#theharellan

[skyheld]

"Did I hear you correctly?" The heat of the fire crowds sound from the space around it, and he wonders if he mistook what Ameridan said. There is no judgment in his voice as he elaborates, "You called yourself Telana's wife."

"I did, yes." It was a spontaneous decision to slip it into a sentence, but he wasn't being careless. As honest as Ameridan is, there is a measure of care in everything he says, the stories he shares of himself, of the past. He is careful when speaking of spirits, of tranquility, of blood magic, because a thoughtless word could bring the new Inquisition's reputation in question. When it comes to more personal matters, some things he simply prefers to hold close to his heart. Maybe it's a leftover from when he had enemies who would use anything they could find to hurt him—which he still does, though they are fewer and not as powerful. Maybe it is just the way he is.

But as he sits with Solas by the watchfire at night, their companions sleeping around them, he's speaking of Telana and he says, "it was a good thing we married when we did; she would not have wanted an Inquisitor for a wife." He's not certain Solas will pick up on it, and he's fine either way. It is an invitation, he supposes, extended to one of the people close to him he thinks will understand him the most.

Being Telana's wife wasn't a given thing, even if marrying her was. At first they just said spouse. He didn't like the sound of it, but it was what they had. He liked calling Telana his wife and he liked the way her face lit up when he did, but he never had a reaction like that to when she said spouse, or partner, or any other variant. They were staying at an inn in the heart of the Daled one night, and he was thinking about how nice it had felt to walk up to the innkeeper and say "we need a room for the night, and my wife wants a bath" and then he realized he had the answer right there.

He turned his head towards Telana and pressed a kiss to her forehead, where she had a small scar from a spellgone awry when she was young. "What would you say if I said I am your wife?"

"Of course you are", she said, scrunching her brow the way he found so endearing, "we're—oh, wife." She smiled when she caught herself, then more softly when she understood. "I suppose I would say, 'this is my wife Ameridan, who I love beyond everything.'"

He drew her head down and kissed her again so she couldn't see the way he blushed. "I like that."

"I would say, 'I waited years for him to come back to the Dales and be my wife, and I would wait for eternity, but I don't have to because he already is my wife.'"

"Telana..."

"I would say", she propped herself up on an elbow, so she was looking down and he couldn't escape her gaze, "'there, look at my wife, he's the most beautiful person I know.'"

"You wouldn't."

"My wife is a fool who thinks I'm lying, but I love him anyway."

He pulled her down on top of him, and flipped them over, and the rest wasn't said in words.

—

He's drawn back to the present when a log bursts in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks, and finds himself smiling at the memory.

"Spouse felt too formal", he says. "Husband.... it would have been what people expected, so then they'd have drawn conclusions, you know? And I've never felt like a husband. Wife felt right. I do not know if that makes sense to anyone but me."

[weptfreedom]

“ He does not deserve a quick death. ” @theharellan

"You misunderstand." Easy to do, when it is still difficult to express himself in this side of a broken reality. Before, he'd been merely awkward. Now, it stymies him.

"I do not care for the fate of a single...templar." Nor the order as a whole. Might consider the same course of action, in Solas' position. But Emithas also expects he, too would be encouraged away from it. "I ask you to reconsider only how. For your sake."

[duete]

#dorian and solas: literally just talking#cullen: suddenly overwhelmed with fear

name one thing to worry about with regard to this situation cullen

" That they're going to look at me, go quiet, laugh, and then go back to talking. It makes everything feel so painfully... Orleasian. "

[unagreeablegirl]

@theharellan — starter call / accepting!

“the veil is bored of trees here, if it has any sense...”

[nobroth]

@theharellan liked for a starter!

Skyhold is a wonder. When he stands on the battlements and stares out, it’s almost like they’re standing on the mountain itself, clouds and snow-crested caps there where he must look down. Yet, somehow, the air inside is warm enough that flowers bloom, that air does not puff off his lips when he breathes. He wonders if it’s some kind of magic, something he can’t understand. 

Plenty of things he doesn’t understand these days. 

     “I saw you talking to Iander earlier in the garden,” he says to the elven mage. “You’re Soris, right? You found this place?”

[mercysought]

Approval + sundering the Titan dreams and making them Tranquil (Elgar'nan)

approval + (prompt) // not accepting // @theharellan

Elgar'nan's hand falls over the Wolf's shoulders, fingers digging into flesh in an act of comfort, of fatherly pride under the heavy, single focus, gaze. It is heavier than the world, dense enough to crack bone. The wolf does not bend, his shape not faltering.

The war was over and Mythal already weaved it in colour with brightly coloured shattered pieces of glass. That broken dreams should be reminded for their sacrifice, for all the light that would bathe all Children could continue refracting the victory that they had clawed on this day.

Mythal's wolf looks up to him with the same anger simmering just behind light eyes. Mythal might be blind to it like only a mother could, thinking and seeing only the best on those that she had welcomed to this world. She was blind to it. This was a wolf pup that would day would learn that his teeth were made for more than play, more than eat. This was a wolf that would find others like it and when the time came, it would come into their home in the night and bite into the necks of those that had fed it as a pup. Elgar'nan smiled, a ill fitting grin that hardly covered his teeth.

He would look forward to it.

The war was over and he could already feel this... nagging taste and drum of emptiness, gnawing at the back of his mind. There was work to do, to build this empire that Mythal had dreamed and weave the world into shape from a song that he could barely remember the melody of. The time for drums was coming to an end and he felt his heart grow colder for it.

Elgar'nan sighs, squeezing the other's shoulder.

Promise me pup, promise me that you will meet me with bared teeth and an anger capable of burning worlds. And I shall await every night with one eye open and one hand on my sword. Nodding, Elgar'nan pushes past him towards where Mythal stood, overlooking the devastation "You have done well."

elgar'nan, the devourer of dreamless titans, greatly approves

[magistheir]

theharellan | continued.

Truthfully, he doesn't get it. Whatever it is that Ian sees in Solas, it is not ever presented to Dorian. If men are gemstones with facets that they choose to expose, then Ian gets the most polished and sparkling parts of Solas.

Dorian gets a rock.

Then again, that's how things with lovers work, isn't it? You find someone to care for, who pries their way past your rib cage and holds your heart in your hands, who gets the soft mush on the inside. Anyone so lucky would act different.

"Oh, maybe even a trip to the kitchens, where you might sneak a few treats before the rest of us high born are served?" He took a sip of his tea to ease swallowing down his feelings. "I was actually thinking the hothouse. Ian's a bit of a gardener, yes? The flowers here are grown locally year 'round. There's some species you wouldn't see unless you went much further north."

He paused over his next sip, gesturing towards Solas with his cup. "And look at that. You wouldn't even have to change clothes."

[nobodyexpectsthe]

@theharellan liked for a starter.

it's a beautiful fall evening. the kind that feels like winter holding its breath, giving the people one last chance to gather supplies before it tips its hand and dumps snow atop them.

pirith lavellan is fifteen years old as of a week ago, finally a man and ready to take on some duties for the clan - or so he'd spent the last two days telling anyone who would listen. his face still smarts from the freshness of his vallaslin, but they humor him with little tasks that make him feel useful.

and what makes him feel useful, most important, is storytelling. he has a knack for it, a way of speaking that commands people's attention whether he wants them to or not. the keeper had finally thought him ready to have an audience - but how much was being ready and how much was just wanting some peace and quiet was another question. the summer before the blight had been kind, kinder than they were accustomed to, and so there were more children than she knew what to do with.

which made them mostly his problem. he can't go two steps without tripping over one underfoot, and now they've gathered around the fire and are demanding a story.

ilnarel is still small enough to sit on his lap, bony elbows digging into his sides as he argues against the tale chosen. selen isn't helping, merely watching the argument with a wry smile pirith is going to be missing in less than a month.

“i already told you, it's too scary,” pirith hums, resting his chin atop his brother's flyaway red locks. his arms locked loosely around him, protective and almost paternal. "you'll have nightmares, and then who will have to deal with them? that's right, me."

“it's not,” ilnarel protests, giving a little kick. "brasas already told it to me last week!"

“ahh, so that's why you won't sleep in your own bedroll?” pirith shoots an accusatory glance at his second, who looks away with a guilty grin. “did he at least tell it right?”

“he didn't do the voices,” ilnarel grouses.

“he didn't do the voices,” pirith echoes damningly, pressing a kiss to his brother's temple and hugging him tighter. “well then, there's no helping it. let me weave you a tale of tragedy, and how the dreadwolf ripped the world in two.”

and so the story goes. the markings of the inquisitor he will be are there. the words come alive, the captive audience gasps and cheers as their first delves deep into character and doing the voices just the way his littlest brother had loved. those had been simpler times, when legends were just legend and he had no more role to play than a bug on a leaf.

ilnarel falls asleep in his lap, as he so often did before he could reach the end of these tales. perhaps its the intensity which he listens to the comforting sound of his littlest brother's breathing that alerts the rustle of unfamiliar furs on the fringes upsets this illusion, and - ah.

someone unfamiliar is in this camp tonight. and that means this is nothing more than a rare pleasant dream.

“but while fen'harel is enemy to the gods, he protects the people... when it suits him. his statues guard our camp, but we must never invite him to our fires - a wolf is a wild thing that cannot be tamed nor trusted. he serves only his own heart.”

the imperfect recreation of his camp is obvious then. the facelessness of those who were just out of focus in the memory a nightmare in of themselves. his little brother still sits in his lap, perfectly preserved as his mind wants him to be, his grasp on the fade strong enough to keep this memory from twisting into the nightmare it so badly wishes to be.

“i trust if you intended to kill me you'd have done so before i noticed you.” pirith asks quietly, no longer fifteen as he eases the dream of his brother to the grass and stands. his arms fold behind his back, an insufferably familiar gesture he knows he adopted from the dream's invader.

he's adopted much of him. in truth, he may well be a modern day fen'harel - fighting against a god who refuses to see reason for a people who will never love him as they love his lies.

“what do you want, solas?”

[orxna]

❛ You have as much claim to grief as anyone. ❜

House of the Dragon Meme || Accepting || @theharellan

“Don’t you say that—You don’t get to tell me that.” Orana’s voice cracks, a choking sob she can’t suppress even with years of practice. Her hands shake, it isn’t grief—Or it is but it churns with an emotion so unfamiliar.

Angry.

She’s so angry.

“Hawke because of your orb, Varric because of your dagger,” She trembles with it, choking in her throat with every word pushed through irate tears. She cannot recall ever feeling like this before, it isn’t fair. Life has never been fair but this is cruel. That he can comfort her and it rattles her heart just as much as it settles her, “Why do all of your accidents steal my family?”

Why can she be filled with such impotent rage but not hate him? This should push her to hate, but she can see the regret in the corners of his eyes. Can see the way his hand twitches unsure if a comforting hand is welcome. She wants to scream because it is, she wants to beat her hands against his chest just as surely as she wants to be engulfed in the comfort of someone familiar, someone alive.

Anger and love and hate and grief tangle and she’s so tired. She’s been tired for so long. She moves, arms lifted and for a moment it seems she might strike him. Instead she falls into his chest, gasping through tears. The young woman’s hands grasp the fabric of his tunic as if they are a life raft to the drowning. Her head tilts, her ear laying over his heart where she can just barely hear it beat over the sounds of her own weeping.

[howetragic]

@theharellan

"Ho, we tragic."

[theodosiani]

"You will always fall in love, and it will always be like having your throat cut, just that fast." For Ghil

Deathless Prompts || Accepting || @theharellan

Horrific, retching sobs fill the space of Ghilan'nain's lab, her hands shake before reaching up and crunching stone in her grip. A great, marble wolf's head crashes to the floor. She has taken what she needs from this place, where once she had laughed at Mythal's wolves lining her grove now it fills her with rage.

Words from eons ago echo in her mind, caution against letting herself be swept into Andruil's orbit. Ghilan'nain had thought she knew better, now she finds while she may have been smarter she was not cleverer than the damned wolf. A man once told her her love was doomed--She had deemed it projection, his own sorrow for his wretched deteriorating relationship with Mythal coloring his senses.

It had been a warning.

But what was love but a slow knife, with that he had been almost right. There is no quick release of her immense sorrow or building rage. There was complacency within her prison, after her love had died, not waning and withering but by her own hand. That she could only rip into the wolf's neck with her teeth. That he could feel one iota of her pain, a sliver of Andruil's dying gasps as blood dripped from her mouth before Ghilan'nain kissed the air from her lungs and gently shut her glassy eyes.

Elgar'nan's anger burns like the sun, and Ghilan'nain does not begrudge him of it. She could never, after centuries together in that prison, slowly turning from daughter-in-law to daughter to sister because what else did they have left. What else could she be with her love, no longer a priestess, no longer a wife, only a god.

And godhood tastes so bitter without Andruil's sweetness to temper it.

More statues topple, even her own halla are not safe from the collateral damage as walls crumble. The only care she takes are to avoid her flesh and blood children bolting through her gardens from the chaos. Her little loves still look the same after so long and her heart aches for it. Even now, even while her heart is do drowned with rage and grief the flock to her. As her mind finally tires and her body sags, the creatures crowd her. Gently bleating, nuzzling at her softly, careful of their horns they press against her.

Ghilan'nain cries again, softer this time as she holds a particularly bold halla close when it climbs into her lap. It is how Elgar'nan will find her when he comes to collect her. Everything of value from this place put aside and ready to be transported to their new holdings. Father turned brother will gently extricate the halla from her grip, setting it back with it's herd before ferrying her and her instruments back home. Softly, he assures that they will fix all of this, they will bring back splendor to this world, will bring back joy that will make Ghilan'nain smile again.

She thinks of the Dread Wolf and his warning from so long ago, but she wants to believe Elgar'nan more.

[weptfreedom]

a kiss after a devastating event ,  meant to comfort . @theharellan

The direct path to this temple cut through the Graves, reminders of slaughter of those trying to defend their home. Now Alanari rode at the head of the invading army. They'd expected the temple to be empty, still, silent.

Alanari hadn't wanted to kill Corypheus' templars, or enthralled Wardens, either - not really, not if there'd been another options. This was different.

She'd begged the guardians to hold their blades, to listen. None had. Hot blood covers her hands, drips from the dagger that had pierced the side of the elf crumpled at her feet, finished by a shard of ice. The blade clatters against metal, fallen from the hand unwilling to wield it.

Solas had intervened, saved them from their hesitation. He's closer than they'd thought, and that, too, points to their distraction. Whatever he says is lost to the pounding of blood in their ears, covering their hands. Andraste had come for the elves, again. Whatever he's saying is lost, their attention glued to the corpse they'd made. Fixed, even as his bloodless hands rest on their head, lips buried in their hair. Too gentle; he'd seen what they'd done.

She'd begged them to listen.

[thanflowers]

        “i have a question for you, solas, if you will indulge my curiosity.” it is more the curiosity of the spirit who hovers just on the other side of the veil at the moment, but elspeth herself is not without. she smiles as she offers @theharellan a small cup of coffee—a light antivan blend she had brought with her for special occasions. (and, having heard he wasn't particularly fond of tea...) “have you ever met any spirits of empathy during your ventures into the fade?” / sc.

[mournflame]

( frankenstein // accepting ) SOLAS [ @theharellan ] WROTE: ❝If I cannot satisfy one, I will indulge the other.❞

THE BOUNDARY BETWEEN WORLDS WAS thin here. The Lighthouse was like a fisher’s knife slipped between the skin and the flesh. Delicate, precise — but one false turn and both would rupture. There would be blood then in every river of the world. Though she had no tongue, Hezenkoss could taste it. Hungered for it.

But, that blade was beyond her grasp. The bonds on her were yet too tight to be slipped. One day, she would shatter them. For now, she had managed this: to press herself so close to the Fade in this place she almost dreamed. She could pull no power from it, but it was enough at least to find little surprises. Like another in bonds who sought his own freedom.

That did not inspire any feelings of kinship, however.

❝Is that what you call this? Indulgence?❞ She laughed and kicked at a stone in this dream of a shattered city. It crashed through panes of stained glass that had long ago bled of color the way she assumed its subject had bled of life. She did not mourn the destruction. They had failed and deserved to be forgotten. ❝Pathetic.❞

❝Do you know why I allowed those blight-addled loons to negotiate with me?❞ She dropped her foot into empty air, and gray stone rose to meet it. Because she demanded that it do so. Because Solas could flee her if he wished but he would not stand above. ❝Because they were bested by you. And, you were bested by Volkarin’s whelp. Clearly none of you are as fearsome as you pretend.❞

[mercysought]

“I live because of you.” (mythal)

MARASENNA + 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐀𝐖𝐎𝐊𝐄𝐍 𝐎𝐅 𝐓𝐇𝐄 𝐑𝐄𝐄𝐅 // @theharellan // accepting

The world they have built is one of pure wonder. As she looked down, breathing in the soft breeze and tasting the salt upon it, she feels her hair sway against her warm skin. It was still an intoxicating sensation so many years later. With each new wonder they raised, the higher they scaled, the more she felt the world wrap itself around her in a warm hug. It sung to her, in the whispering of the ear, the rustling of the waves like a caress.

The all-mother trusts to look at her oldest friend, whose dour expression seemed more and more a staple upon his face the longer the days became. There would soon be a celebration were flowers would be woven into the thin golden lines that connected the main temples within Elvhennan. There was music playing in the streets; she had hoped that this would have lifted his spirits and yet it seemed that the world grew smaller when he remained in the city.

Perhaps it was time, time that he should go out of the empire, to watch so much more of the world that she had once shown him. A world that she continued to build, a world that she could no longer show himself directly. It hurt her heart, to think of him away from her for any amount of time... but perhaps, perhaps that was what was needed.

   "Because of me?" she hums, tilting her head and watching the beads of glass fall in the sea of dark curls as she moved closer, her arm weaving itself around his as she pulled him into a half embrace. Walking over white cold floors, she pulls him towards the sunlight at her balcony, hovering over the beautiful streets of their city "You were alive long before we even met."

She hums, absently, watching the Faithful weave flowers and form large statues in the form of each of the Evanuris "And, my hope, is that you will continue for a very long time," holding tighter into his arm, she opens the other towards the golden spires beyond "to keep them safe."

[magistheir]

@theharellan | conflicting sources

"Have you read about his methods?" Dorian followed Solas' good example, even as the temptation to toss the book out the window grew. "The good Brother goes and supposedly lives his life among these people or visits said ruin and then just writes things down and everyone takes it as truth."

The volume on Tevinter—which he's sure that Genitivi never actually visited—had been particularly frustrating to read. He couldn't imagine how someone like Solas could read through the things on elvish history and not want to set the tome on fire.

"Surely there's a way to quote your Fade journeys. Perhaps like a journal or diary, reference it as personal experiences? Now's the best time, too, with the backing of the Inquisition. Might as well keep making waves, yes?"