Title: Truth Is So Unkind (Chapter 1/4)
Author: skybound2
Rating: T
Characters: F!Lavellan/Solas (Dorian in later parts; references to Varric and some minor appearances by Dagna, Cullen, Morrigan, Leliana, Josephine,and Dennet)
Word Count: ~5400 (for this part)
Spoilers: Spoilers for the Solas romance/game ending.
Summary: "You claim to speak of truths, but all you offer me are lies. So be it. Keep your secrets, Solas, if they matter so much." Lavellan knows that there is much the Dalish got wrong, she just wishes she knew how much.
Author Notes: It's possible that these two may own my soul right now, and this story that I've been working on for the last week solid is the current result of my obsession. There is drama, and hurt/comfort, and angst, and humor, and Dorian as the BFF to end all BFFs. Features my Inquisitor, Daleka. (Referenced in my other fic "Head Over Feet." Additional info/screencaps (and art by itsmyfreakin!) of her are available on my tumblr - NOW WITH ART FOR THIS STORY! Please see my profile for a link.) While this is technically a WIP, the bulk of the story IS written, I'm just going through the final stages of editing before posting. I anticipate a week at the most for all parts to go up. Title taken from a lyric in the song 'Subterranean' by Foo Fighters (which is on my current personal playlist for these two). Some minor Elvish used throughout this (translations will be included at the end of each chapter). Enjoy!

Truth Is So Unkind

(Chapter 1)

There are stories - legends in the making - whispered about the leader of the Inquisition. Tavern songs and chantry-styled verses being passed from ear to ear amongst the people of Thedas, carried as easily as pollen on the wind.

And while, as with all legends, these stories have a kernel of truth, with each telling the exploits of the oft-named 'Herald of Andraste' grow ever wilder; expanding in size until they grow so large that they threaten to bury their subject under the weight of expectation.

Many of the tales begin with the Herald's daring actions as she battled the demons of the breach; extolling her bravery in the face of what others would see as certain defeat, a sword touched by holy fire in one hand, a shield with the sunburst sigil of the chantry gleaming upon it strapped to her forearm, and an army of the faithful bowed at her side as she raised a palm to the sky and bent it to her blessed command.

Others speak meekly in wonder at her caring for the little folk; spinning yarns made of virtues unparalleled. They tell of her habit of lending aid in the most unlikely of fashions - from the finding of a wayward druffalo, to the return of a widowed woman's lost wedding band. They laugh as they tell of the Herald fetching a wayward son - off playing at war, while his mother lay at dying at home - and tugging him back by the ear to his worried father with a promise that he'll never stray far from home again.

They marvel at how she would appear with a stockpile of meats or blankets at the exact moment they were most needed, as if she could hear their desperate pleas for food and warmth through the Fade - and mayhaps she could. Some cry silent tears of joy as they recall how they would have lost their husband, wife, father, mother, sister, brother, child had the Herald not arrived in a most auspicious manner with a healer in tow, and a pledge of ongoing assistance to the ailing and injured refugees of the mage-templar war. While still others scoff at such a mundane explanation, claiming that the Herald laid hands upon them herself, healing their wounds and guiding them from the door of death personally - never mind that the Herald is no mage. For of course, the woman chosen by the Maker to lead them to salvation is capable of such things.

A tale of a rift sealed, or a dragon bested, with the aid of many a potion, several broken bones, and her exhausted, but ever-loyal companions as her saving grace by her side, grows until it is a Known Truth that the Inquisitor has fought both giants and dragons alike - single-handed - and come out with nary a scratch. While many know that to be utter hogwash, many more believe it to be true.

For it is easy to have faith in that which is beyond comprehension. Easy to believe that a person such as the one painted in the tales may be able to deliver the common and noble folk alike from the evils that plague the world. It is much less easy to believe such things possible when in the hands of one no more exceptional than themselves.

For surely, they would not be capable of such feats...would they?

But, as with all legends, a few take a darker path in their telling. Muttered words of the savagery of the Dalish elf come to lead them all to their ruin. They say that she sneaks into the cities under the cover of night and sinister magic, and steals away infants from their beds to fuel the blood mages in her employ. They seethe at any that will listen that she means to wipe humans from the face of Thedas in a bid to raise the elves back to power.

They tremble in fear as they tell of her gleeful murder of the Divine; of how she stalked from the Fade, white hair bathed red in the blessed Justinia's blood, a fanged smile upon her tawny face, and a charred maul - cursed by the seven magisters of Tevinter themselves and gifted to their disciple, whom has promised to deliver them to the heart of the Black City - held aloft over her head as she laid claim upon the souls of the faithful, twisting them to her purpose.

More wretched than a thousand demons is she, the Heretic Descendant of Shartan.

What these tales miss - as all legends do - are the simple truths that breathe life into a person, separating them from a caricature woven into a tapestry destined to gather dust upon the forgotten walls of a Keep. They fail to mention that the Herald of Andraste, the appointed leader of the Inquisition, is a terror to wake in the mornings. So much so that her companions draw straws daily to see who is tasked with waking her when afield, while her advisors set a rotating schedule for when they are within the walls of Skyhold so that no one person may be in her sour graces for long.

There are no words wasted on how she enjoys tea in the evenings - with a touch of honey; or that she detests lemon, except when sweetened to the point of being nigh on unrecognizable. That she - as a Dalish elf - is ashamed of her growing fondness for thick-soled, wool-lined boots, and that in protest of her changing preference, she insists on greeting all visiting dignitaries bare of feet; much to her Ambassador's chagrin.

They neglect to mention that she visits the stables daily, joining the master of horses in his duties as he grooms and feeds the mounts, tasking herself with the care of those she rides most often - including the mucking out of their pens. Or that she is a lousy hand at cards, and even worse at chess.

No one ever recalls how in her - ever more limited - spare time, she can be found squirreled away on the battlements overlooking the mountains, taking out her frustrations on a hapless block of wood with naught but a whittling knife and a scrap of sanding paper. A habit - and skill - acquired and perfected since childhood as a means of dealing with her inability to simply lob the head off anyone who pisses her off. (Which, since being forced to regularly deal with the constant requests and demands of nobility from all corners of Thedas has resulted in a minor armor of tiny figurines left scattered all over Skyhold.)

Nor do they mention how, when the pressures and annoyances that come from being thrust into a position of immeasurable power and prestige with scarcely a chance to contemplate the consequences become too much for even whittling to abate, she seeks out the comfort of a particular learned apostate with a penchant for the Fade and frescos.

And for certain, they would never breathe a word of how, on one notable occasion, the Inquisitor had to be held back from throttling the personal Court Mage for Empress Celene cum Magical Advisor to the Inquisition.

At least, not if they didn't want to end up locked in the dungeons by one, sweet yet scary as hell, aforementioned Ambassador.

-Excerpt from a draft copy of 'Legends of Thedas: Collected Tales' by Varric of House Tethras; found balled up, and charred at the edges, in a rubbish bin destined for the compost pile outside Skyhold.

-A note, scrawled in a looping wide-spaced hand at the bottom of the parchment reads "Dungeons are so common, Varric. I'm certain that were an Ambassador of sufficient means and suitable influence within the ranks of the Inquisition interested in silencing such tales, a more efficient and creative solution would be found." The signature has been burnt off.

~~~\/~~~

"LET ME GO, CULLEN! I'M NOT GOING TO KILL HER, I'M JUST GOING TO STRANGLE HER A LITTLE BIT!"

Daleka Lavellan rages, desperate to pry herself loose from the hold the Commander of the Inquisition armies has on her person; her arms locked at an uncomfortable angle within his grip, keeping her back pressed to his front.

"Be that as it may, Inquisitor - OW! Maker your elbows are sharp!"

Daleka doesn't pay him any mind, instead she seizes on the opportunity that the pain she's caused him has provided, resulting as it has in a slackening of his grip and offering her the chance to almost dive over the war table and get her hands around the scrawny neck of the dark-haired witch a short distance away.

Unfortunately, the table provides enough of a barrier to allow the witch to step back, and the Commander to resume his hold.

Daleka grunts at the sudden pressure on her upper back from where Cullen's hands lock and tug, and Morrigan...Morrigan laughs. "Yes, I can see now, how you were clearly the better suited party to drink from the well, Inquisitor! Such patience and care you take in your actions. Surely, you will be able to puzzle out the meanings of the multitudes of voices with untold millennia worth of knowledge being shouted - no whispered - at you."

Morrigan hisses the words at Daleka, venom in every syllable, and Daleka snarls, but it is Leliana who speaks. "Morrigan, perhaps this is not the best time for you to bate the Inquisitor." The words are made as a statement of fact, and not a question. Something for which Daleka would be appreciative, were she in a state of mind that would allow for such a complex emotion.

Which she absolutely is not at present.

Morrigan slides her gaze from Daleka's, her posture remaining tense as she meets the bard's gaze. "Perhaps not, Spymaster." She fixes a look of long-suffering superiority upon Daleka so perfect in its execution, that Daleka wonders if she practises it in that mirror she carts around. "I shall take my leave. I will be in the gardens, Inquisitor, should you require assistance with all the wisdom the well has imparted upon you."

The witch's exit is made final by the echoing thud of the war room doors closing in her wake. Daleka takes three deep breaths following her departure to calm her still swollen anger, before slumping in the Commander's hold, signaling that it is safe for him to release her - which he does in short order, an apology on his lips. She waves it off - this is after all not the first time he has restrained her in such a manner - and moves to lean her weight on her palms against the war table. She bows her head - eyes closed - in an effort to further center herself.

The audacity of the shemlan witch, for acting as if the well - one of the few remaining pieces of history of Daleka's people - was something the chasind woman was owed. As if it was her due! And for what? For having supped upon the broken history of the elves via books, as one may partake of a steak, knowing not what it means to be slaughtered for the meat?

For it is the elves that have been slaughtered. The elves that were led like cattle to the butcher and strung up in the iron chains of slavery. Bleed of their culture, of their language, of their sense of self. For the Imperium, for Orlais. Left at the mercy of shemlan for age upon age, until the few that remain are left scuttling in dirty city streets, or begging for scraps from within the gilded cage of a nobleman's home, or fighting highwaymen and wolves alike for the chance to lay their head undisturbed upon a patch of water-logged ground in the open-aired embrace of a cold mid-winters night. Or - worst of all - reduced to bickering and fighting and shunning their brethren for transgressions as uncontrollable as the place of their birth, rather than embracing one another as kin.

And that witch would have had Daleka deliver the last great wealth of knowledge of her people into the hands of a petulant shem such as she?

The idea would be laughable if it weren't so infuriating.

Daleka's internal preoccupation does nothing to settle her nerves, though the concerned, lilting voice of her Ambassador manages to curb her fixation. "Lady Inquisitor, would you care for a calming draught?"

"No." Daleka grits the word out through her teeth; and busies herself by counting the beats of her heart, waiting for them to slow enough to feign calm. She remembers the pleasantries Josephine has painstakingly tried to install upon her when she reaches fifteen. "Thank you, Josephine. I just - I'm going to get some air. If you would all excuse me."

She is out the door and down the hall and through to Josephine's office before any of them can speak a word elsewise.

She makes it as far as the door heading out to the throne room before she is forced to stop. For though the voices from the well may have started as whispers, subtle highs and lows carried like wisps through her mind, they are not content to remain as such. Instead they increase in volume with each footfall. She leans her head against the cool wood of the door; pressing her forehead against it until the pain of the external overrides the internal. Helping to dull the echoing inside her skull.

Shouts from the so-called heavens indeed. All clamoring for her attention, just like everyone else in this Creators-forsaken Hold.

With an inhale, Daleka steels herself and swings open the door, only to come face to face with a pestering over-dressed peacock of an Orlesian standing on the other side. With a growl, she sends him skittering away - eyes wide and cheeks pale behind his ridiculous mask.

Certain that she is in the clear, she makes her way to the door leading to her chambers, but a perky "Inquisitor! Inquisitor Lavellan! Do you have a moment?"

"No, Dagna. I do not."

"But, Inquisitor-"

She whirls on the arcanist, the throbbing in her skull threatening to send her to her knees; and that she cannot have, not here, where gossips and spies abound. "I said: NOT. NOW."

The other woman's face falls, eyes and mouth relaying hurt and confusion at the unwarranted chastisement. Daleka feels a pang of regret, but is in no position to offer more than a muttered "Find me later, and we'll talk."

She hopes for a reprieve upon slamming the door to her quarters shut behind her, but the volume, the tension, does not lesson. Instead it grows.

And grows.

And grows.

Until the shouts became shrieks so shrill that she fears her brain may just liquefy and be done with it. With leaden steps she manages to climb the stairs to the upper level, but fumbles when she reaches the table she has set by the balcony doors, where a dozen carefully carved chess pieces - in varying stages of progress - reside.

With a throaty growl she hurls the entire table end over end, sending the precious pieces of wood scattering across the room, and for an unfortunate few, over the edge of the balcony.

There is no way to save them. She doesn't even try.

Instead she collapses to the floor, her knees ricocheting on the cold stone with a thunk that she knows will ache for many nights. But she can't care. Not now. Not with the reverberating ache, like a thousand anvils being smashed down upon with a thousand iron hammers - all in unison - inside her skull. She digs her hands into the shaved skin at her temples, fingers slip sliding into the long braided strands of hair at the top of her scalp, and tugging; tugging, tugging. Seeking a purchase just beyond her grasp. She rocks back and forth on bruised knees as she pulls, desperate for relief. Moisture pools in the corners of her eyes, and it is that indignity that rips the howl from her throat.

And like how the built up pressure in a jar of Antivan fire causes it to explode upon impact and then spread out - molten at its center, but ever cooler at the edges - with her shout, the pain begins to ebb. Until there is but a blistering warmth at the base of her skull, threading down through her torso and limbs, and out towards her fingers and toes. The mark in her palm flares bright a moment, then dulls.

And just like that, it's over. The voices still present, but quieted to something approaching a conversational level in a crowded hall. Tiny bits and pieces flick in and out of range, but a few remain loud enough in volume to demand immediate attention.

So it is those that she focuses on, as she crawls on hands and knees and attempts to collect the precious carvings. Her hand slips on something sharp, and she yanks it back with a hiss, tiny droplets of blood dripping onto a broken piece of mirror laying on the floor. She hadn't realized, hadn't cared, that the handheld looking glass - a gift from Vivienne before the Empress's ball - was on the table when she'd upended it so unceremoniously, evidentially shattering the expensive item.

Her eyes are drawn away from the spreading red on the silvery surface until she is focusing instead on her own face in the mirror. The lines of her vallaslin seeming to gleam in her reflection, the thread of constant chatter from the well narrows down to this one thing. A wealth of history, in agonizing detail, is poured into her all-too-absorbent mind. Stricken, she lifts her injured hand to her face, tracing the edges of the once beloved tattoo - the mark of adulthood she'd worn with such pride, even if her fellow clan mates never quite understood why she'd selected Dirthamen, the Keeper of Secrets, over the Craftsman, given the hours she'd spent perfecting her chosen art.

Of course, she'd never really felt the need to explain it to anyone either. Her reasons were hers, and hers alone. Keeper Deshanna had laughed when Daleka had barked her response at the doubters, and proclaimed to the clan that if they needed evidence of her devotion to Dirthamen, they need seek no further, for she'd just proven herself as any true acolyte of the Secret Keeper would.

But now, as she paints a bloody streak down her cheeks, those memories are pushed far, far behind, replaced by what the well reveals regarding the true nature of the vallaslin. Nausea flares up in time with the sudden burst of knowledge, and she flings herself bodily away from the broken mirror; skittering into the corner of the balcony where a chess piece teeters precariously on the edge, much like her sanity.

She grabs a hold of the piece before it can fall - this one was to be completed in the likeness of her Keeper in place of the standard King, but she'd been having difficulty getting the hands just right - and holds it tight in her bloodied palm. At a loss, she tugs her legs into her chest so that she may rest her head against them while she tries to remember how to breathe.

It is some hours later, long past the dinner hour, when Solas finds her, still settled in the same position upon the balcony. Limbs and neck stiff, blood congealed in spatters on the floor and her person - she imagines the picture that paints is less than comforting.

"Ma Vhenan?"

"Solas?" She lifts her aching head in the direction of the voice she knows and loves so well, eager for the relief she is sure will come with his arrival. He's never failed to make her feel more at ease after all, like the burdens of the world don't rest upon her shoulders, and they are she is only a woman in love with a man - but looking upon him this time is like staring at some twisted remnant of a dream.

His features blur and merge with ghosts given life within her mind by the well. And each wary step he takes twists until it is no longer Solas, but a massive four-legged beast stalking towards her. The image flickers from view as he passes from the main room and onto the balcony, and for a moment, he is Solas once more.

But before either shock or relief can set in, he morphs again, only this time his sleekly shaven scalp is decorated with thick twists of hair that reach down his back; baubles and glittering gems tied within the dark auburn dreads, highlighted by a small bleached white skull nestled against his forehead like an odd-sort of crown. His bearing, and clothing turns regal, with dense white fur framing the deep "V" at the neck of his tunic, highlighting the wolf jawbone necklace he is never without, pressed close to the smooth alabaster skin of his chest. As he crouches next to her, one hand lifting as if to touch her cheek, but remaining just on the periphery, she catches sight of golden loops glinting in the sun along the shell of his ear.

An ear that she has traced with fingers, teeth and tongue enough times to know that he wears no such adornments. That no trace of such exists even as scarring or toughened skin. She shakes her head, once, roughly, trying to erase the images from her sight. When she looks back at him, the ghosts hover still, stretching out along his nose into it becomes what is unmistakably a snout - and there far too many eyes - but she forces herself to focus past that, and slowly the images fade away like smoke caught in a breeze, until it is just her Solas kneeling before her, concern writ plan as day upon his face.

"The vir'abelasan?

She opens her mouth to speak, but has no words to explain - so uncertain is she as to what exactly is happening to her - so she opts for a nod instead. He holds her gaze, eyebrows pulled down, and a frown marring his features, before he gives a tight nod of his own in response.

He moves from her then - the distance between them shamefully allowing her a chance to catch her breath. She watches in a daze as he goes about cleaning up her mess, with no more overlays from the well to distract her from his activities. The table is set to rights first, then the broken shards of the mirror carefully collected and discarded. Each chess piece - with the exception of those now lost outside the walls of Skyhold, and the one to which she still clings - its half-finished shape embedded into her palm - found and placed back on the table along with her crafting materials. When that is done, he makes his way to the basin of water in her closet, and returns to her side, a wet cloth warmed by his magic in his hand.

With care, he clears the blood from first her face, then peels open her hand, he frowns at the blood-stained carving held tight within, before tucking it with care into the belt of his tunic. He then slides the cloth along each finger, along the underside of her nails, and finally against her palm. The wound was minor, and has already scabbed over, but he pushes a gentle pulse of magic through her regardless, healing it fully.

Blue eyes heavy with worry seek out hers. It would be more comforting, she thinks, if there weren't two extra pairs flickering in and out of focus upon his face. "Better?"

Again, she has no words - the knowledge of the well may be fueled by the lore imparted on her since childhood, trying to reveal this truth to her, but they are the both of them warred by the desperate denial of her heart - yet a nod is still within her capability. His hands close around hers, the warmth of them a balm against her skin. "You're freezing, ma lath. How long have you been out here?" Daleka shakes her head, and Solas doesn't press for more. He just squeezes her hand and says, "Come. Let us get you inside."

The thought of moving into the room while his face continues to ebb and flow between beast and man, lover and stranger, sends panic skittering through her chest.

She hates herself for it.

"I...can't. Not yet."

Solas makes no attempt to convince her; instead only gifting her a tiny, understanding smile that is thankfully not replaced with anything else by the well. "One moment then."

She watches as he moves into her room once more, a flick of his wrist sets the lamps to light and the logs in the hearth to burning. She hears the clinking of ceramic, followed by the sound of water being poured.

When he returns, he presses a heated mug into her hands - the scent of bergamot and honey wafting to her nose from within. "Drink."

She holds his gaze as she takes a tentative sip, only to have her eyelids flutter shut and a sigh escape her throat at the taste. The drink is made exactly to her liking, but with an underlying hint of...elfroot? It's delicious. And soothing. Just as she is certain he intended. Solas may shun the beverage as detestable, but it is certainly not for his inability to make a perfect cup. "Thank you."

Seeming pleased, he departs once more, only to return a moment later with a blanket. The one she'd gotten in Val Royeaux after he'd begun to spend more nights with her than without. She'd wanted something more...welcoming than the silken monstrosity her room had been prepared with initially. Something in which they could lose themselves together.

And to that end, the blanket has been a phenomenal success, for she cannot count the number of mornings they have spent wrapped around one another, buried beneath its warmth, in a vain attempt to block out the cares of the outside world.

She swallows down the remains of the tea, relishing the heat of it as it runs down her throat, and sets the mug aside. He slips the blanket around her, carefully pulling it down so that the tips of her exposed feet are covered, and then moves towards her back. Gently, he maneuvers her forward, allowing enough room so that he may slide behind her. She stiffens at the action at first, but finds that it is easier to have him close when she is not looking right at him. And oh, how she still wants him to be close, despite the insanity that the well is slowly feeding her the longer he is near.

He tucks her against his chest, strong legs cradling her on either side, and harms wrapping tight around her. He presses a tender kiss to her temple, drawing it out into another, and another. And despite everything, she feels the tension wash away from her limbs, her spirit knowing that she is somehow safe here - no matter the words of the well.

"Ir abelas, ma sa'lath. I should not have let you drink from the well."

Daleka snorts. "Let me? I do not recall the decision being yours."

"You sought my counsel on the matter, Vhenan." His hand slips into hers, turning it so that her marked palm is facing up, the green glow pulsing with the soft strokes of his long fingers as he curls them in and out and up, pressing their hands palm to palm, fingertip to fingertip; flexing them together in a rhythmic motion. "I should have stated my concerns more plainly. I regret now that I did not."

"And then what would we have done?" She tilts her head up, just enough so that she can see the dip of his chin where it graces her cheek, her lips close enough to press a kiss to the cleft there, if she were to so choose. "Allowed Morrigan to drink? Left it for Corypheus?"

His free hand smooths a hair back out of her eyes, following the line to trace over the tip of her ear as he presses her head closer to his neck. So close, she can feel the brush of his lips against her forehead when he speaks. "We could have neutralized it - removed the enchantments so that there would have been nothing for him to find but a bathing pool."

She pulls away enough to allow her to whip her head around, slack-jawed. "You'd have desecrated the well? Destroyed it?!"

He presses his lips together in a thin line, brows tilting down, and eyes heavy as he stares back. He cups her face with a palm - one thumb stroking the bone of her cheek. "It would have been kinder, in the end."

Her lip curls as it is want to do, her typical curse at being treated as something delicate, fragile, heavy at the back of her throat - Dread Wolf take your kindness! - but no sooner are the words conjured within her mind, then she chokes them back. Sudden comprehension flooding her.

No. No it cannot be. Creators, NO.

She looks at him again, expecting the vision of the six-eyed beast from the well to return - to give her some further proof that her lover is...is...but there is nothing. Nothing but the Solas she has grown to love so well watching her with soft, worried eyes.

It drains the fight right out of her. Whatever nonsense the well is trying to convince her of, she will not accept it with a blind eye and a fearful heart.

Afterall, just because the well is a source of ancient elven memories, who's to say that they are right? That they have not been altered by time, or skewed by perception?

No. She will not chose to believe them without proof. Decision made, she forces a tiny smile on her face as she shakes her head. "Too late now, I suppose."

With a murmur of agreement, he slides his hand under the hefty braid of her hair and onto her neck; guiding her to rest her forehead upon his. "Ma ghilana na isala, vhenan."

She allows her body to sink into his embrace, "Just hold me."

So he does. And soon after, she finds the peaceful oblivion of a dreamless sleep.

When she wakes, the moon is high in the sky, bathing the balcony and its occupants in its benevolent glow. Solas shifts behind her, a grunt, and a tiny hiss evidence that while he had provided her with a cushion, he was left to sleep propped up against stone, and it has done him no favors.

She feels for him, this man whose name she is not even show she truly knows. It loosens the knot of uncertainty winding its way within her gut, making her want nothing more than to curl further into his arms, and drown out the well's harsh claims with whispered words of love.

So Daleka eases from his embrace, giving her room to place a hand on the side of his face and turn it towards hers. A crease of worry is present between his closed eyes, the corners of his mouth turned down as if something in the Fade is troubling him.

She does not want to imagine what that may be.

Instead she presses her lips to his in a chaste kiss, lingering at the edge as his eyes come open. She says nothing, just moves to stand, the blanket they've shared wrapped about her shoulders still, and reaches out her hand to help him rise.

He slides his calloused palm against hers, and the tingle that dances up her arm at the contact is as pleasant as it is familiar. With a curious, but happy smile he follows her lead to the bed.

Where she does her best to block out reality for a few more hours, with only his arms and a well-loved blanket to shield her.

~TBC

Elvish Translations:

Ma Vhenan: My Heart

Vir'abelasan: The place of the way of sorrows

ma lath: my love

Ir abelas, ma sa'lath.: I'm sorry, my one love.

Ma ghilana na isala, vhenan.: Loosely translated as "Tell me what you need, heart." (This is my own splicing together of canon terms to try and make a usable phrase. Made up languages are a devil to work with.)