Lath’sal’in: Elvhen for “the act of fondling a loved one’s hair”.
This little accompaniment goes with my multichapter Abellan fic, The One Who Will Live On.
“You’re quite fond of my hair, aren’t you?”
Abelas’s hand stilled at the sound of Athera’s sleepy murmur. Then he resumed the careful, slow stroking of her chestnut strands. “Yes. I suppose I am,” he said. Her hair was damp and tousled at the moment from their earlier activities, but it was thick and glossy all the same, and uncommonly long from what he’d seen of this blunted time. The length of it was like a reminder of home.
Athera shifted slightly, nestling her cheek more securely against his bare chest. “No one’s done this before,” she told him. “Stroked my hair like this, I mean. I like it.”
He hummed a soft acknowledgement, and they fell back into a cozy silence.
His fingertips drifted smoothly along her scalp and through the dark ropes of her hair, and eventually he spoke again. “Long hair was fashionable in Arlathan, before the fall. Elaborate braids spilling down the back were a sign of status.”
She lifted her face to grace him with a cheeky smile. “So what you’re saying is that you were a high-class elf.”
“I was a captain of Mythal’s army and the head Sentinel of her temple,” he reminded her, and she chuckled.
“All right, messere upper-crust,” she teased gently. “I get the picture.” Then she grinned more widely, her ice-grey eyes sparkling with amusement. “So I wonder what would that make Solas then, if he was in old Elvhenan? I suppose he’d be one of us common folk with his bald head.”
Abelas gave her a tiny smile, but didn’t reply. Her remark was close and yet so distant from the truth. But he couldn’t tell her that the Dread Wolf had purposely shorn his elaborate dreadlocks to show solidarity with his rebel uprising.
He carefully brushed her hair back from her face, then gently squeezed her shoulder. “Sit up,” he said.
“Bossy. Your nobility is showing,” she said with a smirk, but she sat up nonetheless, settling into a cross-legged position on the bed as Abelas slid out from beneath her and padded over to her armoire. He picked up a handful of small linen strips, then walked back over to the bed.
He sat behind her on the bed and began gathering her hair, pulling it over her shoulders so it hung in a sleek curtain along her naked back. Then he gathered a small section of hair toward the left side of her head and began plaiting it.
She turned her head slightly to grin at him. “You’re braiding my hair?”
“Yes,” he replied. His fingers darted and flicked along the wavy lock, the intricate plait taking shape as his hands moved from her scalp down to the center of her back.
Tag: abelas
Post-Trespasser Abelas/Lavellan: Don’t Wake Me Up (preview)
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
Pika is taking Dragon Age prompts tonight!
I’m joining in the DA Drunk Writing Circle for the first time tonight! I’m planning to work on another Abelas/Lavellan oneshot, but I’m open to taking prompts!
The two lists I’ll use tonight are here (three-word prompts) and here (kiss prompts).
Ships I’ll write:
– Solas/Elia Lavellan
– Abelas/Athera Lavellan
– Blackwall/Arya Lavellan
– maybe perhaps Cole/Lyanna Lavellan if I can make the prompt work!
Please send the full prompt and the pairing as an ask! ❤️
Counterpart of my previous Abelas Tarot card, this time theme “The Chariot” and it suppose to be an artistic freedom vision of a possible romanced Abelas companion card concept.
I loved working with my colour palette here a lot – and hope you all enjoy the outcome!
As a possible romance idea I always imagined him someone very loyal – someone who would take a relationship very seriously. Opens hard and keeping distance – forgot how to really feel real feelings beside the duty he had as a sentinel the way to his heart would be difficult and rough – but once his trust and respect is earned he would treasure the only one he let close after so long as a “person” to himself.
I know this just a speculation since we do not know more of him then 10 minutes of talk – but I have this impression of the character. Now you can imagine it the way you like – this is just my version and I created this image to fit how I think it could be – so sorry if you had something else in your mind! :>
ps: sorry for the Abelas overflood, I just ways too inspired – I promise will do others as well.. I planned originally a dread wolf work too but.. huh. I need days to be 72 hours long 😀
I love Dragon Age and Mass Effect tarot card art, and I’ve always loved this particular card, but somehow I never expanded the post and read the accompanying blurb??
I totally agree with this assessment of Abelas if we could theoretically romance him. This is basically how I wrote him in The One Who Will Live On. <quiet sobbing>
Abelas and Athera Lavellan for @pikapeppa! Thank you so much for commissioning me! ❤
The inimitable @hansaera did this GORGEOUS art for my tragic baes to accompany a scene from The One Who Will Live On – I’m so thrilled with this image, I can’t even express!
The scene that inspired this beautiful art is below… ^_^
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The voices of the Vir’Abelasan were particularly loud that night, and she’d been having trouble blocking them out. Her wayward hair roiled around her shoulders like a nest of snakes, and the susurrus of incomprehensible Elvhen voices was increasingly difficult to ignore.
She’d turned to Abelas in desperation. “Do you know a spell or anything to control this?” she pleaded. “I might cut my damn hair off if it doesn’t stop. I think I’d make a more charming egghead than Solas.” The joke was weak, but the sentiment was genuine; she could barely hear herself think through the increasingly vocal whispers.
Abelas had frowned at her for a long moment, and Athera initially thought he was going to refuse. Then he reached out and stroked his fingers through her hair.
A sudden shock rippled from her scalp clear down to her toes, and her breath abruptly stalled in her chest. Abelas slowly wound the length of her hair around his fist, then leaned in close.
Athera’s eyes fluttered shut as his whisper ghosted across her ear. “Mar’an melana enan ame dinem, lethalla’an. Amen atisha. Ma’an din silaimast.”
She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She had no idea what he’d said, and the fickle whispers didn’t deign to clarify, but the foreign cadence of his voice sent a cascade of goosebumps down her arms. It took a long, mind-numbing moment before Athera realized that the voices in her head had gone quiet.
She finally inhaled and opened her heavy eyelids, only to meet the Sentinel’s unflinching stare. His golden eyes glowed like the wisps he’d so aptly described, and though his brow was creased in a frown, the expression didn’t carry his usual faint disapproval. There was something different about his face that night, something softer yet somehow more piercing, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to look away from the intensity of his gaze, or never look away again.
For the space of a few long, paralyzing heartbeats, Athera couldn’t breathe. Then Abelas slowly unwound his fingers from her hair. When he finally released the wavy mass, it fell to the middle of her back like the inert entity that it was.
Abelas and Athera Lavellan for @pikapeppa! Thank you so much for commissioning me! ❤
My tragic baes! They’re so beautiful! THANK YOU @hansaera – you’re a gem to work with!! ❤️xo
Ma’av’in: Abelas/Lavellan porn with feelings
This is a three-word prompt fill for the adorable @littlesnowarrow. The prompt was wise, lip, feel. The fill got out of hand. There is cake, and sneaking around, and Solas being embarrassed.
Ma’av’in literally means ‘my mouth’ in Elvhen, but it is very personal and slightly sexual endearment meaning “I love and desire you so much that my mouth tastes like yours,” but also “we understand each other on such a personal level that you could talk for me”. I encountered this first in Message Sent by Aicosu and this phrase, much like that fic altogether, murdered my feelings… so here it is.
I hope you guys enjoy!
Read on AO3 instead. (It’s quite long.)
Athera poked her head cautiously into Skyhold’s kitchen. “Hello?” she called softly.
When no one replied, she relaxed and turned to Abelas with a smile. “It’s clear. Everyone’s gone to bed.” She scurried into the kitchen and made a beeline for the large icebox that held the leftover sweets.
Abelas followed her at a more decorous pace. As Athera opened the icebox and poked around, he studied the icebox itself with clear disapproval. “This cooling spell is inefficient,” he said. “The magic is slowly dissipating. It will need to be recast in less than a year.” He frowned at her. “Who was the spellcaster here? Someone on your staff is in dire need of training.”
Athera shot him an exasperated look. “Who cares about the icebox? Look at what’s inside!” She enthusiastically pulled out a platter, then removed its metal lid with a flourish to reveal a selection of bite-sized desserts.
Abelas’s disapproval melted into a tiny smile, and Athera’s cheeks warmed with pleasure at having wiped away his frown. She happily set the platter on the table. “Those cakes I gave you were the first kind of Orlesian dessert I tried when I first started hanging out with humans,” she said eagerly. “They all have funny names.” She pointed to each of the desserts in turn. “This is a macaron. Chocolate-raspberry, it looks like, and this one is… a blackberry macaron, maybe? This cake is called le coup de grâce. It’s made with a lot of brandy – they’ll actually make you drunk if you eat enough of them. This one is la langue fourchue– I think it contains dragonthorn, it’s weirdly spicy – and this one is la belle rose. It’s made with rosewater. That’s what Josie said, at least.”
Abelas listened carefully as she named the various cakes. Then he selected a small square cake with pink fondant icing and a tiny flower on top.
Athera wilted slightly in disappointment; the cake he’d picked was the same kind she’d given to him when he first arrived at Skyhold. “You don’t want to try something new?” she asked. “You’ve had that kind already.”
He settled his gilded gaze on her face. “I am fond of this kind. They remind me of you.”
The tips of Athera’s ears suddenly felt hot. She bit the inside of her cheek to hide her stupid grin, then selected a rosewater cake for herself. “Well, I guess that’s all right then.” She lifted her cake and gently touched it to his. “Cheers.”
“On’enansal,” he murmured, and Athera smiled and popped the whole cake into her mouth.
Ir tela las ir Fen halam, vir am’tela’elvahen.
Quick sketches of Solas and Abelas for challenge
Broody and Broodier™
Ma’av’in: Abelas/Lavellan porn with feelings
This is a three-word prompt fill for the adorable @littlesnowarrow. The prompt was wise, lip, feel. The fill got out of hand. There is cake, and sneaking around, and Solas being embarrassed.
Ma’av’in literally means ‘my mouth’ in Elvhen, but it is very personal and slightly sexual endearment meaning “I love and desire you so much that my mouth tastes like yours,” but also “we understand each other on such a personal level that you could talk for me”. I encountered this first in Message Sent by Aicosu and this phrase, much like that fic altogether, murdered my feelings… so here it is.
I hope you guys enjoy!
Read on AO3 instead. (It’s quite long.)
Athera poked her head cautiously into Skyhold’s kitchen. “Hello?” she called softly.
When no one replied, she relaxed and turned to Abelas with a smile. “It’s clear. Everyone’s gone to bed.” She scurried into the kitchen and made a beeline for the large icebox that held the leftover sweets.
Abelas followed her at a more decorous pace. As Athera opened the icebox and poked around, he studied the icebox itself with clear disapproval. “This cooling spell is inefficient,” he said. “The magic is slowly dissipating. It will need to be recast in less than a year.” He frowned at her. “Who was the spellcaster here? Someone on your staff is in dire need of training.”
Athera shot him an exasperated look. “Who cares about the icebox? Look at what’s inside!” She enthusiastically pulled out a platter, then removed its metal lid with a flourish to reveal a selection of bite-sized desserts.
Abelas’s disapproval melted into a tiny smile, and Athera’s cheeks warmed with pleasure at having wiped away his frown. She happily set the platter on the table. “Those cakes I gave you were the first kind of Orlesian dessert I tried when I first started hanging out with humans,” she said eagerly. “They all have funny names.” She pointed to each of the desserts in turn. “This is a macaron. Chocolate-raspberry, it looks like, and this one is… a blackberry macaron, maybe? This cake is called le coup de grâce. It’s made with a lot of brandy – they’ll actually make you drunk if you eat enough of them. This one is la langue fourchue– I think it contains dragonthorn, it’s weirdly spicy – and this one is la belle rose. It’s made with rosewater. That’s what Josie said, at least.”
Abelas listened carefully as she named the various cakes. Then he selected a small square cake with pink fondant icing and a tiny flower on top.
Athera wilted slightly in disappointment; the cake he’d picked was the same kind she’d given to him when he first arrived at Skyhold. “You don’t want to try something new?” she asked. “You’ve had that kind already.”
He settled his gilded gaze on her face. “I am fond of this kind. They remind me of you.”
The tips of Athera’s ears suddenly felt hot. She bit the inside of her cheek to hide her stupid grin, then selected a rosewater cake for herself. “Well, I guess that’s all right then.” She lifted her cake and gently touched it to his. “Cheers.”
“On’enansal,” he murmured, and Athera smiled and popped the whole cake into her mouth.
Abelas, on the other hand, took a small bite of his cake. Athera covered her full mouth self-consciously while she chewed, feeling boorish compared to her lover’s dignified munching.
He studied the cake as he chewed. “What is the name of this confection?”
Athera swallowed hastily. “It’s called la petite bise. Leliana said it means ‘the little kiss’.” She leaned back against the table as she watched Abelas enjoy his cake. “It’s named after this weird thing the Orlesians do. They kiss each other on the cheeks as a greeting. They even do it to people they’ve only just met.” She remembered the first time someone had greeted her this way; it was one of Josie’s contacts from Val Royeaux, Madame la Marquise of Something-Or-Other, and Athera was shocked when the woman leaned in to bump her cheekbones against Athera’s face. She was still grateful that her surprise had made her freeze like a rabbit instead of flinching away from the Marquise; she didn’t want to imagine the kind of unintentional offence a flinch would have caused.
Abelas’s gaze slid from the cake back to her face. “The little kiss, you say?”
His eyes dropped to her mouth, and Athera bit her lip coquettishly. “Yes,” she confirmed.
He swallowed his tiny bite of cake, then tilted his head thoughtfully. “I would like a demonstration of this strange custom.”
His face was serious, but his golden eyes were warm and playful, and Athera grinned. “All right,” she said. She took a step closer to him and placed her hands on his shoulders, then lifted herself onto her tiptoes and leaned in to graze his sharp right cheekbone with a kiss.
He turned his head at the last second and met her lips with his own.
Athera smiled against his mouth, then wrapped her arms around his neck as he deepened the kiss. His sculpted lips gently coaxed hers apart, and Athera released a shivery little sigh as he lightly nipped her lower lip with teeth.
His unoccupied hand curved around her waist, then up along her back to pull her flush to his body, and Athera happily pressed herself against his chest. He tasted sweet and fruity, a warm reflection of the cake in his hand, and she shamelessly savoured the smooth feel of his tongue caressing her own, the exciting feel of his hard and muscular thigh sliding between her legs-
“Oh,” a surprised voice said, and Athera sprang away from Abelas as the mild-mannered voice continued. “My apologies. I, er, I did not think anyone else would be here.”
“Solas!” Athera gasped. She covered her burning cheeks with her hands and stared at the apostate in complete mortification. The pinkness of his cheeks was evident even in the warm orange light of the hearthfire, and Athera couldn’t decide if she was more or less horrified to find him looking as embarrassed as she felt.
She glanced up at Abelas, and was further ashamed to see him looking as discomfited as Solas. Desperate to smooth over the awkward moment, she focused on Solas again. “What, er, what brings you to the kitchen?” she stammered.
Solas cleared his throat. “I believe the same thing that brought you here,” he said, then gestured at the platter of desserts on the table. “An insatiable taste for all things sweet.”
At his words, the thought of Abelas’s sugar-laced tongue in her mouth flashed through her mind, and Athera cringed as her face became even hotter.
Fortunately, Abelas seemed to have recovered his aplomb. Unfortunately, his aplomb was far too polite for Athera’s liking. “Please, join us,” the Sentinel said, then gestured to the platter of sweets.
Solas shot her a quick glance, and Athera’s face and shoulders performed some kind of strange combination of grimace-and-shrug. Solas slowly made his way into the kitchen. “Thank you,” he said with a gracious nod to Abelas, then selected a small cylindrical cake enrobed in dark gray fondant and painted with intricate red curlicues.
Solas took a delicate bite of cake, and Athera watched the two men with increasing discomfort as they ate their cakes in excruciating silence. She twisted her fingers together as she desperately cast around for something to say.
“How about the paint job on that, huh?” she finally said with a nod to the elaborate swirls on Solas’s little cake. “Must take a long time to paint each one. No wonder they’re so expensive.”
“Yes, it is its own form of artistry, is it not?” Solas replied eagerly, clearly relieved that she’d broken the silence. “I must admit that this particular kind is my favourite. Do you happen to recall what it is called?”
Athera narrowed her eyes. “That’s the one with the slightly bitter filling, right? I think it’s called le souffle du loup. It means ‘breath of the wolf’.”
Solas suddenly went still, and Abelas coughed loudly. Athera turned to him in alarm as he continued to cough into his hand. “Are you okay? You’re not choking, are you?”
“He is fine,” Solas said hastily, then patted the coughing Sentinel on the back in an oddly fraternal manner. “Perhaps I will leave you in peace. It was not my intention to interrupt. Not that you were doing anything that – I mean, that is -”
“No, you stay,” Abelas rasped. “Please. I insist. The Inquisitor and I will go elsewhere. It would not do for us to, er – that is, we will take ourselves to a more private, er…”
Solas’s cheeks reddened further, and Athera wondered wistfully if she could just melt into the floor right now. “Yes, perhaps that would be wise,” Solas replied weakly, and Abelas nodded brusquely before taking her hand and tugging her toward the door.
Athera glanced over her shoulder at her apostate friend. “Sorry,” she squeaked. Then Abelas pulled her out of the kitchen.
The Sentinel whispered a quiet word in Elvhen, and goosebumps ran down Athera’s arms as his fade-cloak spell settled over them both. “Come,” he muttered, and he laced his fingers with hers as he led her back up the stairs.
The further they got from the kitchen, the more her humiliation began to melt into humour. She had to bite her lip to stop herself from laughing as they traversed the Great Hall. By the time she had unlocked the door that led up to her quarters, her shoulders were shaking with suppressed mirth.
She opened the door and let Abelas in before her, then closed the door behind them both and slumped back against the wall, her hands clapped over her mouth to prevent an outburst of glee.
“Dread Wolf take me, that was horrible,” she wheezed. “It’s like being caught in the act by an older brother. Oh gods.” Then she finally broke into a storm of nervous laughter.
A reluctant little smile lifted Abelas’s cheeks as she continued to helplessly laugh. “I can see how it would feel that way,” he murmured. He slowly stepped close and brushed his thumb over her smiling lower lip. “We should be quiet now,” he whispered. “I do not think you want to wake the rest of the castle.”
Her laughter hitched in her throat as his knee brushed against her thighs, and her amusement slowly faded and deepened into the foiled desire that had begun to brew in the kitchen. “Maybe you need to find a way to keep me quiet,” she breathed.
She watched with interest as he inhaled deeply, then smiled more broadly at her. “Veraisa,” he whispered. Then he slanted his mouth over hers.
She parted her lips instantly, granting access to his delicious tongue. He still tasted of fondant, a hint of fruit and sugar, and Athera eagerly suckled his tongue as though to steal his sweetness for herself.
Abelas groaned against her lips and pressed his knee between her legs. She gasped and released his tongue as the hardness of his leg rode against the vee of her thighs, sending a shock of sensation from her groin up to her nipples and throat.
His hands were suddenly cradling her neck, his fingers cupping the back of her skull as he stole her breath with another kiss. Athera wrapped her arms around his lean body, pressing her chest against him and spreading her legs more widely to welcome the muscular bulk of his thigh. He delved his tongue into her mouth, and with every lap of his tongue and every gentle pull of his lips against her own, her desire surged like the eager rising of high tide.
Finally Abelas broke their kiss to gasp against her cheekbone, his fingers still tight in her hair. He breathed hard for a moment, the heat of his lustful breaths sending a delicious shiver down her spine. Abruptly he lifted her chin with his fingers and kissed her hard once more, then knelt at her feet.
A mewl of desperate want escaped her lips, and she slapped her hand over her mouth to stifle herself as Abelas slid his hands under her nightshift and peeled her smallclothes down to her ankles. “If this is your idea for keeping me quiet, I’ll have you know it’s a terrible idea,” she whimpered.
Abelas shot her a quick look, and the intensity of his expression stopped her breath again. “Solas was right,” he told her. “I hunger for something sweet. But it is not some mere shemlen confection that I want.” Without further ado, he gathered the fabric of her cotton shift in his fists and pinned her skirts to the wall, then slicked his tongue between her legs.
Heat and pleasure rippled through her blood at the sleek stroke of his tongue. Athera took a shuddering breath and fisted one hand in her hair, then bit the back of her other hand as Abelas diligently stroked her plump folds with his full lower lip before sliding his tongue over the swollen button of her clit.
Her hot breath ghosted across the back of her hand as Abelas continued to work his talented mouth at the apex of her thighs. The lapping of his tongue was voracious yet tender, very much as though he was savouring a favoured treat, and Athera’s thighs began to tremble with the strain of holding herself upright as he stroked his tongue along the length of her cleft, caressed her clit with his lower lip, drank in every drop of her heated arousal from her exquisitely sensitive folds-
She gasped in a faltering breath, then muffled her pleasure against the back of her hand as Abelas brought her to a scintillating peak. Her fingers were twisted painfully in her hair, her teeth pressing ruthlessly into the skin of her hand, but she was numb to it all, numb to anything but the blissful feel of her lover’s tongue between her legs.
Finally Abelas rose to his feet and wrapped her in a tight embrace, his body hard against her own as he kissed her. His lips held the perfume of her own arousal, tangible and earthy evidence of his carnal devotion, and the familiar musky scent drove her desire to a fever pitch.
Her fingers clutched his arms convulsively; she was internally at war, mired in the dual desires to have him right now and to have him as freely and loudly as she liked. Finally she pushed him away, only to tug him toward the stairs up to her bedroom. “I can’t keep up this quiet thing. Let’s hurry,” she urged.
He huffed with amusement as he followed her hasty steps up the stairs. “I admire your discipline,” he said.
She stopped on the first landing, then pulled her shift over her head and flung it to the floor. She shoved her long dark hair back, then faced him boldly. “Trust me, my discipline is hanging by a thread,” she said bluntly, then turned on her heel and ran up the stairs.
Abelas caught her on the second landing. She gasped as he penned her against the wall, his hands cradling her neck as he pressed his forehead to hers. “As is mine,” he breathed. “I want for you so strongly, and it… it is not enough.”
“What’s not enough?” she asked breathily, her fingers digging into his arms.
“Everything,” he replied instantly. “Every moment. Your skin, your taste, your voice. Every moment we spend together until… until the time comes. It will never be enough.”
Athera closed her eyes to block out the reminder of his eventual departure. She knew exactly how he felt, and it was so incredibly bitter.
She shook her head, then gently pushed him away. She wrenched open the door to her bedroom, then she strode up the final set of stairs and waited impatiently until Abelas drew level with her. Then she flung herself at him in a storm of longing and lust.
He grabbed her naked body, lifting her and wrapping her legs around his waist. She gripped the back of his neck and stared desperately into his eyes as he walked them toward the bed. “Abelas,” she pleaded. “I… maybe I shouldn’t say this, I don’t want you to think poorly of me, but… You make me want to throw this all away. I can’t do that, I know I can’t, and I know you can’t either. But it’s my imagination, it’s a fantasy or an amazing dream or something, and I just…” She gulped in a breath and stroked his face. “I hope you don’t think less of me. I just-”
“No,” he interrupted. Then Athera’s breath left her in a rush as they tumbled onto the bed, his reassuring weight between her legs.
“I understand how you feel,” Abelas breathed. “I…” He pressed his lips together in a seeming struggle for words. “Ma’av’in,” he finally blurted. “This is the only term I can think of. I do not know the word in your language for this. Just know that I feel as you do.” He stroked her cheekbones with his thumbs. “I see this dream, just as you do.”
A scalding tear wended its way down her cheek, and she gasped in a tiny sob as he wiped it away with his thumb. “No more talking,” she begged. “No more, please. Just…” She trailed off and tugged futilely at his strange ancient armour.
He swiftly responded to her wordless command, sliding off the bed and shedding his armour with practiced ease. When he settled himself between her legs again, Athera didn’t hesitate; hesitation left room for words and heartache, and she couldn’t have that right now.
She reached between his legs and grasped his cock, then slid his length against her cleft to spread her heat across him. Abelas hissed in a sharp breath, his fingers tightening in her hair as he rocked against her slick folds; then, with a quick shifting of his hips, he sheathed himself inside of her.
He moaned longingly against her neck, and Athera mewled in kind, a long and pleading keen of pleasure as she savoured the perfect pressure of his cock. He moved against her in a slow and sinuous thrust and she happily arched into him, her hips a perfect cradle to meet the confident curving of his hips.
Within seconds, she and Abelas were moving together in perfect harmony. His palms were hot against her own as he pressed her hands into the bed, her fingers laced and clenching against his own as she lifted her hips to meet his every careful thrust. Even their breathing was synced: they gasped with need as he withdrew, then burst out an exhale as he tenderly delved back into her heat. His cock was utter bliss, the perfect length of steel to fill her up and stroke the pleasure from her core.
When he began to increase his pace, his fingers tightening in her own and his face twisting with rapture, Athera eagerly met and matched him, the hardness of his thrusts wringing her nerves beautifully raw. “Kiss me when you come,” she begged. “Abelas, please-”
“Yes,” he gasped, his hips pistoning into her with passionate zeal until he finally groaned and captured her mouth in a ferocious kiss. He thrust his tongue into her mouth while thrusting his cock as deep as he could reach, and Athera wrapped her arms around his neck, clinging tightly to his lean muscled shoulders as he shuddered in completion in her arms.
He pressed his cheek to hers as he grew still, but his fingers remained clenched between her own, and an overwhelming burst of tenderness bloomed in her chest as he braised the pointed line of her ear with gentle kisses. This perfection couldn’t last, and she knew it; they were doomed to end, and that fate was far too close for her liking. But this ancient warrior filled her heart as readily as his cock filled her body, and she was suddenly desperate to tell him so.
I love you, she thought with a heartwrenching burst of longing. She wanted to say it, it was on the tip of her tongue, but she couldn’t shake the sense that saying it would only hurt them more.
Then Abelas spoke against her ear. “Ma’av’in, ma vhenan,” he whispered. “I cannot explain it better than this, but I promise you, I feel as you do.”
Athera swallowed hard, then hugged him closer. He might as well have been reading her mind. “Okay,” she whispered. “I’ll take your word for it.”
The Sharper Edge of Love: Romance, Sex, and Fanfic 