When The Dread Wolf Returned From Down By The River (Dragon Age x Baldur's Gate 3)

[So-So]

"I am a fool... who finally met his match."

Bound in chains within the heart of the Black City, the Last of the Firstborn turned the words over in his mind. Of all he had spoken in his long, long life, these might have been the wisest. And he couldn't help but wonder—if he had come to that realization sooner, how many mistakes might have been avoided?

"Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din."

Trapped in the place where time and thought twisted, where nothing but eternity remained, the Rebel God of the Dalish replayed the events that led him here. And as he did, one question echoed louder than the rest: what did it say about him that a Fear Demon had foreseen his downfall long before he did?

A former Spirit of Wisdom. Brought low by his own pride.

"Varric taught me well. And you killed him."

And now, as Fen'Harel—the Dread Wolf—stewed in bitter defeat, he asked himself if every life he'd taken, every soul lost in pursuit of his grand goal, had been for nothing. Sacrifices burned away by one final, spectacular failure. Guilt gnawed at him, sharp and ceaseless. Perhaps, in the end, the true price of his choices wasn't the world—it was the weight of surviving them.

"You don't need to destroy this world. I'll prove it to you."

"I would treasure the chance to be wrong once again, my friend."

And as Solas sat in the darkest corner of the Fade—alone—he wondered: if he'd listened to his friends, just once… really listened… would he be here now? Would he still be facing the weight of his regrets in silence?

How many times had he dismissed such words as naïve?

How often had he clung to pride, certain that no one else could see the truth he carried?

In the end, it was that same pride—his pride—that had undone him.

Solas let out a hollow laugh. The sound vanished, swallowed by the endless void.

Once, he had been many things: Fen'Harel. The Dread Wolf. Trickster. Rebel. Liberator. A so-called god.

Now, he was simply a prisoner of his own making. Bound by the very chains he once forged for others he once loved and called kin.

And for the first time in a long, long life, Solas understood what it meant to be truly alone and afraid in the dark.

But before he could sink further into regret and despair, the Fade shuddered.

Solas lifted his bloodied head.

A tear opened across the sky above—jagged and seething with unnatural light. From within it, a shape descended. Vast. Chitinous. Its tendrils writhed and groped across the edges of reality like they were feeling their way through existence itself.

It was not a spirit. Not a demon. Not a Blight-twisted horror.

It was something wholly alien.

Solas barely had time to process the sensation of falling—

—before everything went black.

---

A sharp, wet gasp tore from Solas' throat as consciousness returned in a violent rush. Cold air burned his lungs as he was greeted by the sight of the outside world.

He lay on uneven ground, face pressed into blood-wet dirt and sand. Ash clung to his skin. The blue sky above churned with smoke, casting the landscape in shades of ruin.

This was not the Black City nor anywhere in the Fade.

He groaned, pushing himself upright with trembling arms. Pain flared through his ribs and shoulder—something had hit him hard enough to break bone. The last thing he remembered was the shudder—the Fade itself tearing, a howling storm of something else flooding in. And then—blackness.

His eyes adjusted slowly. The beachside around him was scattered with the strangest of debris—twisted flesh-metal, shattered crystals, broken bodies of all sorts of shapes, sizes…and races?

Nothing elven. Nothing dwarven. Nothing Qunari. Nothing resembling Thedas in any way he knew from before or after the Veil was placed. Strange, chitinous fragments littered the earth around him, still twitching like dying insects. The air was thick with heat, oil, and the copper tang of blood.

He blinked, dazed.

Was that a… ship?

A massive, half-embedded structure lay crumpled in the ocean near him. It looked like a creature hollowed out and shaped into transport, its outer shell torn wide open from the crash. Veins of purple biolight flickered weakly within, like a dying heart.

Solas stared at it, breath shallow.

A sharp, wet clicking sound pulled his gaze downward.

It was crawling toward him.

At first, Solas thought it was some dying beast, perhaps a creature native to this realm of smoke and ruin—but the shape was unmistakably wrong. Thin limbs dragged along the dirt, bones shattered in places, yet it pulled itself forward with unholy resolve. Its long robes were torn, blackened by fire, and its head—spirits, its head—was a mass of half-melted tendrils, some severed entirely, others twitching as though still searching blindly for prey.

He did not know the name, but he knew instinctively that this thing did not belong to any realm of spirits or demons.

It was dying. Slowly. And yet still it reached for him.

Solas tried to move, but his limbs were slow to respond. He had been thrown—perhaps from the sky itself—and his magic, whatever fragments remained in the aftermath of the backlash caused by the use of the fake Lyurim Dagger, flickered dimly within him like a sputtering candle. He clenched his teeth and began to crawl backward.

The creature hissed—a guttural, wet sound that bypassed his ears and went straight into his skull. Words formed not in speech, but in thought.

'Survive.
Need vessel.
Yours. Take yours.'

Solas froze. He knew possession. He had faced demons who tried to wear his flesh, who whispered truths and lies with equal fervor. But this… this wasn't seduction. It wasn't even madness. It was need in its purest form—raw and animal, drowning in agony and hunger.

The creature collapsed mere feet from him. One twisted arm clawed at a sac on its side—ruptured flesh, torn open to reveal a pulsing, translucent pouch.

Within it, something moved.

A parasite. Small. Writhing. Radiating purpose.

"No—" Solas hissed, trying to pull away, but the creature moved with unnatural speed. Not through strength—through desperation. It gripped his jaw with broken fingers and forced his mouth open, its other hand plunging the tadpole forward, fingers slick with its own black ichor.

He choked, gagged—felt it enter.

'OBEY.
SERVE.
MIND. JOIN. ALL.'

Agony split through his skull like a blade of light. He screamed, fists digging into the dirt as the thing burrowed behind his eyes. He could feel it, clawing through thought and memory, mapping him like prey, binding—

—and then the connection broke.

Not cleanly. Not like chains being shattered.

Like a thread being burned at both ends.

Solas gasped, eyes wide, body trembling. Something inside him shifted—a scream echoed in his skull, then went silent. The presence was still there, coiled within him, but not whole.

No commands. No collective. No link to the hive.

Only… silence.

Solas lay there, stunned. The creature had gone still. Dead. Its corpse twitched once, then dissolved into a thick, black slurry, the body collapsing inward like ash in the wind.

Once again, he was alone.

The wind howled.

For a long time, Solas did not move. He lay on his side, fingers clawing at the dirt, breath ragged. His mind felt… wrong. Off-balance. His thoughts were his, but not untouched. Memories fluttered at the edges of his vision—not his own. Flashes of hunger, of flight, of alien skies streaked with stars.

And beneath it all, the pulse of something living inside his skull.

He sat up slowly, gaze shifting back toward the shattered wreck of the chitinous ship. Solas gritted his teeth, clutching his temple as another pulse rolled through his head. The pain subsided, but the presence remained. Dormant. Waiting.

He had been infected.

But the link was broken.

Why?

Was it a defect? A mercy? A trick?

Or something far, far worse?

"So... this is how the end truly begins," He murmured bitterly. "Ripped from one prison... to die to another growing from within me."

But he was no prisoner now. And he would not be prey.

Whatever force had pulled him into this world—whatever parasite had chosen him—had made a mistake.

He was not just a vessel.

He was Fen'Harel. The Dreadwolf. The Last of the Firstborn.

And though his magic was weak, his body battered, and his mind compromised… he would learn of this world.

For how else was he supposed to reclaim his title as a Spirit of Wisdom?

---

Elven translation: Dirth ma, harellan. Ma banal enasalin. Mar solas ena mar din. = I know trickster. Your victory is nothing. Your pride will be your undoing.

Welcome one and all to this new story!

Kinda, maybe. We'll see where this goes, given my current circumstances. Still, Glad to see you all on board!

As you can guess, this story came about with a simple idea: what if, after getting bound to the Veil at the end of one of the Veilguard endings - the Trick one in this case - Solas ends up becoming Tav from Baldur's Gate 3 due to some Mindflayer B.S.?

…This ended up going to some unexpected places in the planning phases, so I hope you all enjoy this journey with me… you know, IF I decide to go all the way with this story. Despite having some chapters in advance, I kinda do need help writing the full story as while I did played Baldur's Gate 3, I really am not confident in my knowledge in DnD and the other BG games to properly pull this off. If you guys know anyone who can help me write this story or are willing to be that person, please do not hesitate to contact me about it!

Also, shoutout to TheCappybara for his edits and overall aid in writing this story... even if its months after the fact.

Until next time!

 

[So-So]

"…Even you can be happy once in a while, it won't kill you. But your face may crack if you smile too much."

-Merrill, Dragon Age II​

The air smelled of damp earth and night orchids, their silken petals shimmering under the moon's silver glow. The last warmth of the sun had faded beyond the trees, leaving behind the cool embrace of evening.

Shadowheart knelt in the garden, pressing her fingers into the soil, feeling its richness against her skin. It was a simple thing, grounding in a way she had only recently come to understand.

"You're pressing too hard," Her mother's voice hummed beside her, tinged with quiet amusement. "You'll suffocate the roots. Gentle, my little shadow."

She huffed a soft laugh, easing her grip on the small bundle of flowers. "Old habits. I'm used to holding onto things tightly."

Emmeline Hallowleaf—her mother—gave her a knowing look as she smoothed a patch of dirt around the base of a young orchid. Her hands were worn from time and toil but still graceful, steady. They had once reached for a daughter stolen from them, had held onto hope through years of uncertainty. Now, they worked alongside her, tending to the life they had rebuilt together.

The elderly woman sat back on her heels, wiping her palms against her skirts before brushing a strand of grey-threaded black hair from her face. "Some things don't need to be gripped so hard, Shadowheart." There was warmth in her voice, a quiet reassurance. "Some things thrive when we let them breathe."

Shadowheart turned her gaze toward the field beyond the garden, where their small cottage stood nestled among the trees. The windows glowed softly in the twilight, and through the glass, she could see her father setting the table, his movements slow but steady. A pair of cats—one white, one dark as midnight—sat curled on the windowsill, their tails flicking lazily as they watched the flickering firelight inside.

It was a quiet, peaceful life. A life she had once thought impossible.

As they dusted the soil from their hands and made their way back toward the cottage, Shadowheart glanced at her mother with a smirk. "You know, I think we really 'planted' ourselves in a good routine here."

Emmeline paused mid-step, exhaling through her nose as if summoning patience from the night air. "Oh no."

Shadowheart grinned. "Guess you could say we're putting down roots."

Emmeline let out a dramatic sigh, pushing open the door. "By the gods, you're sounding more like your father by the day."

Shadowheart chuckled as she stepped inside, the warmth of the cottage wrapping around her. "I'll take that as a compliment."

From the dining table, her father perked up. "What's this about me?"

Emmeline shook her head, giving Shadowheart a pointed look as they washed up. "Nothing. Absolutely nothing."

Shadowheart just smiled, settling in for another peaceful evening at home.

'All we are missing is just one.' She noted fondly, her ears perking up once she heard the other door of their home opening up, 'And speaking of the devil…'

The door swung open, letting in the cool night air as Solas stepped inside, his footfalls quiet yet purposeful. Behind him trotted a sleek gray wolf—Felassan, as Solas had named him—kept pace at his side. The scent of hay, earth, and fresh air clung to him, along with the faint musk of the many animals he had just tended to.

Shadowheart arched an eyebrow from her place by the hearth. "Took you long enough. Did the chickens mount a rebellion, or did Maraline start philosophizing thanks to hanging around her caretaker for too long?"

Solas sighed, removing his cloak and shaking a few stray feathers from the fabric. "Neither, though Lathrallen has, yet again, found a way to make our lives more complicated. We need to have a discussion regarding his… various adventures."

Emmeline glanced between them as she set down the basket of freshly picked herbs. "What did he do this time?"

Solas pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let's just say that the nearby river may no longer have fish, the neighbors are missing several bushels of apples, and I am fairly certain he has figured out how to open doors."

Shadowheart groaned. "That owlbear is going to be the death of us."

"Only if we are particularly unlucky. Or if we leave the pantry unguarded."

Solas glanced toward the window, noting the soft golden hues beginning to settle over the horizon. With a contemplative nod, he turned back to the room, his sharp eyes settling on the kitchen counter where Arnell had laid out various cooking supplies.
"Absolutely not."

Solas arched a brow, tone amused. "No?"

Shadowheart crossed her arms, shooting her lover the most deadpan of looks. "Because tonight, you're forbidden from ruining your appetite with one of your over-seasoned, philosophically inspired 'experiments.'" A beat. "I planned something. You're not touching a pan."

Solas folded his arms, studying her with quiet mirth. "You planned something?"

"It's called initiative. You should try it."

His mouth twitched into something resembling amusement. "Should I be worried?"

"It took me quite some time to find the right spot." She tilted her head, playful but firm. "I'd say you should be completely and utterly terrified."

'A whole month.' She thought—but he didn't need to know that yet.

Solas gave her a low, theatrical bow. "Very well, my lady. I shall prepare for whatever doom you've arranged."

As he turned to go, she looked down at the wolf. "Felassan, be a dear. Make sure he scrubs the chicken stink off before he embarrasses me under the Moonmaiden's light."

Fel barked once and trotted after his master.

She didn't need to see Solas's face to know he rolled his eyes. That was half the fun.

The door shut behind him.

And the smile on Shadowheart's face fell—not with fear, but with the weight of the moment.

She turned to her father. "He knows, doesn't he?"

Arnell looked up from the counter, expression gentle. "You tell me. You're the one who trained to hear the thoughts no one says."

She exhaled, leaning back against the wall. "He's Solas. I've watched him take apart people's lies in a single sentence. I'd have to be a fool to think he hasn't put it all together."

Arnell shrugged with a knowing smirk. "And yet here you are, still planning it like he hasn't."

Shadowheart let an amused huff at that; the fact that they were able to make light of that decades-long nightmare was a telling sign that they've managed to make good headway recovering from the scars - both physical and mental - that nightbitch inflicted upon them, "Truly? Sometimes I feel as if that man knows more than he lets on. As if he's the one who could thoughts without a parasite in his head…"

Arnell chuckled lightly, leaning back against the counter. "Being together long enough does that to any couple," he said knowingly. "You start picking up on each other's thoughts without even trying."

Shadowheart arched a bleached-brow. "Oh? Is that so?"

Arnell gestured toward Emmeline, who was across the room, quietly tending to the fresh herbs she had brought in earlier. Without missing a beat, he called out, "Emmeline, my love, would you like some tea?"

Without even turning around, Emmeline replied, "Already heating the water."

Shadowheart blinked before narrowing her eyes at her father. "That was a lucky guess."

Arnell merely smirked. "Was it?"

His daughter gave a bemused headshake at that before reaching into her pocket and carefully bringing out a small but precious item.

An engagement ring.

Silver, elegantly shaped, the twin moons etched into its surface soft with age and polish. Not extravagant. Not ostentatious.

Just right for him.

Her fingers traced the band, her mind drifting back to the first time she met Solas near the crash site that cursed illithid ship.

She had been lost then—bound to Shar's will, her memories a fractured puzzle, her purpose dictated by a faith that had only ever sought to shackle her. Her mission had been simple: retrieve the Githyanki artifact on behalf of her cloister and be one step closer into becoming a Dark Justiciar. But fate, ever fickle, had other plans.

Having been captured by the mind flayers as a result of a costly mistake while retrieving the artifact, she had awoken in that pod with pure terror, her body weak, her thoughts disoriented in a way that wasn't familiar to her for once. And when the fearsome looking githyanki stumbled across her, desperation had seized her, all of her Sharran training thrown out of the window. She had practically begged them to save her, clinging to whatever sliver of hope she could grasp.

Lae'zel's look at that moment still echoed in her mind's eye, cold and practical and unsympathetic to her plight as she left her behind, deeming her a liability unworthy of saving.

Thankfully—whether by fate, luck, or something more divine (had Selûne been watching over her even when her twin's grip felt unbreakable?)—she survived the crash. Miraculously, the artifact remained in her possession, and all her limbs were still intact when she awoke on that lonely stretch of beach.

Deciding not to question her near impossible survival too closely, Shadowheart immediately sought shelter, finding the nearest hiding spot where she could take stock of her situation and consider her next move in relative safety.

That was when she met the strangest elf she had ever laid eyes on—an encounter that began with her mace raised and his hand already on what took the form of a dagger. He introduced himself, after a long and wary standoff, as Solas.

And the rest? The rest was simple history.

But she wanted more than history. She wanted a future—one that stretched beyond the battles they had fought and the burdens they had carried. One where their story did not end with the closing of a chapter but continued on, woven into the years ahead, unshaken and unbreakable.

With that thought, Shadowheart closed her fingers around the ring, determination settling in her chest. This was but the first step toward forever.

Her grip on the ring tightened as a wave of uncertainty washed over her. "What if… what if I can't pull this off?" she admitted quietly, looking between her parents. "What if I stumble over my words, or he figures it out before I even ask? What if—"

Emmeline interrupted her with a warm, steady embrace, holding her daughter close. "You'll be fine, sweetheart," she assured her gently. Then, pulling back just enough to look her in the eye, she smiled. "Now go get my future son-in-law and spend the rest of your days happy."

Shadowheart let out a breath, her heart swelling with emotion. With one final nod, she tucked the ring safely away and turned toward the door. She had a date to get to—and a future to secure.

'Now all I have to do is go through the motions that have been set months beforehand and live the rest of my life in marital bliss. And this will be made much easier with him completely in the dark.'
​

---

'And at last, the fruits of her labors shall now reveal themselves.'

Solas followed Shadowheart through the soft hush of night, the silver moonlight casting gentle shadows along the worn path. Perhaps Selûne's subtle blessing on the evening her devoted follower had so carefully prepared?

He knew that she had something to reveal to him. Of course, he knew. He had known for some time now.

He had spent millennia leading a rebellion, fighting an enemy who considered themselves untouchable. He had learned to discern betrayals before they occurred, to read even the smallest shift in a soldier's stance or the hesitation in their voice. He had known when to strike, when to retreat, when to listen in silence. To see through the cracks of every deception—because failure meant the People's complete enslavement.

Shadowheart, for all her skill and training, was not an enemy to outmaneuver. She was not a betrayer lurking in his midst. But she had tried, in her own way, to keep this secret from him, and Solas had allowed it.

For months, he had watched as she, Emmeline, and Arnell whispered behind closed doors, speaking in low tones when they thought he wasn't near. He had caught the quick, knowing glances passed between them when he entered the room, the subtle shifts in conversation. Had he wished, he could have unraveled their plans long ago.

But he had no desire to.

He was no longer Fen'Harel leading his people in a war against tyrants. He was no longer the rebel god waging an endless, wearying battle against those who had once been his kin. He had walked away from that path, away from the weight of the past.

Now, he was simply Solas. A simple man who had found a life beyond his mistakes, beyond sorrow with the love of his life and the parents that were stolen from her for far too long.

(He would never allow Shar's grip to take any of them again, not so long as he lived and breathed in this world that he made into a true home.)

So when he returned from his latest visit to Ramazith's Tower—where young Rolan, so eager and full of potential, had awaited his guidance as always—Solas had known that whatever Shadowheart had spent these long months preparing was finally upon him.

And he was ready to embrace whatever she had in store.

He glanced ahead, watching as Shadowheart moved with silent confidence, leading him through the winding path of the woodland. He could see it in the way she carried herself—the excitement barely contained, the anticipation in every purposeful step.

Solas exhaled a quiet breath, a small smile forming.

This would be a night to remember.

A cool breeze drifted through the night air, carrying the fresh scent of earth and wildflowers. Solas glanced at Shadowheart, studying the way the moonlight caught in her hair before deciding a little prodding wouldn't hurt.

"You're unusually quiet, vhenan."

Shadowheart shot him a sidelong look, mischief flickering in her eyes. "I'm always quiet. Comes with being a former cleric of Shar."

Solas hummed out a not-quite chuckle. "When you're plotting something, certainly. But I wonder—this silence of yours… is it scheming or just simple nerves?"

"You overthink things."

"Perhaps." He let the moment hang between them before adding, with a knowing glint in his eyes, "Nonetheless, I do not consider myself to be incorrect when it comes to such things, given life has the terrible habit of proving correct more often than not."

Shadowheart didn't answer right away. Instead, she slowed her steps just a little, her grip on the picnic basket tightening—just for a moment, but he noticed. He always noticed, whether either of them liked it or not.

Still, he said nothing. He recognized the deflection for what it was and let it pass.

When she finally slowed, falling into step beside him, she glanced up with an arch expression. "No need to be so grim and fatalistic. You do remember that you already got me in bed, right?"

"I am grim and fatalistic. Getting you into bed is just an enjoyable side benefit."

A sharp, amused snort escaped her before she could stifle it, the sound echoing softly through the still night air. She shook her head, muttering something under her breath about insufferable elf arrogance before slipping her free arm through his, linking them together.

Solas allowed it with a small, satisfied smile, matching her pace as they strolled along the rocky path. The air was crisp, carrying the scent of damp earth and wildflowers, the only sounds the gentle rustling of leaves and the distant calls of nocturnal creatures stirring in the underbrush. The quiet weight of the moment settled between them—comfortable, unhurried.

Shadowheart's grip was firm yet relaxed against his arm, the soft press of her body warm against his side. He could feel the anticipation in her every movement, the way she was practically vibrating with it, though she kept her expression carefully schooled into something almost casual.

Almost.

Whatever she had planned, whatever she had spent months preparing—it was important. And for her, he would play along. It was the very least he could do for her after everything she's been put through, this peace they had given each other was something to truly cherish.

Shadowheart's grip was firm yet relaxed against his arm, the soft press of her body warm against his side. He could feel the anticipation in her every movement, the way she was practically vibrating with it, though she kept her expression carefully schooled into something almost casual.

Again, almost being the operative word.

Whatever she had planned, whatever she had spent months preparing—it was important. And for her, he would play along. It was the very least he could do for her after everything she's been put through, this peace they have given each other was something to truly cherish.

'Peace.' Solas let the word settle in his mind, a quiet, somber thought. 'Something I would be beyond me after being bested fairly by wits alone.'

After being bested by Rook.

The name flickered through his thoughts like a distant echo, accompanied by the memory of that final confrontation at the very heights of Minrathous. Of the trick that had undone him. The sheer audacity of it, the sheer simplicity of your average bait and switch.

In reality, he should have seen it coming, but actively refused to consider the possibility in that very moment. Not because he had underestimated him, no—he had known Rook was cunning, resourceful. But in that moment, in the culmination of everything, his own pride had been his downfall. He had not accounted for the possibility that they would use his own methods against him.

And in that moment, as the magical backlash surged through him, as he felt the Veil slip through his grasp like sand through his fingers, he had understood.

Thedas was done with him.

But Faerun had been waiting, heralded by the most alien of ships.

He thought of what had followed. The battles fought, the choices made, the alliances forged. How he had gone from a stranger in an unfamiliar world to someone who was sought after not as a legend, not as a monster or a god, but as a scholar. A man of knowledge and insight. He was asked for counsel on magic and lore, his understanding of the Weave growing with each passing day. It was not the Fade, not entirely—so similar in essence, and yet so fundamentally different in all the ways that mattered. There was so much he still did not know. So much to learn.

And for once in what felt like an eternity, the pursuit of that knowledge was not a means to an end.

He had found himself surrounded by people who had, at first, been reluctant allies in the face of desperation. But through fire and blood, through struggle and triumph, they had become dear friends. Trusted companions.

And Shadowheart—his vehan.

His fingers flexed slightly where they rested against hers, as if grounding himself in the present.

He had fallen in love.

And, more impossibly, he had been seen. Truly seen. Not as the Dread Wolf. Not as the god who had doomed his people. But simply as Solas.

Perhaps it was a reward for saving the world from total enslavement by a false god. Again.

Shadowheart's voice broke through his thoughts, drawing his focus back to her. "We're here."

She turned to him with that smile—one he had come to cherish more than he had words for. And as she led him forward, anticipation thrumming in her every step, Solas allowed himself to muse on the path he had found in this world.

Not as a trickster god. Not as a rebel or a warrior.

But as a man who could once again indulge in what he had loved most: learning and sharing knowledge, asking and answering questions—not planning rebellions, not killing, not lying.

At long last, he could simply be.

And that, he had realized two years ago, was all he had ever truly wanted.
As they stepped further into the clearing, the soft murmur of water became clearer, growing into the distinct, rhythmic cascade of a waterfall. Or rather—two waterfalls.

Solas paused, his sharp eyes taking in the sight before him. A split waterfall tumbled down from a ridge of smooth, moss-covered rock, its twin streams plunging into a crystalline pool below. Mist rose where the water met the surface, catching the moonlight in a way that made it shimmer like liquid silver. The entire scene was serene, untouched—something that belonged in a dream rather than the waking world.

Shadowheart watched him with barely concealed delight, noting the way his gaze moved over their surroundings, how he lingered on the details—the placement of the trees, the natural arch of the rocks framing the falls, the soft, inviting grass beneath them. He was analyzing, recognizing.

Finally, his eyes flickered back to her with an arched brow. "Quite the familiar sight."

Shadowheart's smile widened as she set the picnic basket down on the nearest smooth patch of ground. "I see you recognize it." She glanced around at the scenery with no small amount of satisfaction. "It took me quite a while to find a place that managed to match with what that circus dryad conjured up that day. But it was worth the trouble—lovely little spot, don't you think?"

Solas exhaled softly, shaking his head. "An impressive find." He glanced back toward the waterfalls, something contemplative in his expression. "The resemblance is uncanny."

Shadowheart knelt, unfastening the picnic basket with deliberate ease as she began to unpack their meal. "It took time to find a place like this, but it was worth it, given how much of an enlightening experience that little game was. Slightly invasive questioning notwithstanding."

Solas huffed a quiet laugh as he lowered himself beside her. "Indeed. Though I am simply relieved I managed to avoid embarrassing you that day, as per your wishes beforehand."

Shadowheart's hands stilled briefly as she poured them each a glass of wine. Then, with deliberate slowness, she turned her head toward him, her smile all too sweet. "What if you hadn't?"

Solas studied her expression, sensing something in her tone that sent a flicker of caution through him. He considered his words carefully.

"Then I imagine I would have spent the following hours or even days attempting to rectify the damage."

Shadowheart tilted her head, smile unwavering. "Oh, vhenan." She handed him his glass, her fingers brushing his in a touch far gentler than the edge in her voice. "You really don't want to know."

Solas paused. Then, ever so slightly, he inclined his head in graceful surrender.

"Duly noted."

Shadowheart's laughter rang through the night as she motioned for him to relax, guiding him toward the blanket she had laid out before filling their cups with the wine bottle she brought for the occasion. With the waterfall's steady rhythm behind them and the stars stretched wide above, their night had only just begun.

Shadowheart lifted her cup, the deep red of the wine catching the moonlight as she turned to Solas, eyes warm with something deeper than affection—something steady, unwavering. A quiet promise.

"Na melana enasal ma'athim." she said softly, voice carrying through the crisp night air.

Solas regarded her for a long moment before raising his own glass in return, his expression gentler than most ever had the privilege of seeing.

"Na melana ma las enansal mara tu'din."

With a shared, knowing smile, they tilted their glasses, carefully touching the rims together before shifting—bringing their glasses to each other's lips rather than their own.

They sipped, eyes never leaving the other's, before finally lowering their glasses.

Then, with a pleased hum, Shadowheart reached into the basket and began pulling out a neatly wrapped portion of food and setting it in front of him. "I hope your hungry, because I expect every scrap of food here to be licked clean. I spent more time than I care to admit in the kitchen making all of this myself, and you are not going to ruin it by getting lost in that overactive mind of yours."

As Shadowheart continued unpacking the meal, Solas took note of the dishes she laid out before him—each one familiar, each one a favorite he had come to cherish since arriving in Faerûn.

"You are spoiling me," he remarked, curiosity lacing his voice. "This must be quite the occasion you have planned."

Shadowheart merely hummed in response, her expression unreadable as she picked up a spoon, scooped up a bite of food, and held it up to him. "Maybe, maybe not. Tonight shall give you your answer soon enough." she said cryptically, before flashing him a knowing smirk.

Solas did as he was told and leaned forward nonetheless, allowing her to feed him. The warmth of the meal, the care put into every bite—it was a rare indulgence, one he would allow himself tonight.

"Just eat," she murmured, her voice softer now, yet carrying the same playful command.

As the last remnants of their meal disappeared, the air between them settled into something softer—something unspoken yet understood. The warmth of shared laughter, the occasional brush of hands, and the simple pleasure of just being together made the night feel timeless.

But then, Shadowheart's expression shifted. The easy confidence she carried before wavered, replaced by something more vulnerable—more hesitant. Solas caught it immediately, his keen eyes narrowing ever so slightly.

"What troubles you, vhenan?" he asked, tilting his head in quiet concern.

Shadowheart drew in a slow breath, her fingers tightening slightly against the fabric of her dress. Then, as though steeling herself, she met his gaze and began to speak.

"When we first met," she started, voice steady despite the nerves he could feel thrumming beneath her skin, "you saw me at my worst. I was inhumane, blinded by faith in something that never deserved my devotion, and I would have done terrible things had I not been stopped."

Solas exhaled sharply, his expression softening. "That was not your fault." Shadowheart's lips pressed together, as if expecting the response yet still unsure how to accept it. He could see the conflict flickering in her eyes, the years of guilt lingering like a phantom. Before she could argue, he continued, voice firm yet gentle. "You were stolen," he said, his fingers lightly brushing against hers, grounding her. "Twisted by a sadistic, blighted, tyrannical child who dared to proclaim herself a goddess for it. None of it was your doing."

She let out a quiet breath, her gaze dipping away briefly. "Most wouldn't have known that," she murmured, her voice laced with something bittersweet. "They wouldn't have cared to look past what I was then—not when we had far greater concerns with the parasites in our heads."

Solas frowned at that truth, knowing well how easy it was for people to be judged by their worst moments, how little patience the world often had for redemption or the willingness to aid one in need.

"But you did," she said, looking back up at him now, her expression softer. "You saw past the darkness Shar wrapped around me. You saw me."

He shook his head slightly, modestly replying with. "You would have found your way back regardless. You had the strength to hold on to who you were even in the depths of that seemingly endless abyss." he said with quiet certainty. "That's a strength you would have always rediscovered from within, with or without me."

Shadowheart let out a small, breathy laugh at that—one that carried no humor, only the weight of what could have been. "But then, I wouldn't have met you."

She held his gaze then, unwavering.

"And that's a world that I never want to be in."

Solas stilled, watching the sincerity in her eyes, the raw honesty of her words. She wasn't just speaking of gratitude—this was something deeper, something that stretched beyond what had been and into what could be.

The moment hung fragile and trembling, like the instant before a glass shatters.

Solas had sensed the shift in Shadowheart's demeanor—the way her breath hitched, the slight tremor in her fingers as she reached into her pocket. He had seen that expression before, on battlefields, in quiet moments of reckoning. Resolve. Determination laced with something softer, something rare.

She was steeling herself for something important. Something for him.

Shadowheart took a deep breath, then, with clear conviction, she spoke.
"I'm not asking because I need you. I'm asking because I want you, and I will choose you—every damn day, for the rest of my life, if you'll let me."

Solas smiled. That quiet, content, deeply sincere smile only she ever truly brought out in him. Then he stepped forward and cupped her hand between both of his.

"There's no need to be afraid, vhenan," he said gently, his voice full of reassurance. "Everything we've faced, everything we've built together since then—it's only made me more certain. More than anything, I want to be by your side, always."

"...Then, would you do me the honor of—"

All too suddenly, the moment shattered.

A low thrumming sound filled the air, like a heartbeat struck from stone—and Solas staggered to his feet as the light burst from his cloak. It wasn't warm. It wasn't holy. Nothing that could have come from the Weave.

It was alien to this world yet far too familiar for him. A song of unity.

He reached for it before he could think. The Lyrium Dagger.

Its surface glowed, veins of silver and sickly blue crawling across the metal like it was bleeding light. It had not pulsed like this since Minrathous. Since Rook and Elgar'nan. Since his last complete and total failure in Thedas.

Shadowheart shielded her eyes from the intensity of the glow, stumbling back. "Solas?!"

"Get back," he snapped, voice sharp with something close to panic as the magic reached its peak. "I don't know what it's—"

The magic exploded.

Not a violent blast—no fire, no thunder. Just raw light, compressed and blinding. And a sound—a faint, gasping breath that wasn't his.

Then silence.

Smoke drifted in ribbons from where the dagger had struck the earth. The grass was scorched black in a perfect circle, and at the center of it, lying still, was—

A body.

Solas didn't move. Couldn't at the sight before him.

He knew that shape. The coat, patched in too many places. The crossbow, scorched and twisted but unmistakable. The thick, calloused fingers. The chest hair.

The ghost of a half-finished quip on his lips, even unconscious.

"...Varric?"​

---

Elven Translations:

Lathrallen = "The One Who Has Blossomed" or "The Grown One"

"Na melana enasal ma'athim." = "To the one who freed me from my chains."

"Na melana ma las enansal mara tu'din." = "To the one who gave me a second breath in life."

…Why yes indeed, we are indeed skipping the entire story of Baldur's Gate 3.

I mean, can you blame me?! That is a massive story to go through without counting all of the side stuff and extra details one can get lost into. Would probably never finish the story if we went that route. Plus, I am just plain not interested in going over what you all know and what others have and will do and want to get to the part I actually want to write.

So, it has been decided that we are doing a post-BG3 and post-DATV crossover story! Will make all of the twists and turns that much more unexpected and help make this story stand out more!

By the way, would you guys like to get a summary of the choices Solas made as Tav during his BG3 story? Or would it be better to learn of what he chose as the story goes on and learn about it in the narrative itself? Do tell!

 

[noobody77]

Too bad it considers veilguard canon, this seems like an interesting idea or a story otherwise.

 

[So-So]

Too bad it considers veilguard canon, this seems like an interesting idea or a story otherwise.

Click to shrink...

Fair enough, though I do think the endings of Solas in that game work well enough despite TV's many shortcomings. Thus I chose to go with the best ending that sees Solas defeated aka tricked.

 

[So-So]

"…the Chantry owes me an apology. This looks nothing like the Maker's bosom."​

-Hawke, Dragon Age Inquisition

​

"I'd say good luck but… you don't need it. You already have everything you need."

Varric stirred, his eyes fluttering open to the dim glow of candlelight dancing against wooden beams. The scent of hay, damp earth, and herbs filled the air. A rough woolen blanket covered him, scratchy against his skin, doing little to ease the deep ache in his muscles. His head throbbed and a bandage wrapped tightly around his temple.

"What the fuck…"

He groaned, shifting against the stiff mattress of the simple wooden bed. The small room was rustic but lived-in—wooden shelves lined with clay jars, dried herbs, and old tomes. A basin of water sat on a stool nearby, a folded cloth resting beside it.

His throat was dry, his breath unsteady as he tried to piece together how he'd gotten here. The last thing he remembered was -

His thoughts scattered as another wave of pain pulsed through his skull. His heart pounded. He had no idea where he was now… but he did remember where he had been.

Rook. The Fade. Giving his protégé the last words he needed to get through the end of the world before saying goodbye to everything he'd ever known. Handing his thoughts and prayers to the next generation, knowing that everything he held dear was in good hands.

Or at least, that was how that kind of story was supposed to end.

"Now, where the hell am I…?"

Varric shifted slightly as the door creaked open, the warm glow of candlelight flickering against the wooden walls. A woman entered, balancing a tray of water and a small flower pot, her presence bringing with it the fresh scent of lavender and chamomile. She was elderly, with gentle eyes and a kind smile, though Varric's instincts told him to stay on guard - just in case. Blame his years in Kirkwall for this ingrained caution.

"Oh! You're awake." Her surprise quickly melted into warmth as she set the tray down on a small table near the bed. "You had us worried for a while there, Mr. Tethas."

Varric forced a small, easy grin despite the ache still pulsing in his skull and his body feeling like shit in general. "Yeah, well, I have a habit of bouncing back from ceratin death. Comes with the territory of my profession."

She chuckled, picking up the water and handing it to him. "Here, drink. You must be parched."

He took the glass gratefully, his throat burning as he drank deeply. As she reached for the flower pot, adjusting it on a nearby windowsill, he studied her, his mind already piecing things together.

"You seem to know me, which shouldn't surprise me at this point," he said casually, swirling the last bit of water in his glass before downing it. "But if ya don't mind, I'd love to know where exactly I am and how that came to be."

The woman elderly, he soon learned - refilled his glass without hesitation. "My daughter and my soon-to-be son in law found you near the spot they were having their date night," she explained as if this were the most natural thing in the world. "Poor thing nearly tripped over you in the dark. You were in bad shape, but you're lucky they found you when they did."

Varric hummed, taking another slow sip. "And this fiancé of hers… he knows me?"

Emmeline nodded, adjusting the blanket at the foot of his bed. "Oh, yes. Said he never thought he'd see you again. Seemed quite shocked, actually."

Something in the back of Varric's mind prickled with unease. He kept his expression neutral, nodding along, playing the part of the easygoing guest. "Well, can't say I expected a reunion out in the middle of nowhere. Guess I'll have to thank him when I see him."

At that, she brightened. "Oh! No need to wait." She turned toward the open door. "Solas! Varric ma'athlan!"

Varric nearly choked on his water. He coughed violently, barely managing to set the glass down without spilling it everywhere.

Oblivious to his panic, the elderly woman patted his arm reassuringly. "I'll get you something to eat," she said kindly, already heading for the door. "You must be starving."

Varric barely heard her. His thoughts were already racing as he braced himself for the impossible.

As soon as the door shut behind her, Varric swung his legs over the side of the bed, determination flaring through his exhausted limbs. His instincts screamed at him throughout the whole entire ordeal.

'Get the fuck up, get the fuck out. NOW.'

He planted his feet on the wooden floor, bracing himself against the mattress. His head spun, his muscles protesting as if he'd just gone a few rounds in the Hanged Man. Still, he wasn't about to sit around and wait for him to walk through that door.

With a deep breath, he pushed himself up—only for his legs to betray him instantly. The world tilted, his vision swam, and before he could even curse, he went sprawling face-first onto the floor with a solid thud.

For a moment, he just lay there, groaning into the wooden planks. "Well… that went about as well as all my best ideas."

"Fortunately, you can take comfort in the fact that this one hasn't exploded in your face this time. Literally."

Varric froze.

That voice.

Smooth. Measured. That know it all attitude laced with that ever-present amusement, as if he were always just a step above the chaos around him.

Slowly, carefully, Varric turned his head from where he lay sprawled on the floor.

Solas stood there, a cup of tea in hand.

He took a sip. Paused. His expression twisted ever so slightly, like a man who had just realized he'd swallowed into something mildly rotten.

"A whole other world, and tea still proves to be so distasteful for me," he muttered after taking a moment to swallow, visibly restraining the urge to spit.

Varric groaned from his undignified heap on the floor, one cheek pressed against the rough wooden planks. "Well, I'd say it's nice to see you too, Chuckles, but I was raised not to lie to old friends."

Solas let out an appreciative hum at that, setting the teacup aside on a nearby table. "And yet, your first instinct upon waking was to fling yourself at the floorboards. A bold strategy. How's that working out for you thus far?"

Varric pushed himself up onto his elbows with a grunt, his ribs protesting every movement. "Fantastic. Figured I'd start my day off with some humility. Real character-building experience." He reached for the bedframe, trying to haul himself back up, but the exhaustion hit him like a wagon full of bricks. His arms shook beneath him, and for a brief moment, he genuinely considered just staying down there.

Solas sighed, stepping forward. "You're being ridiculous."

"Wouldn't be the first time," Varric muttered.

Before he could protest, a firm but careful grip took hold of his arm, and with surprising ease, Solas helped him back onto the bed. Varric begrudgingly allowed it, leaning back against the headboard and catching his breath. "So, you gonna tell me why I'm here, or should I start taking wild guesses?"

Solas folded his arms, watching him with that unreadable expression of his. "That depends. How much do you recall before waking up in this world?"

Varric frowned. The memories were scattered, hazy around the edges like an old dream slipping through his fingers. But one thing stood out, clear as the scar on his chest.

"You," he said, voice flat. "Minrathous. The ritual."

Solas inclined his head slightly. "Go on."

Varric's throat felt dry again. "I remember trying to talk you down. I remember thinking - for one stupid second - that I might actually get through to you." His fingers curled into the blanket. "Then… pain and darkness. Then I remember helping Rook get out of that damned prison in the Fade you put him in and saying our goodbyes. And after that? Nothing."

Solas was silent for a moment, regarding him carefully. Then, with a measured tone, he spoke.

"Then I suppose we have much to discuss. As you can gather, a lot has occurred since that last conversation with Rook..."

Solas leaned back slightly, watching Varric with that infuriatingly observant expression. "While you were assisting Rook in escaping the Prison of Regrets, I was in pursuit of Elgar'nan. He had retreated to Minrathous, having taken control of the Archon's palace. Naturally, there were… obstacles."

Varric crossed his arms, his patience already wearing thin. "Obstacles. You mean an entire army of Venatori and Antaam?"

Solas inclined his head in the faintest acknowledgment. "Rook and the allies he gathered after your death managed to break through the defenses. Along the way, they learned the truth about the Veil's collapse - namely, that killing Elgar'nan would unravel it entirely unless another elven god took his place."

Varric let out a slow breath. "And that's where you came in."

Solas remained unbothered. "I had already been in Minrathous for weeks, aiding the Shadow Dragons in fending off Elgar'nan. I saw the necessity of removing him from the equation. I relinquished my Lyrium Dagger to Rook, and together, we ensured his defeat."

Varric narrowed his eyes. "Yet another con job from the Dread Wolf. Let your enemies do the dirty work for you before swooping in to finish it off, huh?"

Solas didn't blink. "I did what was necessary to try and fix what I had broken."

Varric gave a dry, bitter laugh. "Same old excuses, Chuckles." He shook his head. "So, you guys took down Elgar'nan. Then what? You finally got what you wanted? Brought down the Veil at long last?"

Solas was silent for a moment before replying, as composed as ever. "Not quite."

Varric waited. Solas offered nothing more.

Varric's fingers curled into the blanket. "You gonna elaborate, or am I supposed to start a guessing game?"

Solas exhaled as if indulging him. "I made my final attempt to bring the Veil down. Instead of its destruction, I found myself bound to it."

Varric blinked. "Bound?"

Solas barely frowned - so slight it might not have been there at all. "Yes."

Varric stared at him, waiting for more. Nothing.

His eye twitched. "Solas, I swear to the Andraste - "

Solas tilted his head, almost trying too hard to look uninterested with the following information. "Rook tricked me. The Lyrium Dagger I took from them to complete the ritual was a duplicate. This fake caused the finishing spell I was trying to use to backfire on me."

Varric let out a short laugh, not even trying to hide his amusement. "You're telling me Rook pulled one over on you? After everything? Oh, that's rich."

Solas did not react.

Which somehow made it even damn funnier.

Varric wiped his face, still grinning. "So let me get this straight - you set this whole thing in motion, manipulated half of Thedas, killed me, and when it was all said and done, Rook flipped your script with the oldest trick in the book?"

Solas took another sip of his terrible tea. "What can I say? You taught him well."

Varric nearly threw up his hands. "Unbelievable. You finally get a taste of your own medicine, and this is your reaction?"

Solas set his cup down with infuriating precision. "What reaction would you prefer, Varric? Should I weep for the choices that led me here due to my hubris?" He gestured vaguely to himself. "Lament the cruel twist of fate that has left me as I am?" His tone remained neutral, indifferent as ever. "I was bested fairly by wits alone. What's done is done."

Varric let out a slow breath through his nose, staring at the elf. "You really are an impossible man, you know that Chuckles?"

"So I've been told."

Varric suddenly shifted uncomfortably on the bed, glaring up at the low beams of the room as if they were personally responsible for his current state. He winced, still feeling the tightness in his ribs, but pushed through it. "You know, this place isn't the Fade," he muttered, scanning the room around him. "I mean, for one thing, there's actual comfort. Those pillows? Definitely not something you'd find in that nightmarescape."

Solas gave a thin smile, though his expression remained mostly unreadable. "And yet, it appears you are making the best of it."

Varric shot him a pointed look. "Yeah, well, the pillows are a nice touch, but what I'm more curious about is how the hell you got out of the Fade. You said it yourself that you got trapped in the Veil due to fucking up. How'd you pull that off?"

Solas let out a heavy sigh, the first crack in his stoic demeanor. His gaze shifted to the side as if considering the question with more weight than it deserved. "It's a long story, Varric. Longer than the ones you're used to telling."

Varric raised an eyebrow. "We've got time. What else are you going to do, sip on that tea you hate while I stare at the ceiling?"

Solas stared at him for a long moment before responding flatly, "We don't have time for that."

Varric blinked, his impatience rising again. "Don't have time?"

Solas leaned back, his gaze distant but unwavering. "Is it not your intention to get home as soon as possible?"

---

The next evening, the kitchen was alive with the warmth of hearthfire and the savory scent of stew. Shadowheart carefully placed Felassan's bowl down by the dinner table, with the gray wolf immediately bounding over with a happy bark before sticking his face into his food bowl and beginning his meal. After giving the wolf a quick head pat, the white-blonde turned her attention to setting the table for supper.

She moved around the kitchen with a practiced rhythm, arranging utensils, ladling out soup, and slicing the freshly baked bread. Except tonight, there was one extra setting: a sturdy seat, clearly meant for a dwarf, recently added to accommodate one Varric Tethras — their unexpected guest from Solas' rarely talked about home realm.

Across the room, her parents were finishing their own preparations, Emmeline stirring the pot one last time while Arnell placed the basket of bread at the center of the table. Both caught the slight, impatient huff that slipped from Shadowheart as she fiddled needlessly with a set of spoons.

Her father arched an eyebrow. "Something wrong, our da'dirthen?"

Knowing full well there was no point trying to hide anything with them, Shadowheart set the spoons down with a tiny clatter and let out a sigh. "I'm just... frustrated with myself."

Her mother glanced over, brow knitting in quiet concern. "Why?"

Shadowheart rubbed at the back of her neck. "I should have proposed by now." At her parents' questioning stares, she quickly added, "I had it all planned out! I had the ring, the words, the place - everything. But I was too slow when the time came. I kept thinking it has to be perfect, that the timing has to be perfect down to the very second." She laughed weakly. "And now, of course, it's all slipping away."

Her mother came over, placing a gentle hand on her arm. "Shadowheart... asking someone to be bound to you for life is not something you rush. It's meant to be meaningful because it takes time. You'll know when it's right."

Her father nodded, his smile supportive. "The heart doesn't follow a schedule, daughter."

Shadowheart exhaled slowly, grateful — but still frustrated. "I know. I know. But if I'd managed it earlier, I wouldn't be sitting here wondering how long Solas and Varric are going to be gone."

At that, both her parents blinked in confusion.

She smirked a little at their mirrored expressions and shook her head. "Solas getting stuck in a mess like this? Trust me - it's not just a simple trip home. It's a whole new adventure. And now that he's got this Varric with him again... well, I wouldn't be surprised if it turned into something even bigger."

Her father chuckled under his breath. "You make it sound like the start of a new brand of trouble."

Shadowheart shrugged, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Knowing Solas? It probably is. The only question now is whether he's going to come asking me to join them when it really starts."

She finished setting the last bowl down and sank into her seat with a sigh.

At that very moment, the door creaked open with a soft groan, letting in a cool evening breeze - and Solas, who stepped aside to hold the door for a hobbling Varric.

The dwarf paused on the threshold, sniffing the air appreciatively. "Maker's breath... it smells like home in here. Like stepping into my ma's kitchen after a long day working with Bartrand."

From the dining table, Emmeline looked up from arranging the last of the silverware, a warm smile tugging at her lips. "Is that a good thing or a bad thing?"

Varric chuckled, a low, genuine sound. "Trust me, it's a great thing. Back then, food meant family squabbles, not dealing with whatever disaster was happening in the world." He gave a little nod in her direction. "Ms...?"

"Emmeline," she supplied easily, patting the seat nearest to her. "And that's my husband, Arnell."

Arnell gave a small, welcoming nod from where he was setting down the breadbasket.

Varric grinned, placing a hand theatrically over his heart. "Varric Tethras, rogue storyteller and occasionally unexpected tag-along."

With Solas' careful assistance, Varric settled himself into the nearest chair with a grateful grunt. Solas took the spot beside him, Felassan immediately curling up by the elf's boots with a small, sleepy huff.

Shadowheart, wiping her hands on a cloth as she approached the table, shot Varric a teasing look. "And I'm Shadowheart - officially his…" she paused, searching for the right word, then said slyly, "paramour."

Varric blinked at her, taken aback for a solid moment before barking out a laugh. "Well, that's something I thought I'd never see in the flesh: Chuckles here with an actual, living, breathing sweetheart."

Shadowheart's eyes gleamed with mischief as she leaned in slightly. "So, does that mean I get to call him Chuckles too, or do I have to come up with my own nickname?"

Solas, already resigned, gave her a flat look. "Why must you feel the need to do that?"

Shadowheart placed a mock-wounded hand over her chest. "Because, vhenan, as your paramour, I have exclusive rights to embarrass you in public. It's practically a sacred duty."

Varric smirked broadly, lifting a mug in salute. "She's got you there, Chuckles."

Solas closed his eyes for a brief moment, exhaling as though reconsidering every decision that had brought him to this moment, and then, wordlessly, reached for the wine jug.

As the bald elf carefully poured the wine into each cup with the same precision he applied to everything, Shadowheart leaned her chin into her hand, watching Varric curiously.

"You know," she said, curiosity filling in her tone of voice, "for someone amazed that Solas has a real lover, you're still staring as if you've never seen a half-elf before."

Varric blinked, pulled from his thoughts, and gave a sheepish shrug. "That's because I haven't."

Shadowheart raised an eyebrow in genuine surprise. "You're serious?"

Varric tapped the side of his head lightly. "Where we're from, half-breeds like you - no offense - just... don't happen."

Shadowheart leaned back, absorbing that, her brow furrowing. "Huh. Guess I'd really be one of a kind if I ever go to Thedas, wouldn't I?"

Emmeline chuckled warmly as she set a bowl of soup before Varric. "Well, we think you're quite special, my little shadow."

Arnell, settling into his seat, shot Solas a thoughtful look. "Though if we're talking about rare things... seems to me Solas isn't exactly rushing to get back to his 'original realm.'" He glanced at Varric, casual but probing. "You willing to shed any light on that, seeing as our resident elf tends to be... vague about it?"

The air shifted slightly, just enough for Shadowheart to catch it - the brief, almost imperceptible glance Solas sent Varric's way. A warning. A request.

Not letting any indication that he's seen the sharp look from his friend, the dwarf simply leaned back in his chair, casually folding his arms. "It's not really my story to tell. Not right now, anyway."

Arnell chuckled, not taking offense. "Worth a shot." He picked up his spoon with a grin. "Best we eat before this gets cold. Can't have good soup going to waste - even in a household full of mysteries."

"What can I say? I'm an author who likes his mysteries."

---

The night was cool, the grass wet beneath their boots as Solas led Varric across the yard toward a small, nondescript shed tucked beneath the shadow of a wide old oak. The only sounds were the distant rustle of leaves and the occasional soft hoot from Felassan somewhere on the roof.

Varric hobbled after Solas, muttering just loud enough for the elf to hear, "You know, this is exactly the part in one of my stories where the serial killer lures the unsuspecting fool out into the dark. Probably has a sharpened butcher's knife tucked away, just for the occasion."

Without slowing or even glancing back, Solas replied, far too casually, "Is that what you think is about to happen? That I'm going to stab you in the middle of the night?"

Varric smirked, despite himself. "Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me."

That actually got a small snort from Solas - barely there, but genuine. "You were the one who decided to charge an armed man without a weapon, Varric." Varric opened his mouth to fire back, but Solas smoothly cut him off, stopping before the shed door and fixing him with a neutral, unreadable look. "The past is the past. It should be laid to rest for now."

Varric clamped his mouth shut, his jaw tightening.

Laid to rest, huh? That was easy for Solas to say - the one who wasn't the dead guy in that story. Fury simmered low in Varric's gut, but he swallowed it down for the moment, his curiosity about what Solas was up to winning out.

With a faint creak, Solas pushed open the shed door, the faint scent of wood, earth, and something sharper - magic, maybe - wafting out into the night.

Solas didn't step inside right away. Instead, he turned slightly toward Varric, his expression unreadable but his voice almost… casual. "There are more pressing matters to discuss at the moment," he said. "Such as: did you enjoy Emmeline's cooking?"

Varric tightened his jaw, that familiar ember of fury crackling low in his chest. 'Really? After everything, you want to talk about dinner?' But something in Solas' tone - too deliberately light - made Varric bite back the sharp response itching on his tongue.

Fine. If Chuckles wanted to play it that way, he'd play along.

The dwarf gave a slow shrug, his voice dry. "Is that really such an important thing to you? Thought we all looked pretty damn satisfied by the end."

Solas allowed a faint, approving nod. "It is important. Emmeline is quite particular about her craft. She always seeks ways to improve her gifts." His gaze turned inward for a moment. "A sentiment I can understand."

Varric raised a brow. "Lemme guess. It's magic, isn't it?" He threw his hands up. "When is it not magic or the Fade with you?"

Solas' lips quirked at the edge, almost a smirk. "How can it not always be that way with me?" he answered simply, just as they reached the shed door. "I was born from magic itself, after all."

Solas fully turned his attention to the door. His fingers traced intricate, glowing patterns in the air - wards and seals Varric couldn't even begin to follow. One by one, the locks unwound with soft clicks until, finally, the door creaked open.

They stepped inside, and at once, torches flared to life along the walls, bathing the interior in a warm, golden glow.

Varric took a long look around the shed, noting the carefully arranged shelves of supplies, odd magical implements, and something large in the center, hidden beneath a heavy cloth.

Thumbing toward the torches, Varric grumbled out. "So, let me guess: magic shit brought us into this world, and I'm guessing more magic bullshit is how you plan to get us home?"

Solas didn't answer immediately. Instead, he crossed the room with measured steps and, without ceremony, pulled the cloth away.

Underneath stood a gleaming Eluvian, with all signs pointing to it having been constructed from scratch, its surface dark and still like a mirror waiting to be awakened.

Varric's eyebrows shot up, letting out a low whistle. "Well, I'll be damned,"

Solas turned slightly, more than a hint of pride breaking through his usual reserve. "While I am no June," he said, "I like to think I have created an adequate substitute."

Varric circled it slowly, keeping a respectful distance. "I thought these things were just doorways into the Fade… all that nightmare fuel and weirdness."

"They are now," Solas said, voice deepening with something like reverence. "When the Veil was created, the Eluvians' true purpose was diminished. But before - when the realm of dreams and the waking world were one - the Eluvians were much more. They were pathways to worlds far beyond our understanding. Worlds like Faerûn and the realms that lie beyond it."

Varric whistled low, scratching the back of his neck. "You're telling me these mirrors were, what, some kind of magical universal highways?"

Solas didn't respond with words. Instead, he reached inside his robes and produced the Lyrium Dagger. It pulsed softly in his hand, humming with a contained, almost feral energy.

As he approached the Eluvian, the dagger flared brighter, casting wild reflections across the walls. With a practiced motion, Solas touched the dagger's tip to the mirror's surface -

- And the Eluvian came alive.

The mirror shimmered, its darkness peeling away like mist to reveal a swirling portal, its surface shifting and rippling like liquid silver caught in a dream.

Varric took a step back, eyes wide. "Maker's breath…" he muttered, half in awe, half in wary suspicion.

Solas, for his part, simply watched it, the ghost of a tired smile touching his mouth.

"And with this, it shall reclaim its original purpose."

---

Ma'athlan = Has awakened.

Da'dirthen = Little Shadow

Why yes, Varric is back in the story, and will be playing a major role, effectively being one of two double acts that shall be focused on throughout the story. Who's the other duo going to be for our story? Gotta stick around to find out!

Also, I think it'd be very interesting to see Solas, after his whole BG3 adventure, teaming up with the guy who, from that perspective, he just killed and just brought him back to life. Interesting times ahead for our dear Dread Wolf and our favorite author!

Also, per a suggestions here is the general list of Solas' general BG3 choices and will know what else he did as the story goes on:
Protect the Emerald Grove and the Tieflings
Explored both the Underdark and the Mountain Pass, but still managed to free the gnomes
Prevent Shadowheart from killing Aylin
Have Wyll reject Misora's contract, but still managed to track down and save his dad before it was too late
Don't let Astarion ascend and just straight up kill Cazador Szarr
Keep Shadowheart's parents alive, but Solas pulls a fast one on Shar by using the Lyrium Dagger to cut Shadowheart's connection to Shar
Convince Gale not to reforge the crown
Signed the contract to get the Orphic Hammer from Raphael, but managed to outplay him by infiltrating the House of Hope and stealing the contract (along with Mol's) before going on to kill Raphael and Korrilla in the confrontation at the end
Free Orpheus and later kill the Emperor for choosing to side with the Absolute in the end. Prevented anyone else from needing to become a Mindflayer by having Orpheus use the Lyrium Dagger to harness the full power of the Netherstones to stop the Absolute.
Wyll joins Karlach in Avernus

Hope this makes sense and fits Solas' character.

Until next time!