Children. Two children. They had two children. Mythal took a deep breath, then another. And then another. But it did not help. It did nothing to assuage the sudden clench of her chest, the very real blade that had ended her life paling in comparison to the pain that blossomed there. Sharp, consuming. Her breaths were too fast, shallow, and for a moment, she wondered if she was suffocating. Denaya. Arithari. She committed those names to memory. Such beautiful names.
Mythal made a soft noise when he told her that she had been… around when they were very young. Not there. Not present, with them. But around. Elgar’nan. Elgar’nan. Always Elgar’nan and his machinations! So much so that she’d had to keep her distance from her own children. Her eyes stared forward but they did not see, her focus turned inwardly as she tried and tried again to find some sort of memory of her daughters, a glimpse, a fragment, anything!
But nothing came, nothing at all.
I thank you, for giving them stories, but they’re a poor substitute for a blood-and-flesh mother that loved them dearly. She must have loved them. Her heart ached and she knew that she had. But she didn’t fight as Solas pulled her into his lap, Mythal shifting until she was settled in sideways, legs over his lap, turned around so that she could bury her face against his shoulder as she… as she had to listen. One of her children had been taken. Elgar’nan had taken her. Her poor child. The torment she must have endured… She would not weep. She refused. But she held onto him, her shield, her anchor, her heart.
Then… then we must bring her home, like you say, she said as evenly as she could, though the grief, the loss, floated beneath her words. We must find her, Feredir. And we must protect Denaya. Her arms tightened around him. I wish to see her. When we can… does she know you? Do they…blame me? No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t bring herself to say it.
Hush. We had to do what we had to do. He murmured, as he held her, in near silence. Eventually, she spoke again. We will bring her home. But not yet, after you have rested. Have regained more of who you were. Because she was not whole yet, and she might never remember everything. The mind was a strange object, easy to manipulate but also easy to break.
Denaya is working. She's safe. He promised, We can see her after you have had time to adjust. After he had had time to adjust to Mythal being here, in person, he could touch her...
They know me. And no, they do not blame you. At least, Denaya doesn't. Ari... she seems to blame herself. He suspected Stockholm, given how long Elgar'nan's had her. But Ari is going to be complicated; she's been with Elgar'nan for millenia. There's going to be a lot to do, not just... bring her home. But to undo, redo, unteach, relearn.
He adjusted his hold on Mythal, and hugged her to him, It'll take time. All of it. And we have time. They had time now; because he'd done it. He'd brought her home. She was here, in his arms, he could feel the rise of her chest as she breathed and the too-fast pitter-patter of her heart.
Hollow comfort, but he tried. For her. Mythal appreciated him all the more for it. He reassured her again, and she found herself… easing into the safety that his arms offered. It wouldn’t last, she knew. It wouldn’t… keep the outside world from intruding, but for now, for right now, she had this. She had him. Perhaps not so hollow a comfort then.
She had to rest. She had to regain more of who she was. She was not whole yet. Solas spoke the truth. Mythal knew, and she tried not to bristle at the words, at the truth. The harsh, implaccable truth. Ari should not blame herself. As his guest, and here she all but spat the word out, it must have been so so horrible for her. Mythal knew this, almost better than anyone. Save probably her own daughter.
Another, shaking breath, his touch one again soothing, calming. Comforting. I have missed you, she finally told him, her face turning so that she could press her lips to his cheek. Dark eyes drank in the sight of his profile, her hands moving up to stroke the stray hairs back from his face, following down the length of it as far as she could reach. He was magnificent.
Solas was quiet, as he held her. Listened to her voice. It still felt fake. Like if he let her go, if he took his hands off of her... she'd disappear. It's only when she pressed a kiss to his cheek, that he seemed to refocus, dark eyes searching her features as her hands wandered through his hair.
Have you? He inquired, leaning toward her, so that his face was mere inches from hers. It still feels like I'm dreaming. A quiet admittance. Before he leaned in for a kiss.
The kiss was gentle, and even after it was over, his lips stayed pressed to her cheek, he lingered. Breathing in her scent, his hands wandering over her form, slow and easy. Trying to make himself believe it was real. She was real.
And eventually, he pulled away, straightened, and chuckled softly. I don't think I'll ever get used to having you here. So much had changed; he'd changed... and he had no idea how coming back from the dead as she had might affect her in the long-run. So she mgiht have changed, too. But she was here. And that was what he'd wanted with all of his being.
Her smile was soft, as soft as her eyes as they traced over the shape of his face. He was right. It was foolish to rush in when they were unprepared. If she died again; worse, if she were somehow brought under Elgar’nan’s control… all would be lost. She grieved. She raged. But Mythal knew Sadness and Anger. They were age old companions that she carried with her. Solas though? He was her choice, one that she carried as well. One that she had refused to relinquish. She had died for it. And yet, she still had his heart. Still carried with her even when she had been unmade. Asleep.
She tilted her face to accept the kiss, marveling at the warmth of it, delighting in the way that his lips lingered there against her cheek. Her look was amused. So chaste, Feredir? she teased. She remembered the instruction he… needed, too careful, too shy perhaps, to indulge without guidance. She didn’t know, but her palm slid up to cup the cheek farthest away from her. Holding him there, Mythal turned her face towards his, until their noses bumped together. His disbelief was still so fresh.
You are not dreaming, my love. I am real. I am here with you now. Easing forward, she let her forehead come to a rest against his. And this was the type of kiss I meant I wanted… Her mouth, to his, for long, breathless moments. Then, she eased away, just enough to speak. Surely you have not forgotten? I seem to recall that you were not so tentative in the time you spend with two others who held my shard.
She was amused with him, and he bit his lip in response. It was in jest, though, and she brought herself closer to him. Noses bumping, foreheads resting against one another. She was so close; and she stole his breath. Long, breathless moments came to a close, and he inhaled softly. They were not you. They carried pieces of you.
But no matter how hard he'd tried, Andraste and the rest of the shard-holders had never been anymore Mythal than themselves. He'd been chasing ghosts. No matter how hard I tried, they were never anyone but themselves.
He stole another kiss, rough in his advance this time, nipping her bottom lip as he pulled away. One hand ran through her hair, fingers carefully twining dark tresses. You've only just dressed, Myta. He murmured the words, as he traced her jaw with the hand not curled into her hair.
Mythal did not think of herself as a particularly vain creature; she did not require outright obedience or obeisances. But the reply he gave, oh how it thrilled her. These females, strong and powerful in their own right, were not her. Solas knew this. He acknowledged this. He admitted this. And the greedy, covetous pieces of her sang in response. She smiled. It was not kind, nor was it understanding of her, but it was real. Honest. She accepted this and sank into the suddenness of his mouth on hers again.
I did not dress too hastily, she replied, dark eyes glittering as she deliberately mistook his meaning, but should it offend, perhaps you should do something about it.
Settled in his lap as she was, it was an easy thing to… shift herself, adjusting her weight from one leg to the other. Touch, sensation, connection, Mythal remembered, and she delighted in her response to it, in his response to it.
A fingertip delicately prodded at his navel, lingering there before she slowly traced up, stopping only when the the tip of her finger crooked underneath his chin, scraping a light line of sensation against the sensitive skin there. If it would please you to remember, I cannot reach the buttons on the back of my own dress.
Solas wouldn't trade her smile for anything in the world, even as she pretended she had no idea what he wanted. The way she purposefully remained misunderstanding... The shifting of weight on his lap, the hand not tangled through her dark tresses moved to trail down her midsection, fingers leaving her navel to run along the length of her thigh.
Ah, yes. Those pesky buttons. He crooned, untangling himself from her hair, so that he could undo the buttons in quick succession. One hand pressed against her inner thigh, while the other trailed a light touch along her spine.
She's spent so long imprisoned in two halves, he was expecting more anger. And yet... thusfar she has shown very little upset at her circumstances. Not that those circumstances were his fault, though. But everyone needed to be mad at someone; to blame someone for the bad moments of their lives. Otherwise the psyche could not withstand the realities being shown to it.
You've missed me. The way that he removes her dress is methodical; first the buttons, then inch by inch, he pulls it from her shoulders. The fabric pools at her hips, and Solas squeezed her leg, before pushing her upright, so that the dress might puddle at her feet.
His tongue traces over his bottom lip, and he makes a spinning motion with one hand, Slowly, I want to see you. She was, of course, perfection. She had never been anything but perfect.
Breathtaking. Perhaps I should gather a canvas and some paints... She was his favorite muse, his most desired model.
A wordless murmur of agreement at his comment of the pesky buttons. She agreed, wholeheartedly, but she couldn’t find too much fault with them. They had their uses, and when they were undone, she did not try and stop the way she arched into his touch. A brow arched then.
Should I not have missed you then?
Was there something else that she didn’t remember? So many pieces, so many memories, gone. She would likely reclaim them, in time. She needed time. Had that not been the very words that Solas had spoken? They were, and she pouted, but only a little, as he pushed her off of his lap so that she stood. The dress slid down from around her hips then, the whisper soft sound as thrilling as the sight of his desire.
Mythal laughed, but she did as he wished. Her gaze never left his, her head turning around faster than her body so that she could maintain eye contact at al times. But she would not be denied and stepped forward into his space once again, her arms sliding around his neck. Paints, hmm? And what would you paint?
She desired to know the paths his mind took, taste the flavour of his thoughts, lose herself in the fervor of his emotions. Her mouth brushed across his and she pushed herself closer into him. I want to know…
Mmm, it pleases me that you miss me. He had been expecting her anger, after all. And yet, here she was before him, the perfect canvas. Her arms slipped around his neck, and he grinned up at her, a wolfish grin.
You, of course. He chuckled quietly, leaned for a kiss, as her mouth brushed near his own. When have I ever painted anything but you, Mytha? He purred the words, and let one of his hands trail between them, nail dragging down the center of her midsection.
He shifted where he sat, and brushed his lips along her jaw, while his hand continued to explore her body. Eventually nimble fingers teased her, and he moved to lay her out on the bed.
Let me see you. He breathed, as he slipped one hand around her wrist, placing her arm above her head, before doing the same with the other. Once she was laid out the way he wanted, he held a hand up to his mouth, the 'sh' sign.
Let me find the paint. And he was off, leaving her laid out on the bed in an empty room.
There had been nothing in her long sleep that rivaled the startling way that her body responded to something as simple as a touch. Even the air around her, ambient and mostly inert, elicited curious sensations, her skin tightening and even pebbling in some places. Half of her focus turned inward, as hands… teased her.
You’ve grown bolder, Feredir, she not quite gasped out, her hips pushing forward to chase after the fingers that caressed over and against her. Guiding her over to a bed, laying her out over it. And then…
He left.
The room.
She eased herself up, propping up onto her elbows so that she could stare incredulously after him, at the door that he’d actually walked through. Well, that was… frowning, Mythal realized that she had no words for it, nothing to describe what she was feeling. Irritation was closest. Yes. That would do nicely. She was irritated. Which there was only one remedy for.
Swinging her legs over, she sat up and primly slid off the bed. With a toss of long, dark hair over a shoulder, she went over to a window. Promptly climbing out of it, she landed lightly on her feet. Clasping her hands behind her back, she began sauntering forward, letting her curiosity rise to the fore. There. A stairway for her to climb, so she did.
Solas had gone to retrieve edible paints; he's had time to hone his craft, after all. But when he returned to go back up the stairs, he paused in the doorway of an empty room. Briefly, he wondered if he's gone to the wrong room... but surely he has not. This is, after all, his fortress. And he knows every room.
Entering the room, he studied it before moving to peer out the window. He didn't expect anything to be there' and yet, he sees her walking up the stairs just outside of the window. Naked.
And his breath catches, before it stutters in his throat. Mytha! He called, still holding onto the jar of paint, as he stepped through the window, ducking to avoid hitting his head. And he followed, dressed, hurrying after her.
What are you doing? He inquired, as a quickly weaved net of invisibility is cast around the two of them. His hand reached, fingers brushing along her shoulder. I've retrieved our paints. You'll like the taste of these ones.
Of course she would. He'd taken great care to ensure these paints tasted good. That had been a main complaint in the past from the woman in front of him.
Without any particular rush, she turned slowly at the sound of her name. A brow arched, but she chose not to answer, smiling pleasantly instead. So Feredir had decided to return, had he? How magnanimous of him. Mythal watched in amusement as he climbed out the window after her, her head tilting a little at his evident rush. Why? Did he think that the stones would rise up and attack her? Or that perhaps she would slip on the stairs and fall to the courtyard below?
Hands still clasped behind her back, the telltale prickle of magic danced across her bare skin. An invisibility spell? She laughed then, but the look she leveled at him did not match the sound. Why, I decided to go for a walk since you left so abruptly. What was she doing indeed! I did not know you were going to retrieve the paints since you did not say a word. Because he had said nothing.
Her eyes narrowed. You are certain that I will like them? I seem to recall something akin to tasting what ground up stone must taste like, with the consistency of paste… Mythal did not immediately set herself there at his side, not just yet, but she was willing to be coaxed and cajoled into it. She looked up at her wolf expectantly.
Solas' lips curved on one side, as she chuckled. Presumably she laughed at his spell, though her look did not match the glee in her laughter. I told you that I was acquiring paints. Had he? Or had he simply thought the phrase and left so quickly in a haste that he'd not spoken them aloud?
He seems confident, as he addressed her though. And then she narrowed her eyes, and he stepped to be dead center, in front of her. Close enough that his fingers could graze her flesh, over a naked hip. But perhaps... right here, with the entirity of Skyhold spread beneath us, is more to your taste? There was something titillating about the fact none down there could see them; but they could see those down there...
I think I would like that. Wouldn’t you? she asked him with a slight curl of her lips, making sure to look up at him through long, curling lashes. Her wolf had always been so serious, so dour when there was no need to. But perhaps that was somewhat her fault in the years after she had summoned him. Mythal had infused him with such responsibility, such knowledge and it was a heavy, heavy mantle to bear.
A mantle that he had borne by himself for so so long.
To see him smile, to see the heat in his eyes… she wanted it. She wanted all of it.
Her arms lifted out from her sides and she closed the slight distance between them, pressing her body to his. Those same arms wound round his neck, fingertips grazing down from hairline to nape, over and over again.
We would have to be quiet though, so so very quiet. Dark eyes sparkled at him as she issued her challenge. Do you think I could keep quiet as you painted me, Feredir? I think I could.
