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I.
Firelight dances over faces drawn tight in mourning, thick, oily smoke roiling up into the rapidly darkening sky. Clan Lavellan watches as the pyre consumes Viera’s corpse, silent in the face of their loss. Elowen stands at the edge of the crowd closest to the fire, sweat beading across her brow in response to the blistering heat. Her vision swims, skin stinging where the scarred man’s blade had lanced below her hairline, a memory of all that she owes him retribution for. The wind shifts, drawing the heat away from them, and she looks into the coal bed with watering eyes.
She’ll kill him, if she’s ever so lucky to see him again.
II.
Elowen inhales deeply, eyes closed as she leans into the gentle gait of her hart to best savor this return to the Emerald Graves. It’s the closest she suspects she’ll ever have to a homecoming, the way her heart sings to be back beneath the sprawling canopy. Unlike anywhere else in Thedas, she feels at home here, where tree trunks span even wider than the Iron Bull’s chest. It’s a small relief she isn’t about to take for granted, what with the awkward distance that’s grown between herself and their resident Fade expert since his confession.
The Inquisition moves slowly through dense greenery, breaking camp only when the sun begins to flag low in the sky, each passing moment threatening to see it swallowed past tree line. There’s a certain kind of melancholy here, where the history of her people casts the soil deep red. Varric and Cassandra walk ahead, astride at the shoulder. Neither comment on the crumbling architecture that stands in stark relief to pristine Orlesian plaster and gold leaf.
III. They break camp at the top of a knoll that nearly rises right out of the foliage, overlooking a lazy bend in the river below. Elowen slips from the encampment to gather embrium while sunlight still manages to clear the canopy overhead, feet silent as she picks through the underbrush. Ferns and rich soil give way to smooth slabs of stone worn down by the water that currently runs hip high, fed by glacial melt in the mountains above.
The sound of metal on metal rings out abruptly over the sound of water in motion, and with one hand hovering over the hilt at her back, Elowen moves in to investigate.
IV. The burn that stretches over his jaw and mouth looks like it hurts him still, just as stark as she remembers it all those years ago. Then, her hands had trembled with useless adrenaline, aimless with resuscitation such a lost cause. Now, they shake with excitement as she draws her bow. Will he remember her just the same?
In the end, she doesn’t need to ask, as the sneer that falls across his face tells her all she needs to know. Though he travels with an entourage of four other armed men, the scarred man waves them off, uninterested in sharing his perceived prey. Anticipation builds in her stomach alongside the echo of Viera’s wound where she’d held it closed long after the skin had cooled.
“You killed her.” She hisses, leveling an arrow with his throat as she pulls her bowstring back.
“And what are you going to do about it?” He leers, licking his lips. As she lets fly her first volley of arrows he charges at her, snarling. Elowen drops into a crouch, spinning one pointed foot out to sweep his legs out from under him. Despite the heavy armor that glints menacingly in the sun, he recovers quickly, swinging his sword down at her in a lethal arc. Rolling out of the way is second nature, the way she draws the bowstring back when she finds her feet as automatic as breathing. He’s well trained too, though, and to her dismay Elowen finds herself disarmed with a swift twist of her wrist.
Stumbling backwards, she tries to put a few arms length of distance between them as the scarred man charges forward, pulling a dagger from his hip. He aims a slash at her throat that she spins away from, followed by another that catches the highest point of her cheekbone in a spray of blood. Swearing, Elowen ducks below his first attempt at grabbing her hair, only to be caught by the lapel of her jacket a moment later.
Walking her backwards until he can pin her against one of the ancient trees, the scarred man takes a moment to admire his work as she scrabbles one hand where it’s caught between her back and the trunk. He bars an arm across her throat right as her fingers close around the hilt of her dagger. Elowen doesn’t hesitate, driving her blade into the softest part of his thigh.
To her horror, he pulls the blade from his leg, and reverses the grip before leveling it with her pulse where it pounds in her jugular.
V. Several things happen in quick succession: Varric swears, Cassandra takes her maker’s name in vain, and Solas feels his mind blast seconds before it comes bursting forward from his hands.
VI. When his mind catches up to his mana, Solas finds himself with teeth bared as the shem kicks his legs uselessly into the air where he’s held suspended. Green light plays across his face, unfurling in waves to catch the blade of the unnamed man’s knife where it lies forgotten in the dirt at his feet. Would that he had his true power as it belonged in his chest, would that he could turn the quickling to stone as he struggled. Fen’harel snarls as he draws one hand back, electricity dancing between his fingers. He hadn’t been able to kill the ones who’d bent their blade to Mythal’s skin, but there’s no such politics tying his hands now.
Faintly, he registers the sound of his name in her voice, pitched high enough to break.
VII. Josephine sits opposite her in a striking set of ochre road clothes, smile bright enough to light the small carriage they bounce in, nestled in the center of an Inquisition caravan bound for the Winter Palace. Elowen stifles a yawn behind one callused hand— she’s not slept well since the incident in the Graves, haunted by the snap of Solas’ mana each time she closes her eyes. He allows her no rest in the Fade, haunts her consciousness just as surely as he does her waking hours.
Briefly, she considers telling Josephine, but finds she’d rather not face the truth.
“Alright Inquisitor,” Antivan embouchure lilts warmly, meant for rich fabrics and the sharp bite of well brewed coffee. “Shall we review what we’ve gone over so far?” Elowen nods, happy to focus on the delicate details of Orlesian politics instead of the way Solas had looked at her as he’d dropped the scarred corpse to the ground at her feet (and the way it had made her feel in turn).
Not that it mattered how he’d made her feel, as the bald bastard had ignored her since the very moment Cassandra had jogged up to them and the smoking remnants of the scarred man. Elowen sighs sharply through her nose, shaking her head as if to dislodge the thought as she inhales to answer Josephine’s next quiz. She hadn’t been sure when she had named him to her entourage for this event, but found the thought of leaving him left her too bereft to even consider it.
She refuses to consider that, too.
VIII. He leans against an ornate pillar, cloyingly sweet wine webbing up the crystal in his hand. He’s missed the drama of court, the luxury and danger. It’s nice to be back, even better to be underestimated. Every inch a fox in the hen house he listens idly to gossip as it unfolds around him, and tries not to dwell on the Inquisitor. It’s a futile effort, to be sure.
Who had that man been, to raise such rage in the calm waters of the woman he’s come to love? What secret lingers at the heart of such explosive violence, and why had she not seen fit to tell him? Is this how she had felt, in the flat light of the Exalted Plains? He hopes not, even as the certainty sits like lead in his stomach.
IX. Jealousy mounts in his throat, just as molten as he remembers it to be in the scintillating courts of Elvhenan. Gaspard spreads his fingers wide as he cradles Elowen’s waist, confidence all but rolling off him as he leads the pair across the gilt dance floor. He swallows, throat dry. The column of her throat shines with a fine sheen of sweat, just enough to catch the torchlight overhead. He wonders if they’ll have time enough for him to fit his mouth against her pulse before they take to the Royal wing. Dorian clears his throat, startling Solas out of his thoughts.
“Find somewhere else to look, old man.” He pauses to snatch a flute of champagne off a passing platter. “Lest someone beside my good self notices how the Inquisitor’s serving man stares at her.”
Solas scoffs, he hadn’t been staring.
X. She finds him with his ankles crossed, broad shoulders propped upon one of the ornamented pillars the Orlesians were so fond of. He’s striking in their formal uniform, jawline impossible to pull her gaze away from where it contrasts the high neckline.
“Inquisitor.” He greets softly, plush lips ghosting at the rim of his mostly empty wine glass. She swallows around her suddenly dry throat, desperate for a drink of her own, ill advised as that may be. “I do adore the heady blend of power, intrigue, danger, and sex that permeates these events.” She feels her ears flush, knows without doubt that the color creeps down toward her throat, and wishes for the first time that her updo hid more of her delicately pointed ears.
XI. Celine leads the ballroom in a toast following Elowen’s speech, champagne lifted high to catch the light along with the diamonds that drip from her wrist. Solas watches from the shadows as his heart smiles brightly, relief a sweet sight on the fond planes of her face. He waits until she’s finally allowed to step back from the spotlight to make his presence known, swooping to her side to take the inside of her elbow in his grip.
“You’ve done well tonight, Vhenan.” He leads her out onto the same balcony they’d battled across just a few hours earlier, until he can lift her by the waist through an open window and into the library. Elowen bounds away from him into the shelves, giggling brightly.
Not one to easily give up chase, he takes off after her vanilla and pine scent, following her through the shelves until he can cage her in against the old tomes. Blue eyes trace across his face as if committing it to memory, and Solas finds the scrutiny enough to bring a blush to his throat. Dipping his head to hide it at her throat, he ghosts a kiss across the underside of her jaw before pulling back to leave one beside the wound that heals over her cheekbone. Elowen smiles coyly up at him, lashes casting long shadows at the corners of her eyes.
“We still need to talk about it all in the morning.” She murmurs, lifting a finger to trace the full bow of his upper lip. Solas sighs, closing his eyes.
“We do.” He wishes she wasn’t so right.
Elowen feathers a kiss across his brow, indulgent as ever. He who hunts alone opens his eyes just enough to savor the sight of her face. If only he was a different man, just Solas, able to love her and hold her as no one but himself. Elowen parts her lips, welcoming his tongue into her mouth, and Solas wonders faintly when she had wrapped her legs around his waist.
“But first,” her breath buffets against his cheek when she pulls back to impishly grin, “we celebrate.”