Work Text:
He is awakened by the soft pattering of rain against the canvas of the tent, the sound of thunder in the distance and gentle snoring by his side.
Crestwood.
Even as he blearily opens his eyes, the levity of the previous night’s conversation weighs him down like stones in his pockets. He told the truth, all of it.
When she, Inquisitor, had every right to hate him, call him a liar, and refuse to ever speak to him again…she had taken his hands and kissed him, shown him the forgiveness he had least expected. To be sure, Mirre certainly wasn’t happy– with him, or the situation; the grim lines in her face had said as much, the low tones in which she had spoken until they had drifted into sleep. The matter of the Creators had been it’s own beast.
She’d felt…lied to, by the past. She did not blame him; There was little, as she said, he could have done about it. No one was to blame, other than the Evanuris themselves. At the very least, she had taken some comfort in the fact that all legends begin somewhere. Stories with roots older than even Arlathan, taken up by the mage-gods. Her head had no doubt been spinning by the end, her ground shaken– it had made him wonder, had it truly been wise to tell her everything in it’s entirety? Secrets that had been held for thousands of years, when no one had existed to remember them…
Still. They would work this out, she said. His secret, the secret of the Evanuris, was one that would need to be kept between the two of them. They had both only just narrowly avoided execution, and the last thing that they needed was to be faced with it again. And beyond that, she did not want to risk shaking the faith of her already shaken people. He supposed it made sense– despite the fact that she came across as naive to many, he knew that she had a head for reason that most others he had faced since awakening here didn’t seem to have (Quietly, he admonishes himself for the thought. No, perhaps he hadn’t seen it because he hadn’t looked until now. The sense of wrongness that this place had initially given him had distracted him from seeing what beauty there was in it. There was much he had yet to learn– from her, from all of her world. Their world, now.)
Beside him, the blankets and furs shift, warm, freckled arms snaking around his waist and pulling him closer.
“Ma'arlath…"
He shivers, smiling softly to himself, turning to face her. For the first time, without the guilt of feeling he was lying in some way.
"Da'assan,” He brushes a hand against her cheek; Beautiful, marked with their own tradition; A reclaimation of something that would have once been shamed. Mirre smiles, sleepily, and he kisses her– gentle and warm and filled with love he had since been afraid to express. Love that he will continue to prove, as long as he can.
This was not a mistake, by any stretch. The warmth that spreads through his chest when she returns his kiss is enough evidence.
“…You’re awake early,”
“So are you.”
“Mmm…point taken,”
They fall comfortably quiet again, and for a moment, he thinks she’s drifted off once more. Perhaps she had– still, her voice breaks the silence at length, impossibly soft.
“…What happens now?”
“I do not know,” It’s the truth. Of course, there is so much he hasn’t considered. He hesitates. “I will not leave, Mirre. I promise you that.” Running away now that he’s told her everything would be not only impossible, but painful. Too painful for either of them to bear; there was much he still had to explain in full, and still many questions she undoubtedly had.
“I should hope not."
"I…value this, greatly. I hope you know that…” She chuckles at that, burying her face in his shoulder.
“I do. I doubt…you would have told me all of that, if you didn’t care."
”…I would like to say that I would have told you no matter what, but perhaps you are right.“ He pulls her closer, running long fingers through tangled black hair, kissing her cheeks. “…I’m sorry…”
"Oh, hush. See? I know you too well already!”
“I love you,” Solas is earnest, his words almost rushing out. How he has waited to tell her so, with everything out in the open. It as if in a dream.
“I love you, too,” Mirre laughs, the corners of her eyes and her nose crinkling. To her, he must seem a bit silly. He wouldn’t put it past her– he was…a bit silly, thus far. Still, this lighthearted moment seems rare– as if, outside this tent, it could not possibly exist. Not with the war raging around him, or the encroaching armies of Corypheus. The thought of her heart bittering still makes him ache, nevertheless. He hopes that these trials will not break the light spirit she shows even now.
*
They twist together like the roots of some massive tree, entwined with one another and impossible to separate. Outside, the rain continues to patter against the canvas of the tent; Little ghostly fingers, greeting the occupants. They drift together, at peace.