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There was a tale. Had it been told before?
Since time immemorial, magic had run through the Lavellan bloodline. Such a wonderful gift… but at what cost?
A curse.
To each their own. Quite literally. It took shape in unexpected ways, but always with the same finality: misery. Every member of the family met a rather grim end.
There had been one exception: our very own Inquisitor, who had never shown any sign of magical ability. But it was no surprise: he was not a Lavellan by blood. Surely, he had been spared.
Yet, it seemed the Breach changed everything.
Lavellan sighed as he forged a sword from thin air. Under Vivienne’s severe scrutiny, he trained his new abilities.
He had been raised as a hunter, an archer, a rogue. Now, this new way of life felt unusual. Uncanny. Even though he had proven to possess exceptional skill… much to his regret.
From afar, Solas was watching him. He failed to hide his curiosity. Even though things were… convoluted between them both, to say the least.
“Trouble in paradise?” Dorian asked, joining him.
Solas did not bother glancing at his rival.
“You seem to already know how things are going,” he murmured. “Why bother asking?”
“I am sorry it did not work out.”
“No you are not,” Solas replied. “And I don't blame you.”
Dorian snickered. How could he possibly be sorry? He could not have had a better opportunity to deepen his bond with Lavellan. Solas was aware of it. If their roles were reversed, he would have felt the same.
Interrupting their discussion, Vivienne approached, a radiant smile on her face.
“What a delight it is to see him training in the most refined discipline, isn’t it?”
She threw a glance at her friend. Pride. She, more than anyone, was sensing his unexploited potential.
“Sure it is…” Dorian replied.
Lavellan was born to fight on the front lines. And Vivienne—she immediately knew what his fated vocation was destined to be: bow or sword in hand, dancing between his enemies, forging weapons from thought alone… a Knight-Enchanter.
“It is… quite a relief to see he chose a path so utterly unlike either of yours.”
If the Breach had truly gifted him magic, it would have been the expected course to train as a Rift Mage, just like Solas—with that innate familiarity with the Fade, the rifts, the Breach… No, that was not him.
Necromancy? Lavellan considered following Dorian’s specialty. After all, his father was a necromancer too. He could have. He kind of wanted to. But he did not.
“Are we to understand you disapprove of both Dorian and myself?” Solas asked.
“Absolutely, dear,” Vivienne replied. “Both of you bring him confusion and stress. Neither of you deserves the affection he holds for you.”
Madame de Fer drew close to the Inquisitor. Many believed it was by pure interest. Truth be told, she unexpectedly found a friend in him. Ah, sweet Vivienne, gorgeous and dangerous. A powerful ally or a fearsome enemy… one was better off on her good side.
As it stood, neither Solas nor Dorian were on her good side. And they both knew it. Vivienne's eyes lingered on them, as sharp as a blade.
Her implacable judgment settled on Solas first. “How could he resist the appeal of a mysterious apostate?” Then it moved on to Dorian. “And that of a seductive Tevinter?”
“You think I am seductive?” Dorian smirked.
Vivienne ignored his hollow flirting, and her attention fell upon Solas.
“You broke his heart.”
Her eyes shifted to Dorian.
“And you are intent on taking advantage of it.”
Dorian scoffed.
“It is a little more complicated than that.”
“I don't doubt it,” she murmured. “Your intentions won't change the consequences of your actions.”
“You speak as though you know what is best for him,” Solas said.
“I don't,” Vivienne corrected smoothly. “But I know precisely what is not.”
Again, her gaze drifted toward Lavellan, practicing in the distance. A sad smile formed on her lips.
“Look at him.”
An ordinary eye would see someone composed; beneath the mask, a tempest lay hidden.
Clenched jaw. Fire in his eyes. Sparks at his fingertips. Every gesture betrayed his instability. Such practice should have been clearing his mind—so what was he thinking, to end up like this?
“We should consider ourselves fortunate that he has managed to turn all that emotional chaos into something useful.”
Lavellan was born to be a hero, a savior. Made to be a figure to look up to, an idea to hold on to. He would endure his torment and let nothing hinder his path—whatever it took.
“It is time you start putting him first. Become the man he needs… or have the decency to leave him be.”
“Do I sense a threat, Madame de Fer?” Solas asked.
“Don’t you worry, my dear. This is merely an observation.”
That menacing smile could send chills to the less confident. Fortunately—unfortunately—neither Solas nor Dorian were easily intimidated. Ah… the three of them shared that trait, if nothing else.
“Inquisitor, darling! Ah, excuse me please,” Vivienne sighed, sliding between them. “You are going to hurt yourself!”
Vivienne returned to her friend. He was but an apprentice. As promising as he was, he needed supervision.
Lavellan grimaced, shaking his hand. It seemed that one played with fire, and one got burned.
“No one told me magic could hurt my hands.”
“Because it is not supposed to,” Vivienne scolded him. “Magic is not steel. You cannot expect to bend it through force.”
“So I've noticed…” Lavellan mumbled, blowing upon his hand to ease the pain.
“Focus,” Vivienne ordered, massaging his shoulders. “Practice makes perfect.”
A bitter chuckle betrayed his discomfort—not over his mistake but over the nature he now bore. A nervous habit Solas could not help but recognize.
“I know all too well what it is like to be thrown into a new world against your will, to be changed at your very core, to be used until all sense of self is gone, until you become…“
“Corrupted?” Dorian finished his sentence.
“Exactly,” Solas whispered.
Undeniably, Solas and Lavellan understood each other on a level Dorian could never comprehend.
And nonetheless, it was Dorian whom Lavellan was inexorably drawn to. As if, despite every contradiction between them, being together was the sole thing that truly made sense.
Dorian breathed in deeply. He had to change the subject.
“Do you think one can become a mage?”
“I believe anyone can, yes,” Solas answered. “Perhaps… not in our current world nonetheless.”
Dorian had heard of non-mages binding themselves to demons to wield their magic. For the Inquisitor, it was not the case. His tendency to draw the curiosity of spirits had only been amplified. The Fade had always been reaching out to him—but only since the Mark could he reach back.
“He does not enjoy it,” Solas observed.
“It is yet another thing forced upon him,” Dorian sighed. “If it was not for Corypheus, none of this…”
Dorian was met by silence. Whatever truth Solas hid was for another day.
A crackle of energy drew the attention of the two longing men.
Flickering between his fingers, the blade struggled to maintain its form. The more he tried to stabilize it, the greater the sparks became. Something within him resisted. He would not succeed. Lavellan was unable to hold the summoning.
Perhaps he ought to begin… on more familiar ground.
“If you would excuse me,” Solas mumbled.
Leaving Dorian behind, Solas crossed the space between them to join Lavellan—and inevitably, his instructor. As he approached, her fist tightened. She watched each of his steps with unwavering attention. Had it not been for the Inquisition and its cause, Madame de Fer would no doubt have already reduced Solas to dust.
“Can a humble apostate provide advice to his Highness?” Solas asked.
Vivienne was about to deny his request but Lavellan stopped her. She hesitated, her gaze shifting from Lavellan to Solas.
“As you wish, darling,” she said simply.
She stepped back to Dorian's side. The two of them fell into a low exchange. Their voice barely audible, their attention still turned toward the training.
“You are reluctant,” Solas whispered, his hands settling softly onto Lavellan.
Not a question—an observation. He could feel the tension in Lavellan’s shoulders, his frustration sharpening into something almost tangible.
“I don’t get why I should learn to wield magic as a weapon,” he confessed. “I’m an archer, that is what I am. I am no mage.”
“You can shape the Fade in unbelievable ways,” Solas replied. “The only limit is your will.”
Lavellan hummed, unconvinced.
“Think about what you enjoy the most,” he insisted.
Slowly, Solas let his hand trail down Lavellan’s arm until his fingers found his left hand.
Lavellan leaned in Solas’ embrace—eyes closed, a shy smile surfacing—relaxed, if only for a moment.
Instinctively, his mind wandered—
The murmur of running streams.
The brush of wind against his skin.
Birds singing.
Fresh air filling his lungs.
The thrill of the hunt.
The creak of wood beneath his grip—
Thrum.
“Magic does not require you to forsake who you are,” Solas murmured to his ear.
When he opened his eyes, Lavellan found an ethereal bow in his hand—shaped from thought alone, from instinct.
Lavellan sought Vivienne's approval. If she approved, she did not show it. If she disapproved, it was equally hidden.
As soon as he realized how close they stood, Lavellan withdrew immediately. Losing himself around Solas was a habit he had to quit. Solas let his hands fall to his sides. The absence of his beloved one's warmth lingered longer than it should have.
A cold stillness settled between them—heavy with what would remain unsaid. A hush even Vivienne could not resolve to break.
Dorian exhaled dramatically. He had watched enough. There was an opportunity to seize here. And Dorian was never one to let such a moment pass.
He stepped in. “If I may.”
“You may,” Lavellan said, rolling his eyes.
Solas stepped back to Vivienne. Absolute silence. She did not even spare him a glance, and Solas knew better than to provoke Madame de Fer.
Confident he now mastered materializing objects, Lavellan instinctively forged daggers. Throwing them had always been a great way to let off steam—as though each blade carried away a thought he no longer wished to bear in mind.
“That is what restrains you, my dear,” Dorian observed. “You think magic.”
“And what am I supposed to do?” Lavellan mumbled, striking the last target before turning around.
Dorian rested his palm against Lavellan’s chest.
“Be magic,” he whispered. “You have to feel it in every part of you. It has to be as simple as walking, as instinctive as breathing… as natural as drawing a bow.”
“I’ve learned how to use a bow,” Lavellan replied.
“And you will learn this too,” Dorian insisted.
A pause. The two of them remained silent, holding each other’s gaze.
“Close your eyes,” Dorian murmured to his ear. “Focus on what it makes you feel.”
Lavellan followed his instructions.
Whispers. Coolness. Tingling. Lightness. So many sensations. For once, above all else, it felt familiar. It was the Mark, the Well, his own essence—a concoction of power, faith and misery.
When he opened his eyes, he was met by that seductive look he knew too well. Dorian had not moved an inch—his hand still resting against his chest. Warmth. Was it coming from magic or from Dorian himself? Lavellan could not tell.
Lavellan had surrendered himself to Solas—out of habit. But with Dorian, it felt inexorable as if it was self-evident.
Dorian recognized it at once—that look of confusion, that fragile tenderness and yet… gratitude. Destabilizing his opponents was second nature to Dorian, an instinctive reflex. But this time, with Lavellan, it was different. Paradoxically, for a fleeting moment, even Dorian found himself disarmed.
Lavellan’s lips curled into a timid smirk as he thanked him.
Dorian broke the silence first. “I would… very much enjoy your company. This evening. In my quarters.”
“And why would I join you?” Lavellan asked, playing hard to get.
“Because you are the Inquisitor,” Dorian replied, all confidence, “and I happen to require the Inquisitor’s assistance regarding a rather delicate matter.”
“Is that so?” Lavellan hummed. “I will see what I can do. I make no promises.”
“I would never ask for anything but your best effort,” Dorian whispered, kissing his hand.
“Then I will do my best.”
Vivienne cleared her throat, interrupting their flirting. A silent reminder that they were not yet alone. Laughing, Dorian let him go as he stepped back. In doing so, he noticed something: a shared look.
Solas. Lavellan.
Whatever lay between them would remain unfinished, no matter what.
Dorian knew when to beat a retreat. This day was one of those times.
“Vivienne, my dear, would you mind keeping me company?” Dorian asked.
She glanced at her friend before falling into step beside him. She understood as quickly as he did, and left without a word.
For his part, Solas knew what awaited him: questions he could not answer yet, the aftermath of wounds he had unwillingly caused. True to his name, he stood proudly, even in guilt: chin raised, hands folded neatly behind his back.
Lavellan breathed deeply as he stared at Solas. For better or for worse, he had to set free the thoughts that had tormented him since that day—anger, longing, grief, all festering in his mind.
Silence hung heavy as Lavellan gathered the courage to utter a single word. A veteran, survivor of countless trials—each as improbable as they were lethal—yet before intimacy, his bravery seemed to fail him.
“I’d like to discuss what happened before, Solas.”
“I’m afraid that wouldn’t be appropriate at this time. We must focus on what truly matters,” Solas replied.
He was not wrong. Vivienne would have called it wisdom—perhaps for once. Greater matters were at stake than broken hearts and unspoken truths. It would be wiser for Lavellan to let go. Alas, he could not. He just could not.
“Harden your heart to a cutting edge, and put that pain to good use against Corypheus,” Solas advised him.
Lavellan bitterly chuckled. “It would help me if you could explain why.”
“The answers would only lead to more questions, an emotional entanglement that would benefit neither of us. The blame is mine, not yours. It was irresponsible and selfish of me. Let that be enough.”
As a matter of fact, it would never be enough. But if there was one truth everyone knew for certainty, it was that the blame rested with Solas, and Solas alone.
“You really don’t let anybody see under that polite mask you wear, do you?” Lavellan teased him.
“You saw more than most,” Solas admitted with a fleeing look.
Solas, as he had always been: mysterious, elusive, selfish… and, above all, lonely.
With Lavellan, he allowed himself to be vulnerable. A mistake he should never have made. A mistake, he would come to deeply regret.
“Let me know if I can be of any more help in planning our final fight.”
A battle lost before it even had begun. Never would Lavellan get his answers—and those that mattered most, at least. If it had to be this way, if Solas would refuse to yield then Lavellan would not let him keep the upper hand on him. Some words cut deeper than blades, and Solas knew that far too well.
“Solas, I will always respect you as an ally, and as a friend. But I will never forget the pain you caused me as a lover.”
“Of course, ma vh— Inquisitor. I hope one day you will realize I did it for your own good.”
“Mine, or yours?”
His expression betrayed his sorrow. Lavellan sighed and turned away. For all he could accept, Solas' hypocrisy was not one of them.
Left alone, Solas had to face himself. He had lost the one he loved most. It was for the better. With what was meant to happen… it would have been worse to keep him in his arms.
Thoughtful, Solas forged a single arrow. Playing with it, making it dance between his fingers.
Then it vanished.
Just like him.