#m!solavellan

[comfortyart]

Style Test 🐺💖

Process video under cut ✨️

[sunnyeel]

“ ᴀɴᴀᴛʜ ᴀʀᴀ “

I’ve had my hart and his hound stuck in my head, hi.

[impmansloot]

Finally decided to post my cringefail guy. It was drawn in like february? i wanted to add more stuff in one post but oh well. i need to establish my own lore before the veilguard. my canon my rules

UN LAVELLAN (he/him), 31 y.o., knight enchanter

More info under the cut

His name is originally spelled "An", but he prefers and uses "Un" as its pronunciation is more clear to others.

He was supposed to be First to the Keeper, but Lavellan clan had two mages and he knew that he was essentially moved from that position due to his interest in blood magic. He already felt alienated from his clan, and this only strengthened that feeling, which lead him to live on his own for some time in search of more knowledge about the world and magic.

He returned to the clan at some point and was eventually sent to the conclave as a spy due to his experience with shems. Un also initially thought it was because the clan thought of him as disposable. 

His backstory is similar to Merrill's, but they cope with things differently. Generally, Merrill is more grounded, Un on the other hand shielded himself with a huge ego and a delusional belief of his own uniqueness from ostracism from all directions until it all went down. In this worldstate, both Sabrae and Lavellan clans are dead. In my head the inquisition had terrible losses too.

The loathsome Solasfucker. Tried to search Solas with blood magic after Trespasser. It's a whole other can of worms. don't ask. or maybe ask? Everyone disapproved. Very conflicted on what he feels towards Solas. Years later was able to sort of move on... still is A Bitter Ex (?)

[din-elvhen]

here’s a lovely solavellan piece i comm’d from @/Andrastesboobs on twitter !! dai was my introduction to the franchise and solas was the first companion i romanced (and to this day, still my favorite video game romance), i will never be over him.

[5queerducksinatrenchcoat]

i think they should retroactively make solas bisexual in veilguard

just let you set your male lavellan as having romanced him and don't acknowledge the change at all

[sacrosanctitty]

spent way to long on this to put anymore work on it but one of my favorite parts about dragon age has always been the scenery

+ a da'lath version but as you can tell burnout hit

[sh00kspeared]

Ilmarë is hoarding all of that beautiful hair for himself smh 😔

[sewermageboy]

My trend of only wanting to romance Solas with characters I can't romance him with continues. Male Lavellan. Non-Lavellan Inquisitor. NPCs. And now with Rook. It's truly a curse.

[possessedopossum]

I didn't want to romance Solas at first bc of all the angst but the more I played the more I realized how fucked up the inquisitor Lavellan is even without romancing Solas. Especially in case of a mage...It feels like the game is punishing you for siding with mages and elves or being one yourself. Your companions don't like you, you lose your faith, your entire history is one big lie, you can even lose your entire clan. Both the mage rebellion and the dalish are constantly demonized. You have to listen to racist or pro templar bullshit. No one understands you except for Solas who leaves in the end. I gave his romance another try and oh god. This is like ultimate loneliness and isolation. I had no idea why would someone like Solas fall in love with a modern elf but now I know why. Because Lavellan is like the only one who can see a real person in him. In modern Thedas, he is nothing but another pair of pointy ears. An apostate. An elven hobo. During the days of ancient elves he was nothing but a title. The Dread Wolf. A symbol, not a real person. And literally the same thing can be applied to Lavellan who is being crushed by the weight of their title. Who is being devoured by the narrative until there is nothing left of them. They are so alike, damn. Inquisition companions mostly act like a group of coworkers and Solas doesn't trust even his own agents (hi Felassan). The game ridicules a player for certain opinions and Solas conditionally says he was called a liar, a fool, a madman by both his enemies and his allies alike for trying to share his knowledge. I used to think Solas romance was kinda empty and unsatisfying and holy shit how wrong I was. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Solavellan to me is about finally finding a person who understands you under the shittiest circumstances possible after accepting that you will probably die alone. And then...Being completely destroyed by your own sense of duty. With all the Solas hate in this fandom I kinda forgot he actually...Cares about Lavellan? It wasn't an easy decision to leave. And it was even harder for Solas to not let Lavellan join his cause. He had to get rid of his own humanity for the sake of other elves and he doesn't want his vhenan to do the same. And the most tragic thing about this, that there is not much humanity left of Lavellan anyway. They are tired and lost and alone. Inquisition has changed them, they can't go back and pretend that nothing happened. They are not the same person they used to be. Solas greatest fear is dying alone but in the end of the game my Lavellan felt like they are the one who is slowly dying alone.

Also Solas is bisexual to me I don`t care what bioware say.

[comfortyart]

Fen and his boyfriends 🐺🐍✨️

[sunnyeel]

“ 𝚃𝚑𝚎𝚛𝚎 𝚒𝚜 𝚗𝚘 𝚏𝚊𝚝𝚎 𝚋𝚞𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚕𝚘𝚟𝚎 𝚠𝚎 𝚜𝚑𝚊𝚛𝚎 “

A little comic about dreams and duty. And tragic mlm.

[noverturemusings]

To love a man already dead

Watercolour piece by Evo (@evonik-k)

[ayemthewarden]

our surrender to the garden, to the weeds

(oldie repost. rewrite of the crestwood scene, no breakup on this one)

“I need to go for a walk.”

“Dáire, it is literally about to rain.”

“I’ll be back soon.”

He hears his sisters call as he stands and walks into the trees. She continues to call his name several times.

Dáire walks fast but treads lightly. He knows his sister could still track him with ease if she wanted to, but he hopes she will not follow this time.

The voices have been ceaseless, ever since they left the Temple of Mythal. When they are not speaking over each other, they are screaming. Not a moment of silence. In the last two days, Dáire has barely been able to sleep.

In this moment, all he wants is to finally arrive at Skyhold, close all curtains to his room, and lie there in silence. And hope they would go silent as well, or at least manageable. If he could at least be with Solas...

It didn’t help that he had not spoken a word to him since the Vir Abelasan.

It also did not help that every time he tried to talk to him or walk cloae to him, the voices screamed loud and shrill. Like someone screaming in pain but who will not tell you which bone is broken.

And Ellara was right.

It is raining.

Dáire still makes his way through the trees. He does not have a destination. At least the sound of the storm is louder than the voices, and the warm summer rain soaking his clothes is strangely comforting.

Lightning flashes across the sky. Dáire stops and closes his eyes, waiting for thunder, but is met by another collective scream from the voices. Holding his head in his hands, he falls to his knees.

“Just tell me what you want!”

They waver for a second as if thinking, trying, but the yelling continues. Dáire opens his eyes just to see a shadow off the corner of his vision, between the trees.

Maybe this time they are trying to warn him.

He gets up, feet and knees covered in mud, turns and runs.

Some of the words in ancient elven, he can make out: Run. You’re in danger. You will be hurt.

They are not very helpful, as he still does not know what he’s running from. Or if he should be running at all. The storm, the thunder, the voices, the trees zooming past him. It is too much, and he runs like following an instinct. Away from danger. Away from the voices.

As he tries to look back, his foot catches on a root, and he falls, face-first into the mud. He pulls himself up, breathing heavily.

And sees the shadow through the trees again.

He is ready to stop running and face it, magic crackling in his hand. But the voices roster yet again. You're in danger. Get up. Turn and flee.

And run.

And-

He stops on his tracks as he comes face to face with a wolf.

Dark, billowing fur. Impossibly big. With eyes like stars.

His jaws open and Dáire closes his eyes, awaiting the tear of the teeth on his skin.

He feels, instead, two warm hands on his shoulders.

“Dáire! Dáire open your eyes. You still belong to yourself, no matter what they tell you.”

When he opens his eyes, he sees Solas, holding him, a concerned expression on his face. Dáire looks over his shoulder, trying to find the wolf, and then tries to turn around to look behind his own back. Solas' hands firm on his shoulders.

“No, Dáire. There is just us here. Please, look with your own eyes. Look at me.”

When he does, the voices scream again, but Dáire fixes his eyes on Solas’, his arms shaking.

“Good.” Solas lets go of his shoulders and wraps his arms around them instead. “Now look past me, and tell me what you see.”

Resting his chin on Solas' shoulder, Dáire looks at the forest. In the darkness of the storm, a sudden flash of light far away, barely visible between the trees.

“Lightning.” His voice sounds hoarse.

“Good. Now tell something you are thinking. One of your own thoughts.”

Dáire stays silent for a few seconds as his thoughts become clearer.

“One summer, Ellara taught me how to count the seconds between lightning and thunder to know how close they are.”

“Can you do that now?”

Dáire nods. Solas steps back and holds his hand, leading him onwards as he counts out loud.

Solas leads them to a small group of rocks off the side of the forest. Not really a cave, but big enough to provided shelter from the rain. Dáire sits next to him, and rests his head on his shoulder, counting as the storm slowly recedes and the lightning falls further away.

“I cannot hear them anymore.” It is a sudden realisation. That it is not just the thunder that has gone silent.

“You will have to learn to push their thoughts under yours when you don’t need them.” He is silent for a moment. When he talks again, his voice is harder than before. “You should not have drunk from the Vir Abelasan. I begged you not to.”

“Solas…”

“You gave yourself into the service of an ancient elven god.”

“You… You don’t even believe in them. I myself, don’t know what to believe after what we saw at the Temple. So, what does it matter?”

“I don’t believe that they were gods, but I believe that they existed. If not gods, then mages, or spirits. And you are bound to one of them now. Anything you do will be for her, whether you know it or not.”

His voice is so sad it knocks the air out of Dáire's lungs. It takes him a few breaths before he speaks again.

“This is... clearly very important to you. Is that why you haven’t talked to me since we left the Temple?”

“And because you seemed to be in pain whenever someone made a sound near you.” He stayed silent, watching the rain drip from the rocks in front of them. “Why did you offer yourself so readily for it? Was it for power?”

The reply comes to Dáire faster than he was expecting:

“Because it was what I had to do to be able to save everyone. All other options were worse than this.”

Solas does not reply, but he feels him tense up at his response. One of his arms wraps around Dáire's shoulder and holds him close. Tight.

In silence, they watch the rain stop, and the evening sun start to pool through the leaves.

“There is a river nearby. We should at least wash the mud off your face and hair.”

Dáire touches his face, suddenly aware of the mud now caked and solidified on his skin. He rubs it with the palm of his hand and laughs.

Solas holds his hand as they walk towards the river. It’s not often that he is the one to reach for his hand, and it has happened twice today. Dáire entwines his fingers with his. Solas tightens his hold.

The river runs wide and shallow and slow in here. Dáire walks in, knee-deep, welcoming the cool water. He kneels on the river to wash his face, rubbing the mud off his cheeks.

Solas walks into the river and kneels behind him. Dáire feels cold water and then his fingers on his hair. He feels water pour over his hair, washing away the mud, the swear and the rain. Careful fingers undo knots with so much gentleness that tears threaten to well up in his eyes. He closes them instead, feeling that he could fall asleep right there, in the arms of the river, under the warmth of the summer sunset. And the blessed silence in his head.

It is Solas' voice that breaks the silence.

“There is something you said earlier. That you did not know what to believe anymore." He pauses. "You said something similar before we went to the Temple… Something about the ancient elven gods not being here.”

One of Solas' hands is still running over his hair, the other has come to rest on the spot between his neck and his shoulder, his thumb rubbing gently at the back of his neck.

“When we were talking about the Dread Wolf, yes…” Dáire’s voice comes soft and mellow. “I said that maybe what he did, fooling the Elven Gods, was not... so simple. That we could not say for sure it was something bad. That the creators made.this world and they are not there anymore to hear us, but essentially Fen'Harel gave us the world as we know it. Made it our responsibility. And now watches and listens." Dáire stops, trying tonput his thoughts in order. "Maybe there is more to it now, knowing what we saw at the Temple. Maybe he’s not here to listen to our prayers either…”

As he speaks, Solas stands and walks around him, to kneel in front of him, cupping Dáire’s cheek in his hand.

“Maybe there is more truth on that than you think… Dáire, there is something I wish to tell you. The truth.”

He goes silent after that, running his thumb over his cheek. Dáire reaches out to rest his hand on Solas’ cheek too.

“Yes?”

A breath shakes Solas' chest as he looks into his eyes. For a moment, Dáire thinks he is going to break into tears. He opens his mouth.

Then Solas breaks eye contact, briefly, looking down at his cheeks, rather than his eyes. He takes another breath.

“Your face. The vallaslin. In my journeys in the Fade, I have seen things. I have discovered what those marks mean.”

“They honour the elven gods.”

“They do now. And they did back in the time of Ancient Arlathan, but in a different way. A noble would mark his slaves with the symbol of the gods he worshipped.”

Dáire looks into his eyes. He does not think Solas would lie to him, but he is not sure if this is all there is to it. He runs his thumb again over Solas’ cheek. He, ever so slightly, flinches.

“Is this… Is this why you don’t have any?”

“Yes.”

Trying to get Solas to speak about his past had always been difficult. Dáire lowers his eyes.

“Why tell me now?”

“Because, after all that has happened, after seeing the memories of the slaves branded against their will in honor of a god for the rest of their lives… You deserve better than that. You are already bound to Mythal. You don’t have to have her brand on your face.”

“I don’t have to?”

“I know a spell. I can remove the vallaslin, if you wish.”

Any questions he might have had freeze in his throat.

A million thoughts reel on Dáire’s head.

Days spent meditating and purifying.

The pain as the hours passed, and the Keeper applied the lines with care and reverence. His sister holding his hand.

Ellara, embracing him with pride, pressing her forehead to his, the branches meeting their copy on each other.

But also Ellara’s anger at the Temple of Mythal. Her faith reinforced, while his wavered.

And the voices in his head. In there forever. Pulling and pushing, whispering into his ear. Muttering secrets and showing him visions he does not want to see.

And Solas deciding not to get his vallaslin? Or having it removed? So many things Dáire has always wanted to ask about his past. And so many of them that have been met with silence.

“Dáire.” His voice brings him back to reality. “You do not have to decide now. You do not have to agree to this at all. I am sorry.”

He stands, water dripping off his clothes, and heads towards the river bank. Dáire stands after him and holds his arm. When he turns to face him, Dáire holds his hands and brings them up to his cheeks.

“Do it.”

“Are you sure?”

“I am bound to Mythal now. I don't regret the choice I made." He adds before Solas can say anything else. "I wish it didn't have to be me, but it was my choice."

He lowers his hands to his sides. Solas' hands remain cupping his face.

"But knowing this now, knowing… what I saw at the Temple, I don’t think I can be comfortable with this. With the vallaslin on my face. Call it a small rebellion, I guess.”

Solas smiles and nods. He places his hands on Dáire’s forehead.

He closes his eyes.

It does not hurt. As Solas runs his hands down his face, a faint light glows behind his eyelids. It feels cold like the water lapping at their knees.

When it’s over, Dáire opens his eyes, but resists looking at his reflection in the water. Rather, he looks at Solas, who is now staring at him with a fondness he has never seen before.

Knowing it’s not over, Dáire reaches to undo the laces of his shirt, but Solas’ hands reach for them.

They have undressed each other many times before, but this time it’s different. Solas undoes the knots on his shirt slowly. He slides the wet shirt it off his shoulders with reverence and carefully lays it on the river bank, over dry, sunlit stones. He does the same with his undershirt, with his pants. It feels almost like a ritual.

Slowly, his hands trace the ink lines over his chest, his back, his legs, his arms, glowing as the lines disappear under his fingers. Yet he also traces the rivers of his veins on his arms, the scars on his chest, imaginary lines between his freckles.

“Ar lasa mala revas.”

You are now free.

We have done this before. A stray, nonsensical idea that flies through his mind like an arrow.

Dáire looks up at him and reaches for his face with his hands again. And he kisses him, deep and desperate, as Solas wraps his arms around his waist.

Without breaking the kiss, Dáire reaches for the hem of Solas’ shirt. Slowly, he also starts to undress him.

With as much reverence.

With far more unsteady fingers.

---

Later, as they lie on their warm clothes on the riverbank, Solas looks up at the sky, as the first stars appear through the canopy.

“We should head back to the camp.”

Dáire shakes his head, eyes half-closed. Face buried in the crook of Solas' neck.

“I don’t want to go back. Not now. I want to be with you. I don’t know how much time we will have together before this is all over.”

Solas smiles and places a kiss on his lips, light as a feather, before he stands and reaches for his clothes.

“I will go back and tell them you are okay. And that we’ll make out way back to Skyhold on our own. At our own pace."

Dáire’s face lights up as he sits up. “There is nothing I would like more.

Solas chuckles.

“Your sister is not going to be happy. I don’t look forward to it.” Once he is dressed, he walks back to Dáire and kisses his forehead. “Wait for me here. I will be back soon.”

Dáire throws his arms around his neck, keeping him closer a little longer.

“I will wait. Come back soon.”

As Solas’ steps fade into the forest, Dáire looks up at the sky.

The voices are a soft murmur at the back of his head. The sound of ocean waves. Some of them are louder than others, and once they are noticed they rise to meet him as if he has fallen asleep before the tide. He tries to remember what he did before.

Tell me what you see.

“The stars. Constellations Eluvia and Solium.”

Now tell something you are thinking. One of your own thoughts.

“I love him.”

One of your own thoughts.

“I love him.”

[definitelynotadeathclaw]

Solas sighed when he saw where the other mage had gotten to. Rev had a thing for getting into high places. He supposed it was an elf thing, which he could sympathize with, but he was so reckless with it, scrambling up uneven stone walls with no regard or barrier.

Tonight he had found an old church tower, laying on the roof while he gazed at the stars. It was a clear night, and there was plenty to be seen. With a wave of his hand, he floated effortlessly and sat next to his friend.

They sat in silence, until the small dalish elf pointed at one of the constellations.

"Silentir is bright tonight. You can see the full dragon easily. Though it's often referred to as Dumat, it's also believed to be a supplant of Mythal." He paused, before jokingly nudging the older elf. "Thats the all-Mother of elves."

Solas let a smile slip, playfully slapping his hand away. "I know who mythal is, da'len." His hand rested on Rev's, eyes tracing the constellation.

After a few moments, he laid down next to him, hands still absentmindedly entwined.

"You know you're going to worry cassandra when she can't find her herald."

Rev snorted, amused. "They can last without their new religious icon for a few hours. I like it here."

They laid together for hours, quietly watching as stars moved across the sky, blissfully enjoying a rare moment of silence.

[sacrosanctitty]

insane take but solas leading the inquisitor to the final eluvian in tresspasser is very abraham and isaac. to me

[celemee]

Happy Friday x3 I'd love to see: I still remember how you taste for Dadwc, and maybe with m Lavellan/Solas if you are in the mood for it x3 Happy creating <3

Ohhhh yissss, I'm exactly in the mood for some Solavellan angst. Thanks for the prompt and happy Friday, Spicy! Here's my villain Inquisitor and Solas meeting in the Fade, the prompt is slightly modified.

Solas x M!Lavellan Rating M for violent imagery and war

for @dadrunkwriting

-----

“Mahanon.”

The voice stops him dead in his tracks. What was he even watching? A few quick blinks and the surroundings blur, leaving one person sharp and colourful in a sea of now-monochrome crowd. 

“Solas,” he breathes, and for once he can wrestle himself from the role of a spectator in his dreams. The frozen figures of his imagination implode into dust as he stalks through them, headed towards his love. 

Soon they stand close enough to touch, but… 

“It's been a long time, Solas,” Mahanon says, his fingers squeezing into a tight fist he pockets. Fighting the urge to hug Solas, or worse yet, kiss him. 

A sad smile curls on Solas' lips. “You've been waiting for me?”

“Of course,” Mahanon scoffs, though it's not anger. Not really. “I've waited my whole life for someone like you, and then you just…”

He throws his hands in the air. Even here, under the waxy black sky, he can't say it. 

“I still remember everything. Your touch. Your voice. Your taste.” Mahanon sighs, the oft-played memories flashing in his mind as he stares in Solas’ eyes. “How could you just… forget about me?” 

Mahanon notes the way he takes a half step back, how his brows furrow. 

With a flick of Solas’ hand, their surroundings shift from deep emptiness into a field of battle. Corpses lay on the ground, cries of desperation pierce the air. The stench of burning flesh closes in like claws, but Mahanon's attention shifts back to Solas. 

“What?”

Solas blinks a couple of times, his mouth turning downwards. He shakes his head, looks up to Mahanon. 

“Do you not see?” His hand draws an arc, gesturing at the burning field. “This is why I've had to forget about you. You and I, we do not stand for the same thing.”

Mahanon's hands flex at his sides. For once, he's silent, waiting for the inevitable blow. 

“You do this,” he points at a phantom clutching a grievous wound, “because you enjoy it. You cut through—” 

“I don't enjoy it!” Mahanon growls, teeth bared. “I have to! I have no choice!” 

Solas stays silent for a moment, a finger rising to his lips. Then, quietly, “Then what is your end goal?” 

Mahanon crosses his arms on his chest, closing his eyes. That's… a good question, one he's never quite found the answer to. 

There's one thing he knows for sure. “I'm lost without you.”

“You were already lost when you were with me.” Solas’ jaw tightens, his posture stiffening. “There's nothing I can do for you.”

Everything fades to black without a warning, and when Mahanon's eyes open, it's to stare at a ceiling he knows all too well. His castle, quickly falling back to disrepair. 

The fireplace is nothing but embers at this time of night, but he shelters by its fading warmth. Reports from the warfront already in his hands as he tries to shake the nightmare. 

To think of it as anything else would be unacceptable.