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It was Andruil that had caused the injury in the final days of Arlathan’s fall. Her arrow had found its mark in the thick muscle that ran the lower edge of his shoulder blade, at the same moment Felassan had tried to haul him out of its path. The arrow had shredded through skin and hit the bone while his arm was pulled violently to the side, drawing an agonised howl from him that had his generals rushing to his defence.
Healing was quick and hastily patch-worked in the hours that followed; his plan to erect the veil already in motion and impossible to delay. When the Fade was forced back from the world, the burning in his back still persisted, and with his energy so helplessly spent, he fell into Uthenara before it could be properly tended.
Now, traipsing through the Hinterlands on his way to Redcliffe, Solas found himself rolling his arm in a useless attempt to loosen the stiff limb, and lessen the tugging sensation that pulled down the back of his neck.
“Are you ok?”
A soft voice pulled him from his thoughts, and he turned his gaze towards the concerned green eyes of the woman who’d stolen his power.
“Fine, thank you,” he replied. “An old injury. It will settle in time.”
Ellana nodded, accepting his explanation at once, and he watched as she continued on to the head of their small company.
It could have been worse, he thought. She had so far shown a startling intelligence, and a curious, open mind. If he was honest with himself, he was beginning to enjoy their conversations. It had been a long time since anyone had sought his counsel in such an open and honest way.
He was not Fen’Harel here - Evanuris, general, leader of a slave rebellion that had inadvertently stolen magic from the world and doomed the elves to mortality. Here, he was only Solas. It was a surprise to find that someone in this world of shades actually liked Solas; and listened to him as though what he said mattered, without any of his titles to sway them.
He sighed, shouldering his pack and wincing at the sharp pain that lanced through his shoulder. They had a long road ahead of them, in more ways than one, but he had been through worse.
He would endure.
**
She had claimed the mages as allies and closed the Breach, and she had been a marvel. Red hair caught in swirling green magic; eyes bright and cheeks flushed with victory; standing tall beneath the newly-healed sky.
Haven was celebrating, and Solas took advantage of the merriment to slip into a quiet corner and allow a pained grimace to finally creep across his face. Rather than getting better with time, the blow Andruil had dealt him so many millennia ago was gathering pain to itself like a leech.
He was grateful that he always seemed to be chosen to accompany Ellana on missions – it spoke of the trust she had placed in him. But at the same time, the constant use of his staff, the action of dragging magic across the veil and twisting in combat, was aggravating the thick knots of scar tissue into something brutal and ugly.
In their effort to close the Breach, he’d wrenched it again, and now a steady burning sensation had taken up residence at the base of his skull and dripped its way in aching tendrils across the top of his back.
When the bells tolled for battle, he cast a quick spell meant for temporary relief, and summoned up his strength. He had been through worse.
He would endure this as well.
**
Skyhold had never looked so good. As Ellana disappeared over the snow-capped ridge, mouth wide in wonder, Solas leant heavily against his staff and let an aggravated groan out through his teeth. Between the battle at Haven, and days spent climbing through the freezing cold mountainside, his back was in agony.
Every step brought with it a sharp spike of pain, and the tight knots gathering in the muscle were sending aching pulses through the base of his jaw and into the back of his eyes. He desperately needed to sleep. At least in the Fade, there would be no pain.
As the convoy of refugees approached from behind him, he rearranged his benign mask, and began the long trek down the other side. If he was lucky, he’d be able to request a bath in the coming weeks. At least then, he might be able to release some of the tension that was plaguing his steps, and worming its way like a parasite into his every thought.
He had been through worse, he reminded himself.
He would endure.
**
Months passed. The pain didn’t lessen, but other developments drew his attention. Or, more accurately, one development drew his eye, opened his heart, and stole into his dreams to kiss him with such force that he was powerless to resist.
Ellana. Herald. Inquisitor. Vhenan.
He was a fool. An unforgiveable idiot. He should never have let it get this far.
And yet, he was also hopelessly lost to her, drowning in her curiosity and her tenderness.
No-one had ever touched him with such care. Gentle fingertips brushed across the back of his hand. Soft lips kissed him, oh-so carefully, and pulled away so slowly that he couldn’t help but chase them for more.
If he closed his mind to his duty, he had the potential to become deliriously happy. But no matter how softly she kissed him, or touched him, or smiled at him across crowded rooms, one shard of agony remained.
His back was on fire. Elfroot dulled it temporarily. Pain-relief spells took the edge off in the field. But when he sat back at his desk in the rotunda, it was getting increasingly difficult not to scream in frustration.
The dull ache throbbed constantly in time with his heartbeat. His range of movement had become so restricted that he was having to adapt his casting stance for battle, to take account of his inability to raise his arm over his head.
Working at the fresco left behind an insistent pain that leeched across the back of his skull. Sitting at his desk for too long made his joints stiffen up until he could hardly use his hand to write. And fighting and camping in the field frequently caused agony like a lightning bolt to shoot from the tips of his fingers right down to the base of his spine.
Such constant pain had a corroding effect on his spirit. Much like the ocean gradually wearing away at rock, his mood was at dangerous risk of becoming consumed by the gnawing hurt chipping away at him.
Every day, he found himself more likely to snap, bearing Dorian’s jokes with less and less grace, and utterly refusing to return Sera’s pranks with anything other than burning hot ire.
He had endured for thousands of years, and yet it seemed as though it would be Andruil’s slow arrow that finally caused him to break.
Of course, Ellana was the one who finally noticed.
“Right, that’s it,” she said, standing up from his sofa one evening. “Come with me.”
He blinked, drawn away from the book he’d been reading and looking up at her in confusion.
“Vhenan?”
“Did it ever occur to you to tell anyone that you were in pain?” She asked exasperatedly.
It was only then that he realised he was clenching his jaw against the discomfort, and one hand had come up to rub idly across the back of his neck.
“I’m fine,” he answered reflexively, even as he realised that no, he wasn’t fine at all.
The light had faded while he’d been reading, and night had fallen over Skyhold. He’d been sitting in the same position for so long that the dull ache had become an insistent pressure, bearing him down towards the top of his desk and making his muscles tremble with agony.
“Liar,” Ellana said softly.
He looked up into her face, suddenly becoming aware of just how much everything hurt. Not just his shoulder, but his whole body seemed to scream with fatigue. The constant need to hide his pain, to push through it and work around it, and keep on going no matter what, had left every joint tender and every muscle weak.
For an absurd moment, he desperately wanted to cry.
“Come with me.”
With some difficulty, he stood up from his desk, gritting his teeth against the groan that wanted to escape as he followed her to her quarters.
“It’s your shoulder, isn’t it?” She asked, already bending over a chest at the end of her bed and rummaging inside.
“It’s fine,” he said again, with far less conviction than before.
He really did feel like crying.
She stood up, holding two vials in her hand, and gave him a look of such care that he had to look away before he embarrassed himself.
“Solas,” she said gently. “I know you’ve been alone for a long time, but it’s ok, really.”
He looked back at her, hands still clenched into fists at his side. He couldn’t remember the last time he hadn’t had to brace himself simply to walk without limping.
“You’re not alone anymore,” she continued, eyes soft and understanding. “Let me help.”
He thought that if he answered he might truly lose control of himself, so instead he nodded mutely and let her guide him towards the bed.
“Take your tunic off,” she instructed him. “And sit.”
Despite his best efforts, a pained noise escaped from between his teeth as he struggled out of his clothing, and he cursed Andruil inwardly as his treacherous throat began to ache.
Eventually, he managed to seat himself on the edge of the bed, tensing as Ellana settled herself behind him, and the dip in the mattress sent another rush of pain along his exhausted nerves.
“Fenedhis, Solas,” she whispered. “I can see the swelling from here. Why didn’t you say anything?”
He swallowed, momentarily soothed as he felt her hands begin to smooth warm oil over his skin.
“It didn’t seem important,” he said honestly. “I have endured worse before.”
She was silent for a long moment, fingers working gently across the back of his neck before she spoke again.
“That makes me sad,” she answered at last, with the same disarming honesty that had drawn his attention in the first place. “You don’t need to endure anymore, ma lath. If you’re in pain, you only need to let me know.”
He found that he couldn’t answer her without betraying the lump in his throat, and so he stayed quiet as she worked the oil lower, and braced himself as the path of her fingers drew sharp licks of hurt through his veins.
“There’s so much swelling here that it’s going to hurt at first,” she warned him. “But if you push through it I can release some of these knots and make you more comfortable.”
True to her word, it hurt. In fact, it really, really, hurt. He bit down hard on his lip and screwed up his eyes as her hands rubbed painful circles along the swollen shoulder blade, working ever lower until she reached the site of the injury.
At the first press of her fingertips into the scar of the old wound, he finally let loose a choked cry, digging his hands into the blankets beneath him and releasing a shuddering breath.
“Ir abelas,” she whispered. “Just a little longer.”
He nodded.
He would endure.
He grit his teeth and held back the sobs that wanted to escape. He’d been in pain for so long. He just wanted it to stop.
And then, all of a sudden, it did.
Her thumb found a tender point beneath the aching bone, and she gently lifted his arm until he held it across his chest.
“Hold there for me, ma lath,” she said. “I think I’ve got it.”
A moment later, he felt the pulse of her magic work its way into his muscle, and with a sudden rush, the tension in him melted away and he slumped forward in relief, a grateful sigh leaving his mouth before he could hold it back.
She kept up her gentle work, seeking out tangled knots of muscle and releasing them with the push of her palm, and tingling washes of magic that he felt in the tips of his fingers. Before long, he was groaning softly, head hanging down over his knees and his mind an empty bliss, while she sought out all the little hurts and soothed them away with a touch.
“Ok,” she said at last. “Lie down.”
He complied at once, his limbs heavy and warm as he clutched a pillow to his face and stretched out across the bed.
She moved to straddle his hips, and a moment later he felt her hands running over his lower back, drawing circles up his sides and easing away the persistent ache that had for so long eaten away at his nerves.
He couldn’t help it; he groaned again, almost keening with relief when another insistent patch of hurt melted into nothing beneath her hands.
It took her hours to work through the worst of it, but with every knot that released and every scar that loosened, his body sank deeper into the mattress, and he luxuriated in her care.
Eventually, she moved away, only to return with a cloth to dab the oil away from his skin. He tried to lift his head, but the heavy sense of peace encased him like a cloud, and instead, he murmured something unintelligible at her as she tucked the blankets around him and settled herself at his side.
“Sleep now, ma lath,” she whispered, pressing a kiss to his temple. “I won’t let it hurt you anymore.”
**
So began a weekly routine that left his heart soft and his body strong. After so long neglected, the injury would never fully heal, but every few days Ellana would draw him to her rooms, and ease the new aches that had appeared since the last time she’d tended to them.
With the pain so significantly lessened, Solas was struggling to understand how he had endured it for so long. He moved more easily. Cast without fear. Sometimes, he felt as though he could skip down the castle’s corridors, so great was his relief.
But her attentions had also left him greedy, in the worst possible way. He had gone thousands of years without being touched, and now he found that he longed to be cared for. He cherished his nights beneath her hands as he had cherished nothing else in his long life before them.
He found himself kissing her more often, finding any excuse to catch her by the hand and press his lips to her wrists, her eyes, her lips. He grew used to holding her in their shared tent at night, waking with her warm in his arms and nuzzling deeply into her hair.
And if ever she noticed that he was holding himself too stiffly, or wincing when he cast, she would drag him off to some quiet area and run her hands over him until he could move again without pain.
It was an indulgence he should never have allowed himself; and it left its mark on him more deeply than he’d realised, until it was snatched away.
**
He left her in Crestwood, bare-faced but for the tears that streamed down her cheeks. It was cold, and he walked until his feet were bleeding through his footwraps and the wind cut through him like a knife.
He felt hollow, as though every good feeling had been pulled from his chest and left nothing but a void behind.
His only comfort had been that it was the right thing to do. His kind, curious, remarkable heart could never join him on his journey. He should never have allowed her to see so deeply into him. He should never have allowed himself to love her. Now that he had, he could only hope to spare her from further pain.
And if the loss of her made his very soul scream; if it poured molten hurt through his heart and left him aching for her touch and desperate to be held, then that was his penance for his selfish indulgence.
He wasn’t sure that he had survived worse, but he knew that he would endure.
**
His heart ached at the knowledge he was alone again, but he was resolute in his belief that he deserved it. He took Dorian’s accusing glares in silence. He ignored the sharp increase in Sera’s pranks with barely a frown. He bore Cassandra’s disappointment without a word and forced himself to meet Ellana’s eyes without flinching.
She still came to him for advice, and that tugged at a string of hurt he hadn’t known existed. To be so close to her, and unable to touch. To answer her questions with clinical distance, and sleep in a separate tent was a torment. But he deserved it, and it was a kindness in the long run. He was sure of it.
But in the weeks that followed Crestwood, another pain took up residence again. His shoulder began to strain under the increasingly ferocious battles they undertook, as the Venatori threw more and more lyrium-crazed combatants into the field. What began as a distant ache, soon roared into a persistent inferno, burning deep beneath his skin.
A month after Crestwood, he felt himself starting to buckle under the pain. While his heart was tender, and the silence of his companions wounded him more than he cared to admit, when he laid down at night in his lonely tent, only to be confronted by the agony in his shoulder, he found himself worn down to his basest state.
He had endured pain before, but never like this. Never had he felt so desperately alone. Never had he had a love so pure and been forced to tear it away. Never had he languished so long without the Fade at his fingertips, and been made to endure the intractable aching of his body without the means or magic to assuage it.
His loneliness had been endurable until he had experienced life without it. Likewise, the pain in his body had been bearable until gentle hands and tender care had soothed it away. It was his penance, he reminded himself, with every pained step and every absent touch. But it sawed at his soul anyway.
**
The Emprise du Lion was a wasteland when they arrived. The cold bit at his ears and sought out the gaps in his armour. Ellana’s silence, or worse, her distant politeness, chilled him nearly as effectively.
That was when Bull saw the first dragon.
It shouldn’t have been possible for them to slay it, but they did. Ellana shooting arrows and Bull swinging his axe, and Cassandra leaping forward with her sword clasped tightly in her hands. Solas pushed back against his pain, swinging his staff and keeping a shield over them all for as long as he could stand. When the beast finally fell, sweat was beading on his forehead and the lightning in his shoulder was driving him to distraction.
“Boss!” He heard Bull call distantly. “There’s another one!”
And the fight started again.
He pushed himself harder than he could ever remember doing before. He sent bolts of fire into the fray and swept his hand to strengthen the shield. Ellana, his heart, his rare and marvellous spirit, was depending on his protection; and oh, gods, the way she slipped in and out of the dragon’s reach left his heart in his throat and his mind screaming at her to be careful.
But his strength was fading under the dual assault of battle and aching injury. He could feel his mana coursing erratically, and he pulled from the veil with desperation as great licks of pain tunnelled down his back and lanced to the bottom of his feet. Before long, he was gasping on every exhale. Sweat dripped into his eyes. He thought, for a moment, that he might actually be crying.
He tried to steady himself. He could do this.
He would endure.
With a last burst of strength, he focused his shield on Ellana as she leapt onto the dragon’s back, and shot her arrow home through its head. It collapsed to the ground with a roar, just as he felt something in his shoulder tear.
The wail that left his lips was lost to the wind and the Iron Bull’s victorious battle cry, but it knocked the breath out of him all the same. He staggered, his vision tunnelling as the long-scarred injury tore anew, and poured flames like molten rock through his nerves.
He wanted Ellana. He wanted Ellana so much he could hardly breathe.
He lurched away from the dragon’s corpse, stumbling blindly down the snow-covered path until he found a rocky outcrop and collapsed behind it. The scorching pain ripped away the last of his trembling defences, and he forced his knuckles into his mouth and bit down until he could taste blood, a keening noise of pure agony rising in his throat.
He was alone. He needed Ellana. He was alone.
It hurt. It hurt. It hurt.
Before he could register what was happening, he was sobbing, his arm held uselessly in his hand as he cradled it to his chest. It hit him, for the first time, the heavy darkness of his future. He was cut off from the Fade, so very far from home. But he had found a home in her, and destroyed it.
Even if he could tear down the veil, he would be a destroyer of worlds twice over. And down that path, there was only death, and more unbearable pain. No-one else would ever hold him. No-one would ever brush tender hands over him and soothe away his hurt. All he had to look forward to was this gnawing torture, again and again and again.
He choked, a wail rising from his lips. He couldn’t endure this.
“Solas?”
He looked up from where he’d fallen to the ground, his back braced against the cold rock and his vision blurry with tears. Ellana was watching him from a short distance away, her eyes wide and gentle and her hand reaching out to him, just ever-so-slightly, as though he might send her away.
His breath came in desperate gasps. He moaned.
“Vhenan,” he whimpered. “It hurts.”
She went to him without hesitating, and in the next moment, he was in her arms and screaming. He pressed his face into her shoulder, one arm hanging uselessly at his side while the other clutched her to him with a desperation that bordered on madness.
“It hurts, it hurts, it hurts,” he sobbed.
She held him to her chest, one hand firm on the back of his head and the other pressed over the swelling on his back.
“I know, ma lath,” she whispered. “I know.”
An anguished sound fought its way free from his throat, and he trembled in the circle of her arms.
“Please,” he begged her. “Please.”
She kissed his temple. His ear. His cheek.
“What are you asking me?” She breathed against his skin. “What do you need me to do?”
“Save me,” he pleaded brokenly. “Vhenan. I need you to save me.”
She wrapped her arms around him as tears fell down her cheeks.
“I will,” she promised. “I will.”
He buried his face in her neck, and allowed himself to fall apart.
He would not endure as the Dread Wolf again. It was Solas who’d found his heart.