To Walk The Path Of Death

To Walk the Path of Death

Solas x Lavellan | Chapter 1/1 | 1.8k words

Summary: Lavellan receives a letter from Rook and reminisces on their prior conversation at the Cobbled Swan. (ao3 link here)

Tags: mutual pining, love & loss, slow burn, spoilers, grief/mourning, solavellan hell

Dear Inquisitor Lavellan,

I found the attached letter in the Lighthouse, in one of those secret rooms I told you about. I don’t know if Solas ever intended on sending it, or if it was another self-flagellation of his, but it was meant for you. I thought you ought to read it.

I met Mythal in the Crossroads like Morrigan suggested, or a piece of her. I wanted to know what she was like, beyond the bias of Solas’ regrets. She was exactly what I expected her to be, just as arrogant and righteous as the rest of these elven gods. Solas included - no offense. Cruelty comes in different forms. I’ve seen my fair share. Just because she isn’t a tyrant like Elgar’nan, or heartless like Ghilan'nain, doesn’t mean she isn’t cruel. I know Bellara and Emmrich have said that it’s only a fraction of her spirit, that the kinder, wiser part of her is what Morrigan holds. I know Bellara’s past is important to her, so I won’t say anything about it, but I think they’re both wrong; I think Mythal is exactly who we saw in that snowy field. She chose to rule above her own kind, just like the others. She branded them with the slave markings. Morrigan called her a spirit of Benevolence, but I don’t believe that for an instant. When faced with monsters like the Evanuris, it doesn’t take much to be considered kind.

I wish she faced reparations for her actions. I’m taking some satisfaction in knowing that she’s gone from the Crossroads, at least. I don’t like the idea of her in there. Who knows what she might plot. We’ll see if it was worth it to obtain a god shard, but at this point, I’ll take whatever I can get. I’ll let you know if I learn anything else.

Thanks for listening to me. Unless you ignored all of this, then thanks for at least letting me write it all out. You told me in a previous missive that it isn’t easy to carry burdens like ours, and the longer I’m in this position, the more I agree. I’m looking forward to the next time we can see each other.

Let me know how it’s going in the South.

Yrs,

Kione “Rook” Mercar

ㅤThe parchment is old. Its aged surface feels as soft as silk, and the center of it is well creased from when it had been folded and unfolded countless times. She knows she risks tearing it, but she can’t stop herself from smoothing it out once more, tracing her fingertips over the letters inked into the vellum. Solas had performed his ritual only four months ago, it shouldn’t be an antique; Rook hadn’t remarked upon it, but she can guess as to why the Fade has shaped it this way.

ㅤ“What I feel for you will never change.”

ㅤA sigh slips from her lips, the familiar taste of bitter regret sitting on her tongue, “Oh, Solas...”

ㅤFrom the corner of her vision, she sees shadows shift. The bulky figure silhouetted against the crackling fire pulls his legs down from the barrel they are using as a makeshift table, his ever-dancing voice mingling with the pop and snap of the wood.

ㅤ“Got another fan mail?”

ㅤShe feels her lips twitch, threatening to form a smile. Besides Dorian, he is the only one who gets those out of her these days, though they are rare and fleeting. She folds up Rook’s note, but kept Solas’ out, pinned under her hand.

ㅤ“Another message from Rook. No good news, I’m afraid, just a personal missive.”

ㅤShe gets a grunt in response, but Hawke doesn’t ask for the letter and she doesn’t hand it over. He leans back in his seat again and throws his arm over the edge of it, the metal tips of his glove glinting in the firelight.

ㅤ“Guess they’re going to need what they can get, all the way up there. The South might be struggling, but I don’t envy them, stuck all alone.”

ㅤA lock of her hair falls from her loose braid, brushing along her cheek. She tucks it back behind her ear and straightens up, casting a glance over the large, makeshift war-room that they have constructed in their tent. The layout changes ever-so-slightly each time they reconstruct it, but the furniture, and the stained cloth that envelopes her always remains the same. She is sick of eggshell white, sick of bloodstained mud and the rotten stench of decaying flesh. The Blight is another monster entirely from the lyrium-encased corpses she’d fought during her time with the Inquisition. It is senseless, unsleeping, ever-devouring, demanding her attention at all times, lest it slip past her watch and grow out of control. She’s been told time and again that this Blight is unlike the rest, that it behaves like a living being, but it is a cold comfort to know that they are faced with a far deadlier plague than ever before. It only means that they know very little, and have less resources.

ㅤShe hears Hawke shift in his seat again, a puff of steam clouding into the cold air from his exhale. Even with the fire, it is difficult to keep warm. They are approaching the unforgiving winter months of the South. Her gaze wanders to the massive map of Thedas that is spread out across the table, the corners of it brushing against her hand. Chess pieces are scattered across it, makeshift representations of sections of their army. Even with the devastation this Blight has brought, she is still amazed at how many have risen to the occasion. They have the numbers to withstand such an assault, but until the Archdemons are defeated, their efforts are in vain. They’d have a better chance at stopping the tide with their bare hands.

ㅤIf you had succeeded, vhenan, you would have flooded the world with demons. You would have brought just as much destruction. Is this what you wanted? Is your victory worth this suffering?

ㅤShe puts her hand to her heart, curling her fingers into the cotton as her chest constricts with pain. Every time she thinks she knows what to expect, she is dealt another blow. Even after ten years, each new cut feels as fresh and raw as the last. She’d sworn that she’d fight for this world until her last breath, but with each passing day, that vow weighs heavier on her bones. Rook’s remark to her, although meant as a jest, has become a ringing mantra in her ears.

ㅤ“You sound like, if you had the chance, you'd join him in that prison.”

ㅤShe’s spent so long chasing after Solas, down the dark and dangerous road that he was walking. She’d poured all of her efforts into protecting and preparing Thedas while she desperately searched for him, her heart and mind so consumed with what she could possibly say to him to make him listen. She hasn’t really thought about the ‘after’. ‘After’ implies that she’d be successful, and with the world in turmoil, she doesn’t know what that success would look like.

ㅤBut if she could be with him again...

ㅤHis long fingers tangle in her hair, the taste of tears on her lips as he kisses her like he is drowning and she is his air. The buzz of the Fade along her skin as she pulls him closer, the edges of her fraying with the knowledge that they can only have this in a dream, but craving this one night of surrender, nonetheless.

ㅤShe told Rook that she didn’t know what she would do. It hasn’t taken her long to make that decision, though, now that she’s returned to the South. If she has the chance to finally stand before him again, she will never let him out of her sight. If it means a lifetime in a prison built for gods, she will go there happily, as long as she is by his side. After years of walking with the ghosts of the elven’ past, she feels like little more than a shade herself, cold and empty, drifting in a world that rushes on without her. She knows she has loved ones who would miss her. Dorian would never let her hear the end of it.

ㅤBut she misses her heart.

ㅤThe sound of a trumpet drifts through the thick front flap of the tent, followed by muffled cheers. The chair creaks as Hawke twists around to look toward the disturbance; the light of the flame pools across his cheeks and darkens the bruised shadows under his eyes. Grief has aged him. It has aged her, too.

ㅤ“Sounds like General Tabris is back,” he says, “Good. It’s about time that we get this debrief started. I’d like to start the trip back to Kirkwall tonight, if I can.”

ㅤ“Are you sure that’s safe?”

ㅤ“It’s not, but I’m going to risk it. I don’t like leaving the city to itself for even a few days. You know how things can fall to shit when you’re not there.”

ㅤShe knows that all too well. She presses her lips together to keep herself from voicing further concerns and nods. Hawke rises from the chair and stretches his back, groaning softly as he worked out the kinks in his muscles.

ㅤ“I’ve got some advice for you, Amarel. Don’t get old. It’s a terrible fate.”

ㅤThere came a near-smile again, making her face feel stiff and foreign to her. She studies him as best as she can in the low light, glancing at the strands of silver that are threaded through his beard and the crows feet that now crinkle pleasantly whenever he makes jokes.

ㅤ“I’d hardly call you old. You’re in your prime. Aging like fine wine, one might say.”

ㅤHe snorts, but falls still, his gaze growing distant, “You sound like Varric.”

ㅤAnother blow to a fresh wound, another cut to her damaged heart. She has to swallow down the lump of sorrow that forms in her throat before she can speak.

ㅤ“I wasn’t nearly as eloquent as him. It’d be impossible to imitate that.”

ㅤ“Yeah. It would be.”

ㅤHe exhales a quick, shaky breath, then flashes her a grim smile before he joins her at the table. The clank of metal and the heavy tread of armored boots is growing louder as the final leader of their fighting force approaches. Not wasting any time, as usual. With tender care, Amarel re-folds Solas’ note and tucks it into the inside, breast pocket of her jacket, as close to her heart as she can get it. It feels warm through her clothes, and she swears she catches the smell of pine and storm air. Tears prick the corners of her eyes, but she pushes them back.

ㅤVar lath vir suledin, vhenan. No matter what it takes, I will see you again. I will prove you wrong, one last time.