Solas/Lavellan, Strikhedonia, ehe he
strikhedonia - the pleasure of being able to say “to hell with it”.
there are rules, duty, responsibilities. there are lies and tragedies, there are betrayals hidden in the eons, coiled around millennia. the ghosts cling to his skin and they whisper and drag their spectral teeth against his flesh, remnants of failure and the greatest lie he ever told (and then some).
there are hundreds, thousands of reasons why he should say no.
but the hissing wastes, even in the twilight, are humid. the clamminess sticks to his skin, presses against his chest. the oasis is cool and beautiful under the dying pink sky, almost as beautiful as the other elf currently standing in the middle of it, naked and exposing her bare-chest to the receding sun. he marvels at the tattoos that snake around her collarbone, splaying towards the bottom of the back. he marvels at twisted curves of her lips beckoning, the soft rippling of the water as she approaches him, the slick sheen of her skin.
their companions are not that far away, camping in a close outcrop. she is the inquisitor, she bears his power to heal the world. she raises her chin proudly at him - powerful, even when at her most vulnerable, even with the permission she gives, with one hand, palm facing up towards the sky, to him.
solas, with his millennia of age, with the knowledge of a world deified by the slaves they once kept, with the guilt of unfathomable loss, knows the power she has over him. knows that he is lost when her lips curl upwards, when her gaze challenges him to his very core. when she waits in respect as he considers her with reverence, with a soaring of his heart in his chest.
hundreds, thousands, he should say no.
instead he disrobes. the air seems warmer, scorching his insides, as if his very being is caught by the sun (and he is, he is because he is hers).
instead he steps down into the oasis, instead he takes her upturned hand in his, leans over and kisses her wrist.
a hundred, thousand reasons and instead he says yes.
