My first time joining @dadrunkwriting, yay! Thanks for the welcome, new friends! xo

This is not a prompt from tonight, but a post-Trespasser oneshot was requested by multiple sad readers who finished The One Who Will Live On, my Abelas/Lavellan multi-chapter fic. One lovely reader in particular gave me the exact prompt I needed to actually write it. So here: sad Solas and pining Abelas discussing the events of Trespasser, as a precursor to some heavy Abelas/Lavellan angst and smut (which will be written tomorrow in all likelihood). 

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Abelas watched with a critical eye as the da’panelaan sparred and drilled.

He could easily tell which recruits were new; roughly a third of the elves in the room were tense with nerves, skittish as they flinched from their sparring partners’ blows. The city elves were particularly obvious, distinctive from the fright in their eyes at the use of magical attacks. The more practiced recruits were firm and sure, dodging and striking with a strength born from certainty.

Abelas wandered slowly amongst them, pointing out vulnerabilities and commending the more swift and clever tactics that he saw in use.

“Stop! Please, please stop…” A shrill cry rang out from the back of the room, and Abelas strode toward the sound. The trainees in the area had stopped sparring, and a small group of them were clustered around a young elf who was crumpled on the ground.

They parted silently as Abelas approached. He gazed sternly down at the shivering da’panelan on the floor. “On your feet,” he said, and the young elf slowly stood, his head hung low with shame.

Abelas frowned at him. “What happened?”

The young soldier took a deep, shuddering breath. “The magic,” he whimpered. “It’s… I can’t defend against it. It’s too fast, I can’t-”

“You can, and you will,” Abelas interrupted. “You know the principles. You will practice them, and you will learn.”

He stared expectantly at the younger soldier until he nodded his head, then turned to the mage who had been attacking him. “Work with him in private. Every night, until he no longer shies away.” The mage nodded confirmation, and Abelas raised his voice. “Dismissed, all of you. We will resume in the morning.”

The recruits stood straight and nodded a sharp salute, then racked their weapons on the walls before filing out of the training room. Abelas made his way back to the table at the front and watched their departure carefully, taking note of the tidiest recruits, the ones who seemed the most zealous, and the ones who looked the most defeated. He would pass the information on to Fen’Harel when he returned from dealing with the qunari.

Abelas was testing the balance of their practice staves when a calm and gentle voice took him by surprise. “I believe the stock of fire staves are particularly worn. We should attempt to replace some of them soon.”

Abelas turned to see Fen’Harel slowly entering the room. “Ha’hren,” Abelas greeted. “I thought you would not yet return for another week.”

Fen’Harel gave him a wan smile. “The qunari problem was more time-sensitive than I had thought,” he explained. The rebel commander looked particularly weary, which surprised Abelas; Fen’Harel had deemed the qunari to be more of a distraction than an outright threat.

“The problem is dealt with?” Abelas asked, and Fen’Harel nodded. “But there was a complication,” he said, and Abelas realized with a lurch that the Dread Wolf’s expression wasn’t just fatigued. It was distinctly sorrowful.

Fen’Harel sighed. “The issue was more nuanced that I originally told you,” he said. “The qunari found us through the Inquisition.”

Abelas’s stomach gave a sudden lurch as Fen’Harel continued. “Our spies encountered theirs. It was fortuitous in the end. I was able to reclaim this.” He held out his left hand.

The Dread Wolf’s palm glowed with a soft verdant light – a light that was distinctly and sickeningly familiar. Abelas’s heart leapt into his throat, and his gaze flew up to his commander’s face.

Athera. Vhenan. “Is she… did you…?” he rasped.

“No!” Fen’Harel said. He took a quick step forward. “No. She is alive. I would not…” He trailed off and bowed his head slightly, and Abelas forced himself to inhale past a selfish surge of resentment. Fen’Harel may have spared Athera for now, but they both knew it was a temporary reprieve.

Fen’Harel lifted his face again, and his expression was sad but calm. “The mark almost killed her, but she is alive,” he said. “Her arm, however…” He sighed. “I could not save the arm. The magic was too thoroughly entwined in her flesh. It will have fallen away by now.”

Abelas stared at him, bile rising sourly in his throat. He thought of Athera’s hands, slender and strong, her fingers wrapped confidently around her daggers. He remembered the way she wielded them like extensions of her arms, one shining blade whipping in the wake of the other, and her long dark braid spinning behind her like a dragon’s tail. And now one of those dagger-wielding arms was gone…

Dimly he realized something strange about Fen’Harel’s words, and he swallowed the bitter taste at the back of his tongue before speaking. “What do you mean, ‘by now’? How long ago did all of this occur?”

“A week ago,” Fen’Harel replied, his eyebrows tilting in apology. “I had pressing business with Briala that required immediate attention. Ensuring security for the eluvians that the qunari had attempted to control.” He took a tentative step closer to Abelas’s desk. “It could not wait. I am sorry I did not tell you sooner.”

Abelas automatically shook his head. “No, of course. The eluvians are essential.” He returned his gaze to the notes he’d been taking about their soldiers-in-training, but the script was as good as gibberish under his unseeing eyes.

Fen’Harel had seen Athera a week ago. She’d almost died a week ago, and then she’d lost an arm.

A week ago, Abelas had been teaching the basics of meditation and magical defense to a batch of new da’palenaan. It seemed so inconsequential now; going through drills, teaching basic magical theory while Athera almost lost her life and then lost a limb instead.

His ribs felt entirely too full to breathe, but he forced himself to inhale slowly. He gazed down at his notes with burning eyes. “Thank you for telling me, ha’hren. I… will have these notes prepared for you in the morning.” His chest might be throbbing with distress, but he had tasks to finish up. Now was not the time to mourn his ex-lover’s ersatz arm.

He lifted his pen and stared dumbly at the parchment on his desk for another moment. It took a long, numb moment for him to realize that Fen’Harel was still there.

The rebel commander was silent, his hands clasped behind his back and his eyes heavy with sympathy, and Abelas felt a pique of annoyance at his presence. It was much harder to hide his distress with the Dread Wolf watching. “Is there another task you require that’s more pressing at this time?” he asked.

Fen’Harel watched him in silence for another long moment, and Abelas forced himself not to fold his arms defensively.

Finally Fen’Harel spoke. “You should go to her.”

Abelas stared at him in surprise, his annoyance instantly fading away into a burn of longing. To see Athera again…

It was all he wanted. The idea of seeing her again – the warm and steely grey of her eyes, the freckled ivory of her skin, the silken chestnut strands of her floating hair… It was the strongest impulse in his body and the most desperate wish he’d had in years.

With a huge effort of will, Abelas shook his head. “I cannot. I… There are duties here. Training in the morning. Notes,” he said lamely, with a vague wave at the parchment on his desk.

Fen’Harel shot him a slightly sardonic look, but Abelas doggedly pressed on. “It is not only this. She told me she did not want me to visit her in the Fade. She said that meetings in the Fade were not real.” He swallowed painfully. “I will not impose where I am not wanted.”

The chiding tilt of Solas’s eyebrows deepened. “Lethallin, I hardly think she would refuse a Fade visit from you right now.”

Abelas was silent. The steely sternness of his disciplined mind was telling him to be strong, to remain here where his duty called, but every inch of his body was screaming at him that Solas was right. It was extremely unlikely that Athera would reject a meeting in the Fade. She had basically said as much the last time they had seen each other two years ago.

He took a deep breath, then lifted his desperate gaze to his commander’s face again. “Are you certain?” he said. “For me to see her… You condone this?”

Solas’s sympathetic gaze softened even further, and he reached out to squeeze Abelas’s shoulder. “It is not a crime to give comfort to someone you love,” he said softly. Then he lifted his chin slightly, and a hint of the Dread Wolf’s command returned to his voice when he spoke again. “You will be discreet about our plans. I know she will ask you,” and a fond tilt lifted the corner of his lips, “but I trust you will keep your counsel about our activities.”

“Of course,” Abelas said immediately. In truth, he was not remotely interested in speaking. All he wanted was to see her. He wanted to hear her voice brimming with heat and humour, feel the smoothness of her body under his palms and taste the sweet-and-salt of her on the tip of his tongue…

Then Fen’Harel squeezed his shoulder more firmly. “This is an exceptional circumstance,” he said, his quiet voice distinctly steely now. “It cannot be a recurrent happenstance, and it is not a boon I would grant to anyone else. You understand this?”

Abelas staunchly met his commander’s silvery eyes. “Yes, Fen’Harel,” he said.

Solas’s hardened eyes melted slightly, and he squeezed Abelas’s shoulder once more before turning toward the door. “We will speak again in the morning,” he said.

Abelas nodded. “Ha’hren.” He replaced his pen on the desk and ran a shaking hand along the length of his braid. He had another few agonizing hours to wait until Athera’s customary late-night dreams would commence, but there was no point pretending he would get any work done in the meantime.

Then Solas interrupted his feverish thoughts once more. “Lethallin,” he said.

Abelas looked up to find Solas looking sadder than ever. “If an opportune moment should arise, please tell her…”

He studied Abelas in sorrowful silence for a moment longer before speaking. “Tell her I am sorry,” he whispered.

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Read the rest of my Abelas/Lavellan series, Vir’Abelasan, on AO3. For those who sent prompts tonight: I will write them, I promise! And I love you all! xo