Antaam-Saar

By KSCrusaders (Sable Rhapsody on BSN)

Be reasonable, Solas.

He snorted under his breath. Reasonable. As if looting a qunari assassin's armor was the sort of thing reasonable people did every day. Though the way Clariel had said it...bothered him. He couldn't shake the image of his gentle vhenan stripping the man of his armor and weapons while his body was still warm. Carefully wiping droplets of his own blood off the leather straps. Closing his empty eyes forever, gaze lingering on the assassin's pointed ears.

She had an edge now. Solas had sensed it from the moment she survived the Anchor, true steel behind the smile, but it came to the forefront more and more after Halamshiral. He'd helped her hone it, and now-

Now he wondered if he would ever feel its bite.

He heard the rustle of footsteps through the dense grass, cutting a path to the ruined wall where he sat. Solas quickly glanced down at the tatters of his traveling clothes. He had no progress, nothing to show for delaying them.

Clariel came around the wall and wordlessly held up a thick needle and some white thread. Solas glared at her, then at the huge burn that nearly split his shirt in two. It hung together by an inch of blackened cotton.

"We are past the point of mundane repair," he said.

"Or magical, it would seem. I'm sorry," she said, tucking the needle back into her pack. "I didn't think that grenade would bounce so far."

"You did warn me to move. I have only myself to blame." In spite of his undignified situation, he felt a smile tug at his lips. "Though if you wanted to remove my clothes, I would prefer less explosive means."

"Would you?"

Their eyes locked, green on blue-grey, and the familiar frission of warmth ran up his spine. She was smiling, then giggling, and the implacable killer vanished into the young woman with laughter like birdsong.

She sprawled on the ground next to him, resting her head in his lap. Singed threads from his ruined pants tickled the lines of her vallaslin, and Solas automatically reached down to brush them away.

"At least I missed your smallclothes," she pointed out.

"You should leave them where they are. I don't want to delay us further."

She couldn't resist rolling her eyes at him. "I can't believe you didn't bring any spare clothes."

He had no good answer for that. Then again, this was supposed to be a relatively routine outing, scouting for some of Celene's missing troops in the Exalted Plains before returning to the Inquisition camp in the evening. How was he to know that Clariel and Sera had "experimented" with their grenade recipe?

Solas sighed, rubbing his temples against a threatening headache. "Very well. Bring me the assassin's armor." It was better than marching across the Exalted Plains with just a few scraps of cloth to preserve his dignity.

Clariel didn't have an ulterior motive for putting Solas in the armor. At least, not at the time. It just seemed like a practical solution, one that spared Solas the walk of shame back to camp.

Of course, now that he was in it, she couldn't take her eyes off him.

Solas marched in front, setting a blistering pace despite the afternoon heat. Golden blades of grass barely came up to the small of his back, tickling the skin left bare. She watched a single drop of sweat run down Solas's back, caught in an elegant pattern of lean muscle and pale skin. Broader in the shoulders and chest than the assassin, his every movement made the armor strain and shift.

"Enjoying the view?"

Iron Bull had caught up to her with two quick strides. "You could light another fire in his clothes," he said in a conspiratorial whisper.

Clariel shook her head. "I...don't understand."

"Don't understand what?"

She took a moment to choose her words. "That armor only protects the shoulders and legs. You told me it's warm in Seheron, but..."

Mercifully, she didn't have to elaborate. Bull caught on even faster than Solas when he wanted to. How could such a brutally practical people fashion armor that left the midriff and its vital organs vulnerable? That was how she'd intercepted the assassin in the first place-three arrows straight through his unprotected back.

"Habit," said Bull. "You teach a man to fight a certain way, get him to know his armor and weapons like they're part of him. You put him in something else, he's not as good." He shrugged and hefted the double-headed axe across his broad shoulders. "Ben-Hassrath learn lots of ways to kill people, doesn't matter how it gets done. But the antaam are their weapons."

He didn't seem troubled by the question, but Clariel decided not to press the issue. Before meeting Gatt, the qunari had been an interesting curiosity to her, like the intricacies of Orlesian heraldry, or the Chant of Light. Now, the thought of the Qun left her feeling sick inside.

Bull noticed. He always did. "Boss, you don't have to tiptoe around me." He rested his huge hand on her shoulder. "I'm good."

"Really? Didn't Solas beat you in that chess game?"

He gave a good-natured chuckle. "We'll play again, with a real board and pieces. I want a rematch."

"As soon as we return to civilization, my friend," Solas suddenly called over his shoulder. "Ask Commander Cullen if we can borrow his set."

Solas's words were for Bull, but he only had eyes for Clariel. A half-smile played on his lips a second before he turned back around. He knew the effect he was having on her, taking playful revenge for her ill-timed grenade.

Clariel took a deep, steadying breath. She could refuse his game, but where was the fun in that? So she let her mind wander as they walked, drifting between the man striding through the grass before her, and the half-formed possibilities in her head.

"It's just held on by string," said Bull, bringing her back to reality with a sudden jolt. "Tug on the knots and the whole thing comes loose."

Her warm, contented daydreams scattered like dandelions in the breeze, and the sudden burn in her ears had nothing to do with sunshine. She hastened to catch up with Solas, Bull's amused chuckle following her with every step. But somewhere, her mind filed away that little piece of knowledge for later.

Solas counted to ten after finally reaching the relative privacy of his tent at the far edge of camp. Then to twenty. When he reached thirty, he knew something was amiss. Clariel was many things, but rarely patient in taking her pleasures. It was part of her charm-the eagerness and immediacy with which she loved him. It anchored him, enveloped him, bound him to every moment with her.

He lifted the flap of his tent, and heard her laugh a moment too late.

Before he could even turn to face her, she stepped out from the shadows, caught his shoulders, and shoved him back into the tent. He staggered, tripped over his pack, and fell on his back with an undignified grunt, arms and legs splayed out in every direction.

Clariel followed him into the tent, both hands pressed over her mouth to muffle her giggles. "Did you really fall for that?" she asked.

Solas took a moment to catch his breath. "Perhaps I walked into your trap willingly." He would have, if he'd known she was waiting on the other side of the canvas.

"I don't think so. The look on your face!" She started to lose her battle with laughter, and all he could do was lie there, transfixed by the sight of her standing over him. The failing sunlight snuck around the edges of her figure, wreathing her in scarlet light and deep shadows. She turned to close his tent flap behind her, and shook her head when she heard him starting to sit back up.

"Stay where you are," she said without even turning around. "I'll be there in a moment."

She was never rude, never harsh when commanding. But Solas still felt his mouth go dry, heart drumming a wild beat under the inadequate leather cuirass. He collapsed back onto his bedroll, watched those quick, clever fingers dart over the leather ties between layers of canvas.

And suddenly he knew why she'd been so quiet all afternoon.

"Vhenan-" he began, not even sure what he wanted to say. Halamshiral was one thing. They'd been alone in the Grand Duchess's abandoned chambers, with no one to hear him cry out when he lost himself to her. But now, the rest of their party and the Inquisition scouts camped well within earshot. He'd started to marshal his words when she knelt beside him and captured both of his hands in hers.

She brought his fingertips to her soft, warm lips, one by one. "Are you frightened, Solas?"

He'd asked her that same question so many times. In the Fade, pushing back against her nightmares. Before the siege of Adamant Fortress, when her hands shook the bowstring. To hear it from her in turn, over something as inconsequential as sex-

"No," he answered, though he should have been. Frightened of his own fierce longing, frightened of the promise in her eyes. Of how easily he succumbed to her laughter and her touch. He wanted so much more than her lips, now brushing his palms. He wanted her to take him, claim him, map his body and leave him helpless to resist.

She straddled his legs and lifted his hands above his head, then sat back, waiting for him to move or challenge her. When he didn't, her smile softened, and those clever fingers suddenly seized the cords holding his pants up and tugged.

Thick red string came away loose in her fingers, and she chuckled. "Huh. Bull was telling the truth." Before Solas could ask, or even process the implications of what she'd said, those cords wound through his fingers and over his wrists. The last knot tightened against his palm, and she sat back, satisfied with her work.

"Should I bind your ankles too?" she asked.

He could see her blush even in the poor light, the strange mix of bravado and shyness that held him captive. "Yes," he said, not realizing how much he wanted it until this moment.

She was hasty this time, slipping over the knots, distracted by the way he watched her every move. He let her see his anticipation, tongue wetting his lips, hands straining against their bonds.

She slid back up his body, her hips swaying with the unconscious grace that had enraptured him even in Haven. Her hands started at his waist, as he knew they would, followed her lips. Tracing each muscle under the surface, punishing every buck of his hips with a gentle nip of her teeth. She was careful, meticulous, but each time she drew a moan or gasp from him, he felt her press against him, warm and wet through the leggings she still wore.

"Lift your hips for me?" she said, hooking her thumbs in his loose pants.

With one sharp yank, she pulled what remained of the qunari armor down to his knees, then pushed his hips back to the ground. Her hands roamed over his bare thighs while her tongue and lips slowly explored his cock, up and down, seeking the motions that would break him. And now, she didn't hold him down when he bucked into her mouth. She let him arch and gasp at her mercy, his hands grasping for skin they couldn't reach.

He let his eyes drift shut, content to focus on her warm, wet mouth until green light burst through his closed eyelids. He looked down just in time to see the Anchor come to life, her left hand curling his own magic around the base of his cock.

"Clariel-!"

It should have been a warning, but came out as a breathless hiss.

"No," he groaned, even as she sucked him deeper, as heat pooled in his stomach with no prospect of release. "My heart, I can't-"

Her mouth left him, and a few elvhen curses escaped his lips. She wrapped both hands around his cock, and he thought he'd come out of his skin with the heady stroke of magic and heat and soft skin.

"I know," she said gently. "I want you to let go, ma sa'lath. Come in my mouth."

He nearly came undone then and there, in her palms. Wordplay in bed was his domain, not hers. But she refused to back down, said it again, held his eyes and slowed the stroke of her hands until he gasped for air like a drowning man. Solas shook his head, trying to clear the daze that flooded it. She didn't even know the Anchor was his, and here she was, destroying him with it. Maybe some part of her knew, some corner of her spirit marked by his magic.

Or maybe it didn't matter. Not while his heart balanced him on the knife's edge of ecstasy. Not when he had but to ask.

"Emma isala dar'in ma," he whispered, lost to everything but her.

I need to be inside you.

Mercy was always one of her best attributes. She took him with tongue and lips and the gentle scrap of teeth, moving in unison with the pulse of the Anchor, shattering the last pieces of his self-control. Solas was no longer the Dread Wolf, the scourge of empires and terror of false gods. She broke him down to a man, crying out for his lover, begging her for more even as he spilled himself inside her mouth. Clariel drew every last shudder from him, every gasp, until he collapsed beneath her, utterly spent. Nothing else existed, had ever existed. Nothing but her warmth, her gift to him, her breath still feathering over his sweat-soaked skin.

He had a brief, confused impression of her licking him clean, then crawling up his body to free his hands. When the cords fell away, he carefully flexed his stiff fingers and slid them down her back. She pulled at the knot over his heart, freeing him of the rest of the qunari armor. She tossed the woefully inadequate chestpiece aside, resting her cheek over his still-pounding heart.

"Glad you enjoyed yourself," she murmured.

She didn't see his smile when he gathered what remained of his wits and drew his magic over her like a shroud.

Her head snapped up. "What are you doing?" she gasped.

"Saying thank you." He exhaled, delighting in her shiver as the magic enveloping them grew warmer, an intangible hum between their bodies. "Shall I stop?"

And now it was her turn to beg, her turn to gasp with helpless pleasure. But he wanted to thank her, not tease her, and he quickly tore the clothes from her body. His hands found her breasts, tendrils of magic humming against her clit and slipping inside her. He had pleasured her with magic before, but never quite like this. Never in earnest, with green light seeking out every place she was sensitive, every hidden spot that could make her scream.

She was already so close, so wet; it had never occurred to him that she found his pleasure this arousing. He'd have to keep that in mind next time; for now, he could already feel her starting to tremble.

"Ma serannas, vhenan," he said, and all the power that swirled over her pressed at her breasts, her hips, between her glistening thighs. Clariel shuddered in his arms, burying her cries in his shoulder, and he held her until their heartbeats finally began to slow.

She lifted her head a fraction of an inch, eyeing the scattered remains of the qunari armor. "We'll get rid of it later," she decided, curling up with her head resting on his chest.

Solas pressed a soft kiss to her forehead.

"Keep the cords," he said, already wondering how she would use them next.