#but then again I'm hormonal and cry easily rn

[redinkofshame]

Ink Blot, coming soon

Some of you know by now, of course, but I wanted to let my followers know that 

Red Ink is expecting a baby ink blot in March!

The pregnancy has really been affecting my ability to get any writing done, but Blot and I are doing just fine.

To celebrate I wanted to write a papae!Solas fic :D I also wanted to get it done like 3-4 months ago, but... Well anyway, this is one of the first scenes that came to my mind when I moved to Solavellan Hell, before I started devouring fic and lore. 

This is a post-Inquisition, pre-Trespasser fix-it fic! But, like, a sad fix-it fic, so I’m going to spoil it at the same time I give you the content warnings: Everyone will be okay, but if you’ve had/been close to someone who’s had a miscarriage or stillbirth, or any other child death really, this is likely not for you. But everyone will be okay.

I’ll also be posted it on AO3... When I think of a title. Edit: Here you go!

Okay, papae!Solas, under the cut!

Fen’Harel shone in resplendent armor atop a long forgotten battlement in Tevinter’s late afternoon sun. His feet were planted wide as he surveyed a small troop of infiltrators preparing for their mission on the ground below. Once comprised of hungry refugees, his forces were now fully equipped and approaching semblance of organization, however inexperienced. Then again, they were mortals all, and none held the lifespan to gain mastery in his eyes.

They would do for his purposes. They would have to.

They would leave in shifts with the sun, covertly entering Par Vollen in groups of two or three, depending on the task he’d assigned them. He, of course, would not be joining them—the Dread Wolf had more important matters to attend.

His first lieutenant, Arel, approached him—elven, feminine, and spirited enough to occasionally cause him grief, they were nonetheless devoted entirely to his cause.

“Report.”

“All operations are on schedule, My Lord. No complications are expected, though we are well prepared for many contingencies.”

He clasped his hands neatly behind him. “And the Inquisition?” he asked, face carefully neutral. Despite his best efforts to act detached, many of his agents had inevitably learned caution when broaching the subject of Inquisitor Keria Lavellan, or the Inquisition at large. Distasteful, that he had failed to conceal such complications from his own people; unavoidable, perhaps, that his enemies might learn of his weakness. He could hardly fault his spies—he had chosen them for their skills of observation, after all.

“No changes. Their forces will not be a problem, My Lord.”

“Do not lose caution. They’ve been known to change targets upon only her whim.”

“Yes…” they drawled, sounding confused. “But given the circumstances we can discount that factor. It is excellent timing indeed that we do this now. If I may say so, I believe with her passing we will have ample time to move forward on many fronts.”

His mind felt foggy in its attempt to understand them. Had he missed a written report? The passing of what?

“What do you mean? Speak plainly.”

They sighed. “It has been four days, and still no changes. She is surrounded by the finest healers they could send for, but I’ve never known a woman to survive after enduring this long.”

Solas’ eyebrows knit and he snapped his attention to his lieutenant. Keria was…Ill? Dying? That could not be.

Eyes cast to the parties below, Arel did not notice his reaction and continued. “With the Inquisition in mourning and without leadership they will be unlikely to take any new measures for some time. Our spies suggest that the advisors are already prepared for this eventuality, however, so we still need to act quickly. It is expected that they will announce Lady Pentaghast as the new Inquisitor, but of course delays will be expected as the sword changes hands.”

He felt disoriented, as if lost in a new section of the Fade that refused to listen to reason—nothing they were telling him made sense. Panic rose like a storm. “What do you mean? Why-why was I not told about this!” he demanded.

They raised an eyebrow as if he were an impetuous child—they were the only member of his army brave enough to do so. “We always knew this was a possibility, Lord Fen’Harel. Any woman, no matter how powerful, can fall victim to the birthing bed.”

The birthing… His eyes were wide and unseeing as his mind whirled. Keria could not die—It was not yet her time! She had a few years left to find happiness; how could something so mundane take a spirit such as hers? Why had he not been told, when had this…?

His hands clenched behind him as he forced himself to think. Time had never been his ally. It would have been forty weeks, more or less, if she was in labor now. Just over nine months, assuming she had not come early. He was still with the Inquisition at that time, three months before the final battle—

He was still with her at that time, he realized. Travelling, on their way to Crestwood…

Lost in a haze made equal parts of bliss and denial. She had imbibed of the Well, and though for now the truths it whispered in her ear would propose more questions than answers, he knew that with her focus it was only a matter of time until she mastered enough to understand.

He’d been furious with himself for allowing it to happen, and further disappointed in himself still that he in some small part felt relieved—he knew this meant it was time to tell her his own truth, their own truth. She needed to know, to harness her high-priced knowledge, and he could finally come clean as if himself submerged.

He’d come to his senses before his cleansing could come to pass, fortunately. He had broken off what never should have been.

He pictured six months ago, twenty-four weeks, holding the shattered remnant of his foci in his hands and the dread of knowing what sacrifices came next weighing like stone in his chest. He remembered leaving his heart behind, unable to even bid the bare-faced Dalish girl farewell before disappearing from her life.

Not a week later, one of his new recruits—still wearing an Inquisitor’s scouting uniform—was nervously reporting to him.

“You’re familiar with the, ah, rumors going on around Skyhold about the condition the Inquisitor is in?”

“I am well aware of the state of both the Inquisitor and the Inquisition when I left. Your job is to update me on any changes,” he’d snapped.

“Right, well… You know how she was pretty severely injured at the battle with Corypheus?”

“I was there,” he repeated, irate. He needed no reminder of watching her small body flying through the air like lightning and striking broken stones crossing over from the Fade. It had been only a few days, a blink of the eye, since he held his shattered orb in his hands and walked away from his heart.

“She-she is expected to make a full recovery. It seems that, miraculously, the baby survived the injuries.”

Any relief he’d felt was washed away as fury flooded him. While true that some of her inner circle affectionately referred to her as a ‘baby’ due to her intolerance of pain, this miscellaneous recruit had no right to the demeaning nickname. “Watch your tongue,” he warned, seething through bared teeth.

“Wh-what? I, um, yes, Fen’Harel. My Lord. Nothing else to report.”

After that he no longer took scout reports directly.

That couldn’t be it, surely. They would have mentioned it again. What else had he missed? Then he remembered four months ago when his newly appointed second in command had glossed over something he hadn’t quite caught.

He’d been examining a relic recovered by his agents, trying to determine if it still held value, held power. It would prove useful, could he get it working anew, but he did not think that would be the case. Arel found him and gave him what could be described as a report only if one was generous; it much more closely resembled idle gossip regarding the going-ons of his men. He should have balked at their informality, but the company was tolerable and it never hurt to know more about those who served him.

“Jonan’s wife is pregnant. Their first. He’s not asking for time away yet, but he seems rather anxious about it. We should avoid asking him to do anything overtly dangerous for the time being--no point in forcing him into refusing to follow orders. We’ll have to be careful not to appear to be giving him special treatment, of course, or else all kinds of pregnant wives or sick relatives will come out of the woodwork.

“Speaking of, the Inquisitor is starting to show, too, it seems. Winter comes early to Skyhold though, so only her inner circle will have noticed so far. Not that there aren’t rumors in Orlais, but there always have been. Unsurprisingly, she is not allowing it to slow her down. I imagine it will be easy to continue to hide until spring.” He hadn’t understood what they meant by ‘show’--making a show of force, or manipulating trade under the noses of the Orlesians perhaps? For all that she hated it, Keria had a keen mind for politics. He did not get the chance to ask before they continued, though. “Which reminds me, I left supply reports on your desk. Nothing interesting; the winters are mild this far north, and we are well stocked.

He remembered two months ago. He had just finished communing with a guiding spirit in the Fade when Arel found him.

He had been agitated, and in a hurry. What he’d learned from the spirit was concerning: there was an untrustworthy agent in his midst. They would need to be swiftly taken care of. Arel did not get in his way, but he recognized the way they bowed as he passed—a way reserved for when they had something of some urgency to tell him… Or something regarding Keria.

“Be quick.”

“Yes, Fen’Harel. The Lady Inquisitor has finally confirmed her condition publicly. Nothing else to report.”

“Condition?”

“Physical condition, my lord.”

“Fine, thank you,” he had said, brushing them off. He did not have the time to wonder over the significance of confirming something they already knew, however curious it was to announce publicly that the Anchor was growing. Keria did not often admit to weakness.

He thought back to four days ago.

He’d been in his war room, large detailed maps of different countries on intricate stone tables. Arel strolled from the map of Tevinter to that of Orlais and Ferelden, covered as it was with pieces indicating the Inquisition’s movements.

“The Inquisitor was investigating rumor of a lingering rift in the Arbor Wilds and came upon a ruin near that of Mythal’s temple and the former Well of Sorrows. Reports say it appears to be untouched, though of course centuries of neglect have not been kind. It appears to be a temple dedicated to Elgar’nan.”

They paused, then, looking at Solas pointedly. They were waiting for him to confirm that he’d been aware of the temple’s existence. In truth, he had not—it had not existed in his time. Long ago Mythal’s temple had been much larger, so it was likely she’d only discovered an annex that was dedicated to her husband. He wondered if Keria would find the annex dedicated to him.

He said nothing. Posturing was necessary—it would not inspire his ranks to see him guessing, to suspect that he only partially knew how to accomplish his goals. Better to seem as if he already had all the answers, and only shared them with his followers when the time came. As an added benefit, it also discouraged unwanted questions.

Faced with silence, Arel continued. “Any excavation has been suspended due to the Inquisitor going into labor, however. A presence will remain to protect the area, but she wants to be there when it is opened for the first time. I don’t know what she’s hoping to find, but if you have any reason to suspect we should investigate ourselves first, now would be the time to do so.”

He didn’t understand what new labor they spoke of, or why Keria would wish to oversee it herself—physical labor was never her forte and the Inquisition had many labor forces across Thedas bringing in various resources—but it mattered little. “No. There is nothing to be found in the Wilds.”

Atop his wall in Tevinter, Fen’Harel stared unseeing as the pieces slowly fell into place.

He strode away without a word, long legs quickly crossing over the stones beneath his feet to a nearby hall. A flick of his wrist and an eluvian hummed to life, scarcely in time for him to walk through it. Once he was through he closed the portal behind him. Out of view of his soldiers his pace quickened further. Sprinting now, panic chased him through the labyrinth and broken steps of shattered memories. He thought only of Keria, his heart, her pulse slowing as she lay in her deathbed due to a condition he had inflicted upon her.

It should not have been—his seed should not have been able to take root in her. He’d taken measures against it; as had she, as unreliable as mortal means were.

He nearly considered that the blame might belong to another and not him, then, but no—despite the relief the idea brought, it was only an attempt to assuage his guilt. It made no matter, in any case. This could not be allowed to happen.

He knew he had concealed men watching the eluvian that led to Skyhold, but he was beyond caring about being seen running to her. He was panting hard, unwilling to waste even the small amount of mana needed to keep his body comfortable; he did not know just what he was walking in to.

He jumped in the portal, landing in the small misused room off Skyhold’s gardens. He burst out the door, hardly noticing the startled guards standing to either side of it. They called out confused alarms but he did not slow, darting to the main hall.

Other guards, standing before the door that led to the Inquisitor’s suite, saw him coming. They heard the shouts, saw the expression he wore. They snapped to attention and one made as if to block the door, but the other grabbed their shoulder and muttered something. They each looked at a loss at what to do.

The Inquisitor had once given an open-ended order to allow her apostate consort into her bedchamber at any time, day or night; by the guards’ confusion, she had never officially rescinded the order, but they expected he was no longer welcome.

He did not care what they decided—he did not need their permission to pass.

With a gauntlet he harmlessly knocked aside a spear as it crossed over the door, not allowing it to slow this progress. Past the door he took the stairs two or three at a time and flung upon the door to her room—once his, once theirs—and made quick work of those stairs as well. He took in the somber environment as his head rose above the banister.

Despite the balcony doors open wide to the bitter mountain air the room was warm, humid, the air thick with the scent of sweat and blood. Keria laid abed, twisted in damp sheets, and it was small wonder why she suffered so; too petite by half even in her condition. Especially in her condition. Her storm-black hair, normally full of static and wind, clung damp to her forehead. It had grown longer since he’d last seen her.

Surrounding her were several women; midwives and healers. The room was too quiet for a birthing. There were neither screams nor soothing assurances, no instructions to push or breath measured breaths. Hardly a sound at all. There was only a dying legend, surrounded by those attempting to keep her alive for as long as possible. Across from him, sitting limply in a stiff chair was a weary Dorian.

Why would a necromancer…?

His heart seized as he remembered overhearing a report given to Leliana in the rookery from his position at his desk, soon after the incident in Crestwood and her replacing him with Dorian in her missions. She had fallen in battle without him there to shield her, and Dorian had to take hold of her very spirit and force it to return to her lifeless body.

And here he was, looking utterly spent, empty lyrium bottles crowding a small table beside him.

All this he took in within a single heartbeat before rushing to Keria’s side, paying no heed to Dorian climbing to his feet accusatorily, or to the boots stomping up the stairs behind him. He reached a hand to Keria’s abdomen, a quick seeping of magic allowing him to analyze her condition.

A confirmation of his fears. Drastic blood loss and muscles too weak to move, her body was giving up the fight. Her breast hardly rose or fell with her breath as she drifted in and out of the Fade.

“What are you doing to her?” demanded a Tevinter accent, but he scarcely heard it. Through the hand resting on his vhenan he sent a flood of healing magic, spreading through her exhausted muscles to revive them, washing into her marrow until fresh blood ran through her veins.

The Anchor flared green and she gasped as if she’d been drowning, electric eyes flying open in surprise.

And then she screamed in pain.

The midwives rushed forward, finding their voices as they propped up her legs and folding up the blanket once more.

“Can you push?”

“Is that the father?”

“She’s still losing blood.”

“He shouldn’t be in here.”

“Just one more big one, Lady Inquisitor, just one more push…”

“Are you going to kick him out?”

He turned his attention to dulling her pain, removing his gauntlets to take her unmarked hand. Dorian gripped his staff, but glanced uncertainly between him and Keria. That is, until the feet crested the stairs, steel clearing scabbards.

“Seize h—Solas?” The Lady Seeker’s voice was incredulous over the sound of screams.

For her he spared a glance over his shoulder, saw her men on alert and waiting dutifully for her command.

“He helped her, Cassandra,” Dorian explained helplessly.

“You did it!” joyfully cried the woman standing at the foot of Keria’s bed, turning the heads of Cassandra and both mages. “You’re done, you did it, Lady Inquisitor.”

He turned his attention to his heart, her hand still in his. Tears fell from her eyes like rain, her face twisted, and he knew it was not from the pain.

“Why are they quiet? Are they still? I failed, didn’t I?” she asked, choking on her sobs. “I’m sorry, I tried, I’m so sorry ma da’len, I…”

Aside from her plaintive apologies a hush fell over the room, a loss of words for her loss. And then, a new cry shattered it.

Solas’ attention snapped to the squirming bundle in the midwife’s hand, small and red and shrieking as a second pair of hands attempted to clean it with a rag. Joyfully, tears in her eyes, the woman said, “You see? You hear your son’s cries, Lady Inquisitor? You did it. You did wonderfully.”

The air left his chest.

Somehow…

Somehow in his rush to save Keria he had all but forgotten that children were often a consequence of labor.

He stared, unmoving, unbreathing, only his eyes following as the neonate was walked to Keria’s side and passed to her arms. She was laughing, she was crying, and she was holding…

“A son?” Solas whispered, unbelieving.  

“Yes…” slowly answered a healer, eyeing him hesitantly.

“He’s so beautiful,” Keria murmured.

“Is that the father?” whispered another healer again.

“Yes,” Keria answered this time, speaking clearly. “He is.”

“And he shouldn’t be in here,” Dorian said, irritated.

Solas supposed he had right to be.

“If he helped her…” Cassandra replied, uncertain.

“He’s staying,” Keria commanded, voice regal despite her rough throat. “If he wishes. He may come and go as he pleases.”

That stopped Cassandra and Dorian both, though they looked unconvinced. The healers continued their routine checks, and explained to her that the newborn was undersized, but healthy.

An unsure moment passed, mother gleefully quieting child, before she begged the nurses to take him back. “I’m sorry, I’m too tired, I’ll drop him. Take him. No, wait—his father. He should see his father.”

Cassandra made as if to move forward. “Inquisitor…”

“Just for a moment. I just need to shut my eyes.”

Her eyes were indeed blinking slow and sleepily as the nurses tried to take the infant, but she passed him to Solas instead. Not knowing what else to do, he took his son before she could drift off into a natural slumber. He was glad he’d divested of his gauntlets, afraid to hold the infant against the cold of his dragon bone armor or the hair of the pelt slung over his shoulder. Knees weak he sat for stability at an angle upon the bed in which his heart slept.

He could not take his eyes off the miracle before him; not when the healers filed out and the midwife warned that she’d be back soon to rouse Keria into feeding the baby, not when Cassandra relieved Dorian of his post and dismissed the soldiers, nor as she stood guard before the only exit and scowled at Solas with her hand on her hilt and a few inches of the silverite blade exposed.

Instead he saw only plush pink skin, small gripping fists, and impossibly small, delicately pointed ears.

He choked on a sob.

He thought of his transgressions, his role, his guilt. He thought of those he’d trapped when he spun the Veil, their spirits caught in a limbo that he’d planned to free when the veil was no more. He thought of the knowledge, the history, the connection with magic and spirits that was now lost on his people, never to be regained. He thought of the millennia of years the elves had spent enslaved despite his efforts to stop exactly that, and tried to imagine the pain each and every one of them had gone through.

His tears fell upon the small blanket swaddling his son. He noticed for the first time that it must have been embroidered by his mother’s hand. Cassandra released her grip upon her hilt and moved out to the balcony and watched the sun setting.

He wept for his people because, looking at his son, he knew he would no longer save them.

He alone could walk the din’anshiral. He alone could undo what he’d wrought and restore them to what they were meant to be. But he would not.

For this was not the first time he’d held his child.

He’d been a father before. He’d lived a long life, and had been graced with many loves and with several children. He’d loved each of his children with his whole heart, had been so proud of who they became… And he was, ultimately, responsible for each of their deaths.

Some had died in the war he’d started, his rebellion. Two slain fighting right beside him, others casualties of politics in effort to stay his hands. He rose the Veil in an effort to save them all, to protect the family that remained to him, to save his people from themselves…

He did not know how long it took him, trapped and wandering in the Fade, to learn of their fates. For countless years he hunted and traded secret memories, searching for answers. One by one, he learned of what happened to each of his beautiful children. There was not one demise met that could not be laid at his feet, either directly or as a consequence of the chaos he’d caused.

It was too late to save any of them, but it was not too late for this one small son that should not have been. He entertained only briefly the thought of waiting before giving up his journey; perhaps the boy was mortal, perhaps his mission could wait until after their lifetime. But no--there could be grandchildren, could be generations more. He could not treat his son’s life, Keria’s life, as if it were merely an inconvenient delay. He must commit to a single decision, and he knew in his heart he was more powerless now than the wriggling infant exhausted from the burden of being born.

And so he wept; for all these centuries his efforts and his name had been twisted into something vile, now he would become Betrayer in truth.

He felt a warm, weak grip on his wrist. “It’s okay. It’s okay, it’ll be okay.” Astonished, he turned and looked at Keria, her large eyes as wet as his own. That she could still treat him with kindness after he’d abandoned her… Would she still, once she knew the truth? Voice a hoarse whisper, she asked him, “Are you back?”

He shifted so that he could cover her hand with his without disturbing his son. “Yes. For good, this time.”