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. 

Read on AO3 instead.

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“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.

She laughed lightly and carefully turned around to face forward again. “Mythal’s mighty Sentinel braiding hair. I have to say, I’m a bit surprised.”

“Why?” he said absently. He tied a small linen strip around the braid, then began a symmetrical plait on the right.

“You’re a warrior. I can’t imagine Cullen or Krem or Bull braiding my hair. Actually, I take that back. I bet Bull would do it. Or he would try, at least.” She chuckled.

Abelas huffed in disdain as he tied a strip to the right-sided braid. “They are not Elvhen,” he retorted. “Braids keep the hair in place for battle. They can be as much for function as they are for style.” He used his fingers to comb the hair back from her forehead and temples. “I am not dressing your hair for war, however,” he told her in a softer tone. “This will be purely aesthetic.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” she said. “I wasn’t planning to go into battle tonight.”

He smirked as he began gathering the upper layer of her hair into a loose braid, smoothly drawing in the hair from her temples as he plaited the mahogany locks from her crown to her nape and below.

A few minutes later, he tied one last linen strip around the final braid, then sat back to inspect his work. It was a simple style, one that would be considered more casual back in his time, but on Athera, it was breathtaking.

She carefully traced her fingers along the central plait and glanced at him over her shoulder. “How is it?”

Her profile was mischievous and curious, a coy peek over her shoulder accented by Sylaise’s mark around her left eye, and Abelas admired her for a wistful moment before replying. “It is a fitting complement to your beauty,” he said. He smoothed out a small tangle in her hair, just for the excuse to touch her. “You look very Elvhen.”

Her smile widened further at this, and she rose to her knees and turned around to face him. “Tell me the truth. Did you really see me as just a shadow of an elf back when we met in the Temple? You really thought I was no better than a talking animal?”

“Some animals are very intelligent,” he hedged. “Halla, for instance, are-”

She pinched his arm. “You thought I was equivalent to a halla?” she demanded incredulously.

He captured her hand, then pulled her into his lap. “I did not know you then,” he said. “You were an armed intruder, accompanied by two shems and an elf. There was no way to know you were not seeking the Vir’Abelasan for your own selfish means.” He brushed his knuckles across her cheek. “At the time, there were many words I could have called you, but none of them were as loving as they are now.”

Her silvery eyes melted into tenderness at his words, but her smile was still cheeky as she playfully pinched his chin. “Nice try,” she said softly. “But that’s still a backhanded compliment. You are not so smooth.”

He bowed his head in rueful acknowledgement. Persuasive words had never been his strong suit. “Perhaps I can atone in some other way,” he suggested. “I will show you another ancient Elvhen custom, if you wish.”

Athera perked up, her spine straightening as she smiled. “All right.”

He tilted her chin up and gently kissed her lips. “Then lie on your back,” he murmured.

Her eyes widened. “Oh. A saucy custom, then?” she quipped, but she swiftly slid from his lap.

He shamelessly admired her supine form as she stretched out on the bed. “Yes,” he said. “Now relax and close your eyes.”

She grinned but followed his instructions. Abelas positioned himself between her legs, and smiled at her instinctive little intake of breath as his knees brushed the insides of her thighs.

He stretched over her, then slowly lowered his lips to hers. Her lips were full and luscious, parting eagerly beneath his own, and he indulged himself by tasting them thoroughly for a long moment.

Then, with a small press of will, he pulled a thread of magic from the Fade and ran his tongue along the edge of Athera’s lower lip.

She jolted and gasped, her eyes flying wide. “What – was that…?”

He stroked her cheek with his thumb. “It is only a hint of magic. Should I stop-”

“No,” she blurted. “No, don’t stop. I just wasn’t expecting – I mean, I’ve never – uh, I’ve never had magic sex before.”

“Magic sex?” he repeated flatly. “That sounds undignified.”

She smiled at him, her eyes feverish with sudden excitement. “Since when is sex ever dignified?” she retorted.

He smiled back then kissed her again, and she slid her hands along his scalp and into his hair. A taste of her silken lips, a second taste, then he pulled from the Fade again and stroked her tongue with his own.

She whimpered into his mouth at the scintillating taste of his magic, a tiny desperate sound. A flush of lust rolled across his skin, like a heated wave from his throat straight down to his groin. He focused on this feeling, the pulsing of his stiffening cock and the warmth roiling in his abdomen, then channeled the feeling into the tip of his tongue as he traced a glyph onto Athera’s lower lip.

For a split second, a tiny verdant mote of light shivered from the completed glyph, and Abelas gasped as his lust suddenly magnified. Athera arched beneath him, her fingers twisting tight in his hair. “Abelas!” she moaned. “It’s… oh gods, I feel…”

He helplessly pressed his lips to her silken throat. “You feel me,” he groaned. “What I feel, what you are feeling, it is shared between us until the spell is broken.”

He nipped the side of her neck, then exhaled hard as her pleasure ricocheted through him by way of the glyph on her lip. She suddenly released his hair and twisted her fingers in the sheets above her head, then arched her chest viciously toward him. “More,” she begged. “I want more of this!”

Abelas didn’t hesitate. He lowered his mouth to her breast and savoured the silken pearl of her nipple between his tongue and teeth until she was panting, then delicately traced another glyph just beneath her nipple with his tongue.

He gasped against her ribs as his desire leapt even higher, stoked by his lover’s raging lust. He could feel her ecstasy in his nipples and the mirrored pulsing of her pussy at the juncture of his thighs. He drifted his fingers over her other breast, playing her nipple between his fingers and biting her skin in helpless abandon as her enjoyment rushed over him.

She was electric with desire, her desperation thrumming more desperately beneath her skin with his every lick and stroke, and Abelas felt it all. His mouth moved lower, across her sternum and into the bowl of her belly as his palm smoothed its way along her thigh. His eyes were shut, but there was no need to see; he was guided by the screaming pulse of her pleasure, the surging affirmation of her lust as he touched her where she most wanted him to touch.

Two fingers between her legs – a fiery chill of anticipation that makes her lightheaded – he spread her slick moisture along the length of her folds, gently stroking and caressing her delicate flesh – desperate, wild, wanton, on the verge of begging – he lowered his mouth between her legs and kissed her – completion, perfection, utter relief – he lapped hungrily at her slippery heat, broad firm licks to press against her clit – wild again, hips bucking, impossible to stop this tide – careful swirling with the tip of his tongue, hot kisses over her tender bud as her whimpering echoed in his ears – surging, rising, shoving forth, unstoppable and delicious –

He traced one more glyph around her clit, and Athera instantly shattered.

Her scream of rapture was visceral and rough, and Abelas moaned into her pussy in total abandon. Her climax resonated through him, a devastating ripple of pleasure from her scalp clear down to her toes, and he could feel the strength of her pleasure in his calves and his cock.

“Abelas!” she sobbed. She fisted her fingers in his hair and pulled. “Fuck me, please! I’m empty without you, I need – you have to-”

She broke off with a desperate mewl of despair, her hips lifting high in a physical plea for more, and Abelas hastily rose to his knees. Her need was his own, after all; he and his dark-haired lover were one and the same in this perfect circle of delirious longing.

Before he could lower himself over her tempting form, she rolled over onto her hands and knees, then lowered herself to her elbows and arched her back. “Please!” she cried. “Please, please, fill me up, please…”

Abelas stared at her, his cock pounding and his balls tight with screaming desperation as he eyed her body. A lacquer of juices was slick on her thighs, a perfect blend from his lips and her more feminine ones, and he slid up behind her with all the eagerness of a halla in heat.

One hand on her hip – a frenzy of expectation, breathless with want – his other hand reaching up to stroke the now-tousled braids in her silken hair – impatient, wanton, almost angry with lust – his fingers fisting carefully in her mahogany locks, a careful pull – urgent, urgent, wretched with anticipation, now now NOW –

Abelas slammed his cock deep into her slick depths, and they both cried out from the exquisite perfection of it. Every driving thrust, every slick sheathing was a revelation, a torturous shove of too-much-but-not-nearly-enough. Athera was hot and tight, her deepest muscles grasping his length in a perfect fit. Her clenching heat stroked his pleasure from his core, and the glyphs he’d traced on her body pulsed against his mind, feeding his rising climax into his lover and mirroring it back into his sweat-slicked body.

She was gasping, her voice sharp and brittle, and he slowly realized that he was gasping too. There was a roaring in his ears, a thudding pulse in his throat, Athera’s rapture blazing in his mind, ecstatic, euphoric, complete and total bliss – and the rapture crashed over him, a paralyzing slam of ecstasy that saw them both crying out with helpless pleasure.

Abelas shuddered convulsively, his forehead against her back as he scrambled for breath. Athera’s broken whimpers of delight floated into his ears like the strains of a favourite song. Once his pulse had calmed from a roar to a peaceful beat, he whispered a brief word in Elvhen.

The glyphs on her body shivered with light for a moment then faded, and they fell onto the mattress together, replete and exhausted.

A moment later, Athera dragged herself to his side, then collapsed onto his chest with her cheek against his neck. “That,” she declared, “was marvelous.”

“Yes, it certainly was,” he replied. His fingers sank readily into her hair, the sweaty chestnut strands like a siren call for his fingers to play. The now-messy braids caught his fingers, but he didn’t mind. The braids and the muss were both his work, after all.

She released a breathy laugh, then propped herself up on one elbow to look down at him. He gazed at her beloved face and committed everything about this moment to memory: her silver eyes bright with laughter and her cheeks brightly flushed, the feel of her tangled hair in his fingers, the cozy heat of her body against his own.

Abelas tilted his chin up in a wordless request. Athera’s smile softened and she dipped her head, her nose skimming his cheekbone in a light caress before she graced his lips with a kiss. These moments were all too brief, fleeting tastes of a love that he could never hope to keep, but the memories would warm him until the end of his days.