn’t sound too bad.”
Which song should he play? He knew many. He had always dreamed of becoming a bard. He had practiced tirelessly for it. Yet one song lingered in his mind—the one his father used to sing. An old elven melody, a tragic tale of two souls.
Bound to love one other, doomed to remain apart. In every life, in every world, they fought to reunite. Alas, there was nothing they could do to escape their twisted fate. Yet they never stopped. The end of the song implied that, as the Thedas drew breath, these two souls were still desperately trying to reach one another.
Sorrowful, yet beautiful. A song about a love so strong that, even without hope, it could never be let go.
Lavellan remembered asking his father, “Why don't they give up and find love elsewhere if there's no hope?” To which he replied an Orlesian saying, “Le cœur a ses raisons que la raison ne connaît point.” ¹
Lavellan never knew whether his father had sung this tale as a warning or as guidance.
Was he urging him to follow his heart, no matter what? Or was he reminding him to heed to his reason, despite his feelings?
Time would answer that.
Staring into Solas' loving eyes, Lavellan wondered—what was his reason trying to tell him?
Something about Solas was off. He could not put his finger on it, yet he could perceive it all the same. Aster should be wary of him—he should not let his guard down.
Was his affection for him sincere? Yes, absolutely. But was he honest? Lavellan could not tell. He could be honest—or he could have been tricking him from the start. And this doubt—the bleak territory of the unknown—told him everything he needed to know about the man.
It had already been cast. There was nothing left to do but wait—wait and see what would come of something that should never have been, and yet felt so inevitable.
And it was up to Lavellan to decide whether he would run away from him, guided by his reason, or run after him, driven by his heart.
Unfortunately, now was not the place, nor the time to decide. As Lavellan finished the song, he set his instrument aside and sat beside his lover.
“You seem to take great pleasure in singing, do you not?” Solas remarked softly.
“How did you figure?” Lavellan chuckled.
Then he sighed. A flicker of sadness crossed his face. Singing was not one of an Inquisitor's duties. Nor was hunting, or dancing… or everything he loved, everything he lived for.
“I was meant to have that kind of life,” Lavellan mumbled. “But here I am—a military servant of a religion I do not even believe in…”
Lavellan let out a bitter laugh, but it was not amusing.
It was a tragedy.
Some people would have killed to be in his shoes. The fate of the whole world was on his shoulders—and all he could think about was being some kind of troubadour? He had no idea how lucky he was and how grateful he should have been.
That was it. He was an ungrateful rat living off the Chantry.
A nuisance. A pest.
Falling on his mattress, Lavellan closed his eyes. He had to get all these thoughts out of his brain, but he could not. Opening his eyes again, he stared at his right hand.
“If it weren't for this damn hand,” he muttered.
Lavellan's eyes lingered on his hand as the Mark lit up, glowing faintly on his skin.
Solas' gaze faltered.
Lavellan did not notice it.
“Maybe, when Corypheus is defeated, you could find the life you are looking for.”
“Come on,” Lavellan laughed, pushing himself up. “I'll never be free of this Inquisition. One does not escape his responsibilities so easily.”
Solas nodded, a bittersweet smile on his lips. He knew far too well how responsibilities could eat a person alive.
“I'm not complaining,” he added. “I've learned a lot from the Inquisition's resources—and all these adventures… Fenedis, I've never had so many friends. Never had people I trusted with my life like I do here.”
Of course, Lavellan had friends back in his clan. Well—one, at least. He had been a lonely young man, not by choice. Now, his inner circle both esteemed and respected him. He would not trade that for anything in the world.
“I used to be no one. Nothing,” Lavellan muttered. “Here, I am someone, even if it has to be as a Herald. At least I'm doing something worth remembering.”
For most, he would be remembered as Andraste's Herald. It could have been worse. At least Andraste defended his people in her time. And in much the same way, Lavellan's actions were reshaping Thedas in a new light.
But for a few, he would be remembered as a person, not as a figure. More than their salvation, to them, Lavellan was a kind soul, a warm smile, a helping hand, a devoted blade, a fair leader, and a loyal friend.
Was it prideful to find comfort in knowing he would be mourned and missed after his death? Maybe.
“Dying is one thing,” Lavellan continued. “Falling into oblivion, on the other hand…”
Dying? Yes, eventually it would happen. Death was inevitable. Lavellan had never feared his own death—unlike oblivion.
“Does being forgotten scare you?” Solas asked, curious.
“It terrifies me, you mean!” Lavellan let out a chuckle. “I… I don't really know why, but… Forgetting, being forgotten… it's just…”
An unpleasant feeling seized him by the throat. Why was he feeling like this? What was so terrifying about oblivion? It felt like he knew why—deep inside—but had forgotten it. And that thought did not help—if anything, it made it worse.
“I won't forget you,” Solas murmured, his hand slowly coming to rest on Lavellan’s back.
What a charmer, Lavellan thought, smiling and rolling his eyes as he leaned into Solas' arms. But then, he replayed Solas' voice in his head.
Why was there such sadness in his tone?
Was he planning on leaving him? Leaving the Inquisition? After all this time, anyone would assume that Lavellan knew him well—but it was far from the truth. Solas was still a stranger to him, an enigma he could not resolve—and yet he found himself inexplicably drawn to him.
To hell with wisdom and good sense.
Lavellan tenderly kissed Solas as he cupped his cheek with one hand. He knew the mysterious apostate would someday break his heart. Each time they kissed, Solas would eventually withdraw. Kisses, apologies, kisses, apologies, again and again.
Were they even committed? Lavellan messed around with some other mage—nothing too serious, at least not yet. Before Solas' confession on his balcony, Lavellan sought tenderness elsewhere; he was not ashamed to admit it. But since Solas confessed his love to him, Lavellan only had eyes for him.
Yes, they were committed to each other. They had to. Solas was no Dalish, but he remained a traditional elf. And no one would confess such strong feelings without meaning it.
Aster let himself fall into his lover’s arms. Solas slipped his hand beneath his clothes, his fingers wandering over his skin. Aster shivered at the cool brush of his touch.
His touch was gentle, almost cautious, as though he feared Aster might shatter beneath his fingers. Nothing like his fervent kisses, the kind that left him dizzy.
Aster shifted back slightly on the bed, drawing Solas with him.
A look. So much passed between them—more than words could ever explain.
Hot. Desire tightened in his chest until breathing itself became difficult.
Solas’s hands found his hips as he moved between his thighs. Aster liked that. He liked seeing him take the lead, liked the way their tongues were dancing with one another, liked the warmth of his body pressed against his own.
Solas’ mouth slid to his jaw. Every kiss drew a soft moan from Lavellan. Licking, sucking, biting—Solas marked his skin. He was like a starving animal feeding on its favorite meal.
Clothes on the floor.
Wet kisses.
Shivering.
A short breath—
Lower. Closer.
And then—
Solas froze.
For a few seconds, neither of them moved. Eventually, Solas lifted his head up to look at Lavellan.
Solas studied him in silence—his eyes, his lips, his cheekbones. His touch softened, almost hesitant. Lavellan was waiting for it—he knew it was coming.
“Ir abelas,” Solas whispered, and his warm breath felt like fire against Lavellan's lips.
So predictable, he thought, pressing his lips together.
“The opposite would have surprised me,” Lavellan said with a bitter smile, gently pushing Solas away as he shifted to sit up.
His words were not meant to be spiteful—just disappointed. What did he expect? Solas had been indecisive since the very first day; what made him think he would suddenly be ready? But… he was the one who had led him on here, was he not? It did not matter.
They held each other's gaze in silence. Sincerity. Lavellan could not blame him. After a moment, Solas softly kissed his forehead.
“Goodnight, vhenan,” Solas mumbled before leaving the room.
Lavellan made no effort to hold him back—there was no use in it. Lavellan's gaze fell on his violin.
A part of him was still here, in a sense.
Lavellan leaned over to pick it up. He softly brushed the wood, lost in thought. Solas was already slipping away from him; how long would it take for him to completely disappear?
Lavellan started to play again. Quiet. Sad. Hopefully, no one else would hear it. But down the stairs, behind the bedroom door, Solas was listening to the melodious lament.
Solas' selfishness urged him to go back upstairs—to indulge in mortal pleasures. But his wisdom held him in place. He already did enough—more than enough.
This was not supposed to happen. Lavellan was never supposed to happen. How could anyone succeed in drawing him away from his purpose?
Lying to him was becoming too difficult, even by omission. The longer he waited, the harder it would be to leave.
Solas had to let his affection fade—if only to set Lavellan free. He deserved something true, something honest—something that Solas could never provide him.
Not in this life.
Not in this world.