Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Over their years back in Thedas, as artists, Iris and Solas have watched with curiosity how various artistic mediums developed. Solas is an avid photographer and, last year, won an award at the “Thedosian Comedy Wildlife Awards” for his photo of two perturbed nugs staring at the lens, mid-coitus amidst a patch of wildflowers.

He now proudly displays the trophy on his desk at the University of Minrathous and shows the photo to all of his students who ask about it.

As a musician, she tends to follow musical trends and often seeks out local acts at taverns in the city, privately offering to pay the costs of producing an album when a band or musician shows particular promise.

She and Solas remain wealthy and so the two of them decided long ago that one of the things they would do with their money is make the world a more beautiful place. Few know their true identities; to most she’s just a private eccentric with a chequebook and a fancy fountain pen in her purse.

One art form the two of them have neglected are motion pictures. The idea of them intrigued her in the earliest days of silent films, but as the technology developed, she found herself bored, longing for the days of radio plays where one had to use their imagination rather than be shown everything on-screen.

Perhaps the final blow to the art form was the film based on her and Solas’ relationship. Released a decade ago to critical acclaim (winner of 12 Ozzies, including Best Picture!), it reignited interest in the story of the Dread Wolf and the Inquisitor, leading to the odd curious question when people realize that she resembles “the Herald of Andraste”. Even more curious questions when they learn her name.

Placing indirect blame on an entire artistic medium for the irritation, she’s watched a mere handful of fictional films since, but tonight, curiosity has trumped good sense.

Iris and Solas are watching the entire four hour epic.

Standing loose and wearing a white shirt unbuttoned to his sternum, the bald elf on-screen gives a rousing speech in the Skyhold war room on the importance of fighting for “the cause of freedom”.

“Wish you ran around with your tits out in those days,” she quips, reaching over to grab a handful of popcorn from the bowl between them, her legs draped over her husband’s on their reclining couch. “Little on the nose, though. You were a lot more subtle. Also, you don’t have a Fereldan accent.”

“I believe the actor is actually Orlesian and putting on an accent,” Solas mumbles, reaching for his phone while she pauses the movie on a still of the actor playing her resting her left hand on his chest, the anchor looking more like a Satinalia lightbulb taped on her palm than an actual magical phenomena. “I was right. Jader, though it says here his father is from Ferelden.”

“Ah, well if he has a Fereldan father then that excuses the fact that he didn’t bother to even attempt an ancient Elvhen accent,” she says dryly.

“I hope you did not expect this to be a good film? The actor playing you has the wrong shade of purple eyes and her lips are too thin.”

“She’s wearing contacts, vhenan.”

“Then those in charge of selecting such things should have shown greater attention to detail.”

“Few know we live in Thedas and there are none of the colour portraits you crafted on display outside of the private properties we own. Do you think the random painters Josephine hired gave two fucks about the colour of my eyes? Shit, they didn’t even bother to get my hair right in those portraits.” She gestures to the screen, where Iris Lavellan’s straight, silver-white hair falls to her collarbone instead of the pixie cut she actually wore during that time. “Can we put the movie back on? I’ve read the sex scenes are quite something.”

Huffing at her, Solas reaches for the remote and turns the movie back on, treating them to a depiction of Iris kissing Solas tenderly while Josephine, Leliana and the blonde beefcake they cast as Cullen look on. Supposedly a former wrestler who opted to make a go in the Orlesian film industry.

“I would never have been so unprofessional during a meeting,” Solas says, as if this is actually something left in question. He kissed her all of twice around their friends and colleagues - once when he was drunk at the Winter Palace and then in the Throne Room upon their reunion. Even at his workplace’s annual Satinalia dinner he never does more than hold her hand or share a dance with her.

“We did fuck on the couch in the rotunda that one time. And you got on your knees for me while I was sitting on my throne.”

“Late at night, away from prying eyes. Neither of which will be depicted on-screen, I assume.”

In a single movie - albeit a long one, it is difficult to show the extent of both her time with the Inquisition and the years before her reunion with Solas, so the Winter Palace is reduced to a dance sequence wherein Iris ferrets out the truth about Florianne, saving Empress Celene and reuniting her with Briala, and then a romance scene between Iris and Solas on the palace balcony.

“You can see the stubble on his head in this scene,” she says while they watch Iris dance with Solas. She’s wearing a long, sun orange gown with a crinoline - completely ill-suited for the fighting that doesn’t actually occur on-screen in this movie. Solas is wearing a far more accurate red Inquisition uniform and she reminds herself that there are no historical sources recognizing his far sexier black suit, with the purple silk shirt and black cravat he actually wore, which matched her own purple dress.

“The outfits in this scene are not period appropriate. Your dress is Blessed Age fashion. The makeup department’s lack of attention to detail concerning the state of the actor’s scalp is a trifling matter. Costuming in such scenes is far more important.”

“Yes but your hair was auburn and the actor clearly has black hair.”

“The horror, vhenan. At least they had the actor shave his head rather than make him up as I looked in my youth.”

Vaguely she recalls there being debates online about whether the actor should have worn his hair long in order to “better match the ancient aesthetic” because apparently Solas having the audacity to embrace his baldness is a disappointment.

Several minutes later, they discover that this adaptation of their story features a Solas who opts to use a knife to cut through the laces of a corset rather than going to the trouble of unlacing it. “You have got to be kidding me,” Solas says, leaping up and returning moments later with a decanter full of Starkhaven whisky and two glasses. Given that the two of them prefer wine when they do opt to drink, leaving the whisky mostly for company, this suggests Solas is properly miffed by this movie.

Pouring them each two fingers of whisky, Solas says, “I have proper respect for historical garments and know how to lace and unlace a corset.”

“I am aware,” she says patiently, glancing at the screen to see Iris and Solas fucking against the thick wooden door of Iris’ private quarters at the palace - something that would have made a dreadful amount of noise. Solas takes a sip of his drink and she follows, wincing at the burn of the liquor as she swallows it.

“The actress playing you is far too tall and the actor playing me is clearly inept at the act he is attempting to perform, given the struggle to hold her up and the fact that he is thrusting into her thigh.”

“It’s a movie, Solas. His dick isn’t actually going inside her.” Ignoring her, Solas reaches for a handful of popcorn. “You’re very good at sex, despite what your fictional counterpart is showing on-screen.”

“The filmmakers opted to skip everything concerning the Grey Wardens, including what might have been a captivating battle scene in order to show that I am an incompetent lay unable to preserve antique clothing.”

She rolls her eyes at Solas and he huffs at her. “Sometimes you’re cute when you’re being a grump. Fans of the movie widely think the version of you on-screen is sexy - you know that, right? You’re literally a sex symbol.”

“Then the youth of today are having terrible sex.”

***

They agree to fast forward through the break-up scene, not wishing to reminisce about that regrettable time in their lives, but even fast forwarded the sorrow on the actors’ faces brings her back to that Crestwood grove and how alone she felt when Solas left her, bare-faced and shamed.

“I am sorry. I was a fool,” Solas says quietly.

“One day you’ll stop apologizing for something you did more than 600 years ago,” she says lightly, hitting the play button on the remote once the scene shifts to one featuring Iris and Dorian commiserating over a bottle of wine.

“I hurt you.”

“And you hurt yourself. Your feelings matter too.”

The scene where they defeat Corypheus is far more involved than it truly was; something she hardly spares a thought for, given that the scene that follows involves Solas saying goodbye. He gives Iris a kiss on the hand and a little bow before leaving with a smile instead of the utter devastation on her husband’s face upon his discovery that his orb had been destroyed in the aftermath.

Given that this is a love story, the political minutiae of the next two years of her life as Inquisitor is glossed over - likely for the best because meetings with nobles are hardly engaging viewing when one wants to watch the story of how an alleged god and the fucking Herald of Andraste fell in love.

But, so are the details of the attempted qunari invasion, leading to an awkward 20 minutes where Iris is, for some reason, reunited with Solas after having wandered through a series of eluvians. “I get the impression a whole plot line was trimmed for time.”

Looking at his watch, Solas says, “I can understand why, given the length of this obligation.”

“We can turn it off?”

“No we cannot. We must see this through,” he says, speaking as if Tevinter law dictates that one must finish every movie they ever start.

“This isn’t some elaborate self-flagellation, is it?”

“Yes, I do hear most people punish themselves with terrible cinema nowadays,” he says dryly. “Do we have macarons?”

“You’re the only one who eats them so you tell me, vhenan.”

Instead of answering, Solas pauses the movie, pulls out his phone to place an order and somehow manages to find a bakery open this late in the evening. “Want anything?”

“Throw a pizza bun in there if they have any?”

They use the wait for their order to putter around the house, relieved for the break and somehow, the remainder of the conversation between Iris and Solas where he details his plan to remove the Veil feels less painful to watch while eating a pizza bun and evidently Solas feels the same with his beloved Orlesian sugary sandwich cookies. “You know, you love me almost as much as you love macarons,” she teases, mostly to distract from the reminder of painful memories occurring on-screen at present.

(The actor playing her is riding the actor playing Solas and moaning, which she cannot fault the film for, because they were intimate that day. What she can fault them for is the terrible simulation of the act. She’s fairly certain Iris is grinding against his belly button.)

“That’s his navel,” Solas mutters, disgusted, the macaron in his hand halfway up to his mouth. “Also, I love you very much.”

“But not as much as the sandwich cookie in your hand.”

“I’ve been married to you for six centuries,” Solas pauses and takes a bite out of the cookie, chewing thoughtfully, “and this cookie survived approximately 15 minutes in my presence. I would suggest that implies my love for you is far greater than the affection I feel for this confectionery.”

“Such a romantic, Solas,” she says just as Solas kisses Iris in the midst of amputating her arm - a detail that never went beyond a conversation with Dorian, meaning someone who wrote this film legitimately thought that would be a romantic narrative decision.

Solas eats the other half of his cookie and when he swallows, chimes in on the matter. “The details of your conversation with me were never revealed publicly. Varric didn’t include them in his book.”

“Dorian and Cassandra were the only ones who ever knew we were intimate that day - and Cassandra only because I needed a birth control potion.”

The others likely suspected it but were kind enough to be discreet concerning the matter.

“My point is that they decided we were intimate despite there being no historical evidence we were on that day.”

“I mean, it’s a good story, right? An immortal so down bad for his wife that he fucks her while explaining his intention to alter reality is precisely the sort of romance people tend to be into nowadays.”

“I wasn’t thrusting into you while explaining the intricacies of the veil,” Solas scoffs, as if that wouldn’t actually be a sexy thing to do. He glances her way. “Iris, no.”

“Dunno. I’m kind of into the idea of you giving me one of your classroom lectures while I play with your dick.”

Solas, who had been attempting to be something resembling dignified at this moment while eating macarons and watching the film based on their lives, breaks, letting out a delightfully undignified snort at the prospect of getting his dick sucked while attempting to give one of his history lectures.

Chapter Text

Why did he agree to watch this trash? For an entire decade he’s ignored its existence - mostly. It remains a popular film amongst his students - so much so that he’s had to enact a ban on discussing it in class, telling his students that it is inaccurate and holds no historical value. A stance that never fails to disappoint his first year undergrad students who tend to dismiss him as a “hardass”.

That he expects material exploring history not to outright make up falsities is a perfectly reasonable stance!

Iris has long been curious about it and he would not have her revisit that period in their lives alone, so he agreed to spend their Saturday night suffering this indignity instead of their far more enjoyable hobbies. They could have gone hiking, allowing Iris to catalogue the growth of the rare plants she revived from extinction during their centuries in the Fade, having spirits deposit them in areas where the veil is thin.

Or, they could have gone to dinner. Or watched an engaging documentary about a recent archaeological dig that unearthed new information about the qunari’s first expedition to Thedas.

Or done pretty much anything else, really.

Adamant and the court intrigue of Orlais are mostly glossed over - this is a love story more than an exploration of true historical events. Having fast forwarded through their break-up, they’re now two thirds of the way through the movie, and Iris and Solas are doing battle against Corypheus. The fight scene with Corypheus is the battle they should have filmed for Adamant, a historical inaccuracy that prickles at him and he clenches his fist. Resting her hand on his knee, Iris says, “it’s a movie, not a textbook.”

“It is clear they did not consult a history textbook!” he retorts, gesturing at their TV screen. “Proper respect for the true events is key and the Inquisition army remained in the Arbor Wilds, causing great concern when we went into battle. That Corypheus’ forces had been decimated in the Arbor Wilds was fortunate. If they do not respect simple facts, what else will they butcher?”

“I mean, they showed you fucking my thigh…”

He nearly chokes on his whisky, forcing Iris to pause the movie while he coughs and sputters.

Common opinion is that the pacing of the last third of the film suffers because of the ten year time skip. Historians don’t actually know what he was up to - and Iris’ own actions are a mystery because she spent much of that time living in Minrathous under an assumed name as Dorian’s roommate. While historians have theorized about the relationship between Inquisitor Lavellan and Archon Pavus, none have ever figured out that the “arcane assistant” referenced in some of Dorian’s surviving communications is actually the former Inquisitor.

That the film’s focus changes to Rook is an artistic choice that baffles fans of the film, apparently. He understands the decision - the blight in the South was so overwhelming that there simply wasn’t time to document what was happening, and the death toll was so high by the time Iris left for the Fade that there wasn’t an abundance of survivors around to write about the battles Iris fought - both in war rooms and on blighted battlefields.

On the contrary, Rook’s actions are well-documented and with an accuracy he finds himself envious of to this day. It turns out several of Rook’s companions were avid writers who kept extensive journals of their activities, and Divine Aequitas II, known to him as the Viper, kept a rich archive of documentation detailing Elgar’nan’s occupation of Minrathous.

Rook simply makes for a more accurate story - and on a selfish level, he’s grateful they’re not showing this part of Iris’ story on-screen. Over their ages together she’s talked from time-to-time about the blight, but he hardly knows the extensive details.

He almost enjoys Rook’s tale - it focuses heavily on her confrontations with Elgar’nan and Ghilan’nain, but the events are far enough removed that it’s easier to ignore the blatant historical inaccuracies, including the use of Elvhen barrier generators that had not yet been rediscovered in 9:52 Dragon.

When he brings up said technology to Iris she glances at him and gives him a smirk. “Technically it always existed since it was ancient so I don’t think you’re allowed to complain about it.”

“I am allowed to complain about whatever I wish,” he retorts, recognizing when Iris is goading him into bickering for her own amusement and opting to deny her the opportunity. For his own amusement, of course.

“They got Rook’s outfit right.” This, he acknowledges to Iris - Rook is wearing the teal bandeau top with the gold accents and blue cape she always favoured. The actress portraying Rook isn’t bad - certainly more talented than the ones playing him and Iris, but when he says as much to Iris she begins laughing, a pleased cackle while on-screen Rook is interacting with a griffon - a juvenile from the population based in Arlathan Forest, he assumes.

“Oh and there’s no reason at all we’d be more critical of those actors, is there?”

Begrudgingly he takes Iris’ point.

***

The final battle scene isn’t Rook’s battle with Elgar’nan, but his own fight with Lusacan. Instead of consulting with spirits of Creativity in the Fade who would re-enact the battle, they used computer animation to create the battle. Poorly.

Iris indicates this technique is “CGI” and that sometimes it is done well. To him, it’s a reflection of the ignorance that remains in many nations on the continent concerning spirits.

The close-up of Lusacan scratching one of his eyes out was entirely unnecessary and he glances down at his lap, remembering the sting of it and the panic at the realization that he now had a blind spot in his field of vision that he’d never had to account for previously. A vulnerability that leaves him unsettled when he thinks about it, even six ages later.

(That he has rarely shapeshifted into his giant wolf form does nothing to ease the anxiety as he considers what may have happened that day had Bellara not freed him from the blight tentacles.)

“We can turn it off,” Iris says softly, and not for the first time tonight, and he shakes his head. May as well finish what they started so he can properly criticize this drivel when his students express awe at the lens flares that are apparently a trend in cinematography at present.

“I am fine.”

Mythal does not show up in the Throne Room - Rook was kind enough to keep the specifics of their conversation private in her recollection of the events of that day, simply indicating that she and the inquisitor had a talk with him and convinced him to walk a better path.

Only, that’s not the conversation shown in the movie. Or, not at length. Solas looks at Iris, desire burning in his eyes despite the poorly-applied stage makeup that’s apparently supposed to signify facial bruising and a cut across the right half of his face, his eye missing even in his Elven form. “Be my bride. We will rule the Fade together and you may visit Thedas once a year when the land turns from white to green.”

He stiffens, scowling at the TV.

“I will leave your world alone with you by my side. Allow me to give you a throne, treasure,” Solas says with the air of dripping poison in Iris’ ears.

“I’d have kicked your ass if you ever called me ‘treasure’,” Iris snorts, a clear attempt at levity. He does not laugh. Cannot acknowledge her humour when this abomination of their life story poisons their living room.

“I will go,” the actress playing Iris says, extending her hand and accepting her fate as Solas’ prisoner, her smile sad.

Overwhelmed, he leaps up, rushing out of their living room, as if fleeing from the TV screen, which depicts Iris grasping Solas’ hand, overhearing the actress portraying Rook narrate her admiration that Iris condemned herself to an eternity with Solas as a goddess in service of the Maker’s children in order to spare the waking world from the wrath of the Dread Wolf.

Iris follows him into his office, where he stares at the wall of bookshelves that feature contemporary books written about the politics and society of ancient Elvhenan, intermingled with ancient tomes he recovered from libraries hidden deep in the Fade. Not just the Vir Dirthara, but other, smaller libraries that held works long thought lost until he rescued and translated them, gifting them to the Veil Jumpers, who became the leading experts on the world he once knew.

A more subtle act. He and Iris swore not to intervene in Thedas but as time passed, decided that ensuring the elves of Thedas had the knowledge they needed to turn Arlathan Forest into a homeland was fine, so long as they simply shared resources without commenting or acknowledging who was responsible for leaving them such a gift.

He’s proud of that gesture, small as it may seem. He did his part to revive some of what was lost and none ever attributed the found knowledge to him and Iris. Instead, they’re wrongly credited for larger acts they had nothing to do with - the Industrial Revolution is “a blessing and a curse conjured by the wolf himself”.

Nonsense. He admires the inventor of the automobile and wishes he’d come up with such a machine himself!

No one expects those they perceive to be deities as subtle - odd since the Chantry’s Maker is non-communicative, watching more than acting, according to their lore.

Why could they not have shown him to be a man and not a god? Why did they insist he take his beloved prisoner at the end of that ridiculous movie? Why could the filmmakers not accept that Iris loves him and made her choice years before the moment she stepped through that Fade rift by his side?

Iris grasps his trembling hand and locks their fingers together. “I’d looked up the ending years ago,” he says softly, eyes laser-focused on his books. “I told myself it wasn’t me; that I could handle such slander. That it’s hardly the worst of the lies spread about me, but that’s not true, is it? That people believe me capable of stealing the freedom of the woman I loved beyond anything else in that moment does bother me. That you are perceived to have been a prisoner choosing to be shackled by a tyrant of a lover sits poorly with me - and this film was celebrated as romantic! The filmmakers cut your wings and called it love!”

“Solas, it’s just a stupid movie based on the Chantry bullshit that became doctrine. They needed me to be the hero and couldn’t be arsed to recognize you as a complex man, so they dumbed it down. Made it a sacrifice instead of a choice I made with my whole damned heart.”

“I would never have done that to you,” he says firmly and Iris barks out a laugh that dies on her lips when he turns to scowl at her.

“Never would it have occurred to me that you could pull me into the Fade. You didn’t even hold my hand when we were leaving together. Because you didn’t want me to feel obligated in case I decided at the last second it wasn’t for me, right?”

“It was your decision and not for me to influence, save for my final attempt to spare you from the fate you chose for yourself long before our reunion.”

“The people who love us know the truth. Our daughter knows the truth. You know she’s seen the movie, right? A friend of hers in Arlathan put it on one evening and she told me she had to run out of the room during the sex scenes, but couldn’t explain why she was so bothered by them.”

“I know she watched it and wish she hadn’t subjected herself to such drivel.”

“Mira knows the real story because we shared it with her long ago. Also, apparently it was very awkward because she finds the actor playing you quite attractive. My attempt to console her by telling her you look nothing like her fantasy sweetheart did not dissuade her disgust.”

Despite the despair and frustration warring inside him, he chuckles. “Let people have their stories. If they think it’s romantic that Iris Lavellan sacrificed herself and her future for the sake of Thedas - fine. They can enjoy that fiction. What two very, very miscast people did on-screen means nothing. They aren’t us. They’ll never know how I summoned half a dozen elfroot plants…”

“Closer to two dozen if I recall,” he cuts in.

“…To tend to your wounds as you slept and healed. That you held me as if you were afraid I’d disappear after you woke up. Nobody but I will ever know how hard you worked to heal and free yourself from the enchanted barriers surrounding our home - or how the place you built as a prison became a haven. Our first home together. Those moments are ours. Not the most dramatic or captivating story but, fuck, we were interesting for far too long. I like our quiet, unassuming life and that, to most who encounter us, we’re simply a happily married couple.”

“Still, I find it frustrating that you are perceived to be my prisoner. Students have made inquiries about the truth of the story, despite my attempts not to teach the history of the Dragon Age.”

His speciality is ancient Elvhen history and the analysis of research material obtained in the Fade - old tomes, and re-enactments of ancient memories. He’s been teaching for close to a century now, beginning his career at the University of Orlais while Mira was a teenager.

“You could suggest your students develop better taste in movies?” she says lightly.

“Or people could respect written accounts of that time period.”

Not that the majority of those are any more accurate than the drivel that graced their TV screen tonight. Even textbooks contain inaccuracies - it’s now commonly assumed that he sought to take control of Minrathous for his own ends rather than merely liberate its people from a tyrant and his minions.

“We’re little more than legends. Characters in a stupid movie. And - it was a popular movie so I bet there’s more smutty stories out there about us on the internet!”

Rewarding his beloved with a groan, he says, “my heart, you have not changed a bit. I hope the pornography you find is better than that offered by the Randy Dowager Quarterly back in the day.”

“I’ll text you my favourites and you can read them on your phone next week while you’re supervising student exams.”

“No.”

“Because you hate the concept of reading on your phone or because you don’t want to read porn while your students are writing exams?”

Exasperated, but smiling at Iris, he shakes his head. “The former, and you are well aware of this, though I would hardly make a habit of reading contemporary pornography during a history exam.”

Saying this, he recognizes that Iris is liable to take a trip to the rebuilt Vir Dirthara and see if she can track down an issue of the Randy Dowager Quarterly for him to peruse for research at some point in the near future.

It’s a thought that warms him; a bit of nostalgia for the age in which he first met his wife. That no one continued the publication after Brother Genitivi’s death is a shame because none since then have procured pornographic submissions with the fervour and enthusiasm of the “Randy Dowager”.

…Not that he would ever admit as much to Iris, of course. Even after six centuries, a bit of mystery in some respects is hardly a terrible thing.

“Don’t worry; I’ll continue to pretend I don’t know that you had the entire collection in the Lighthouse library,” Iris says, giving him a pat on the arm and he stares at her, alarmed. Shrugging, she says, “Rook told me. I think she could tell I needed a giggle.”

“Every ridiculous story held within the cheap, brittle bindings of those old missives is a better, more worthy tale than the trash that poisoned our living room tonight.”

“You could find some upstart filmmaker and suggest an adaptation of the most saucy sort?”

He stares at her and she grins cheekily at him and they return to the living room, where he pours them each another finger of whisky while Iris searches through the tv listings in search of something more worth their attention.

Iris drapes her legs across his lap once more and he does his best to push away the drivel they watched in favour of enjoying the time they spent together tonight. Time he once thought he would never possibly have.

“The things I’d have done to have a single evening on the couch with you during our years apart,” he says and Iris sets down the remote, leans in and kisses him.

“I know. We’ve lived more than 60 decades since that lonely, painful decade apart. Countless nights spent in one another’s company. We are fortunate to have what we have.”

They are. And if watching a terrible adaptation of their lives every few decades is a consequence of the… interesting events they were a part of, he will endure without complaint. When he says as much to Iris, she raises her eyebrow.

“…Perhaps with some complaint.”

Chapter Text

In no way would Mira describe herself as a cinephile. It’s an interesting artistic medium, she supposes, but doesn’t understand why she would spend a beautiful afternoon in an air conditioned theatre when she can be working in her garden.

Discovering that an Orlesian filmmaker was making a film based on her parents’ lives was… weird. Firstly, because they just had to cast Fabien Asselin, who began his career as a stage actor in Arlathan before getting cast in some action film five years back.

She might have had a wee crush on him. Not that she’d have actually done anything about it - there’s something uncomfortable about a woman nearing a century old lusting after a man in his mid-20s. The whole immortality thing has really shrunk the dating pool for her, given that she hasn’t yet been able to get past that specific hang-up.

Now, if she watches the film, she’s going to find her own Papae hot. Gross. She swears off it, even after Fabien wins the Best Actor Ozzie and gives a delightful, drunken speech where he slips into Orlesian and thanks his hair stylist for “helping him re-grow his hair” after spending a year shaving his head for the role.

Only, now she sits on the couch at her friend Leah's place, surrounded by Leah’s college-aged friends, who all want to watch this year’s Best Picture winner.

She considers leaving. Pretending to be sick and fleeing for safer pastures.

(An idea she rejects because it’s not as if it’s easy for her to make friends and she met Leah at a bonsai class, and really likes spending time with her.)

Instead, she suggests breaking into the tequila she brought over to make margaritas because she is not lusting after her own papae sober. Nope.

She leads the margarita charge - there are advantages to being nearly a century old and proficiency at making drinks is but one of them.

“I used to, um…” one of Leah’s friends, a woman in her early 20s named Violet lets out a giggle and lowers her voice, “masturbate,” more giggles, as if masturbation was some taboo thing and not a perfectly benign activity, “to the Dread Wolf when I was a teenager.”

Oh. Oh no.

“Who did you jill off to when you were young, Mira?” Leah asks while tying her long, blonde hair into a ponytail. Context tells her she’s asking about masturbation and suddenly she very much feels her age.

“Well, movies weren’t really a thing when I was a teenager. I mean, technically they were but it was such a niche form of entertainment. Wireless plays were a lot more popular and there was this Antivan actor who had the sexiest accent. I couldn’t even tell you what he looked like, just that he had a voice like velvet and thinking about it got the job done.”

The three other women in the room stare blankly at her. “What if he was, like, old?” Violet asks her, scandalized by the prospect of getting off on a man older than 30, while she tousles her hot pink pixie cut. She merely shrugs in response, unsure of how to respond to that. Especially since, nowadays, she’s always the older person in the rare romantic relationships she’s attempted.

They start the movie and immediately she’s thrown by Solas’ Fereldan accent, as opposed to the Elvhen accent Papae has. Maybe that’s a relief though, because she can pretend this is some fictional story and not that this really hot actor is playing her papae.

“You’re a halfie, right?” Leah’s other friend, a Dalish Orlesian-Arlathani woman named Elora asks her. Elora wears Mythal’s vallaslin on her forehead, as Mamae did as a young woman, though Elora’s vallaslin is in forest green ink.

“My papae is Elvhen and my mamae is Dalish,” she says through gritted teeth. “Halfie” - fucking halfie. It’s not a term she’d heard until she moved to Arlathan a few decades back and she hates it. Not just because it distills her identity down to her parentage but because, to some, she’s perceived as “better” for the ancient blood running through her veins.

That Papae and many of the other Elvhen were not born but manifested remains a secret closely held by the reawakened ancient elves and their families.

“Is your papae hot?” Elora asks and she stares at the woman, mouth agape. Who the fuck asks that? Unfortunately Violet pauses the movie and gets in on this by asking if she has a photo of her parents on her phone.

Mentally, she takes stock of the situation before her. Leah knows she takes the commuter train to Minrathous at least once a month to spend the weekend with her parents, and that she’s close with them. If she claims not to have photos of them on her phone, it’s unlikely they’ll believe her, and it may come across as strange if she refuses to share a photo of her parents.

She takes a long gulp of her margarita and pulls her phone out of her purse, and finds a photo from a hiking trip they took in the Vimmark mountains outside Kirkwall. She’s standing between her parents and Mamae is wearing a crop top and a pair of biking shorts. Papae is a bit more covered up - he tends to be most of the time on account of all the scars on his torso that he prefers others not to see, and is wearing a t-shirt and a pair of cargo shorts. She’s just a tad shorter than Papae but towers over Mamae, who has joked that she’s the “pocket-sized member of the family”, and her long, black hair is secured in a single braid that hangs over her left shoulder. Mamae’s white hair is loose and windswept, coming to just past her chin.

Violet looks at the photo and scoffs. “Just some boring looking guy. Shame - ancients tend to be super hot.” Realizing she’s being potentially offensive, Violet gives her a sheepish look. “No offence. You’re pretty like your mom. Lucky for you!”

Apparently the fact that she generally looks more like Papae aside from her eyes and lips was lost on Violet, and also Elora, who agrees with Violet. Leah stares at the photo as if examining some antique painting and says, “Mira’s papae isn’t bad. He’s got that ethereal sort of look to him. But I bet it’s kind of weird that we’re looking at her papae like a sex object so maybe we should get back to the movie?”

Great, now they’ll just be unknowingly looking at Papae like a sex object!

The movie itself is fine. Not accurate at all, to her understanding and they did Corypheus’ red lyrium growths with CGI instead of practical effects, which is dumb, but there’s a grand scale to the movie that she appreciates.

Then Iris and Solas take their pants off. As discreetly as she can, she stands up to head to the washroom but, noticing this, Leah pauses the movie. “No, no,” she says with a casualness that’s very much forced, “I don’t want to keep you from the movie. It’s just sex and we all know the Dread Wolf and the Inquisitor fucked.”

“It’s gonna be so sexy, though,” Elora points out and she, barely, refrains from gagging.

“No, seriously. I’m, um… just going to skip watching a depiction of an ancient god fuck, y’know?”

“Oh! Because you’re Tevene and it’s blasphemous!” Leah says and, grateful for the out, she nods because she’ll pretend she believes that nonsense for an evening if it keeps her from imagining her parents between the sheets.

Now sitting on the closed toilet, she unlocks her phone and texts Mamae, figuring that will kill a few minutes and she might get a good laugh out of this.

Mira: Mamae, why did they have to cast Fabien Asselin as Papae? 😫 He’s so hot and now he’s ruined for me and of course there’s sex in this movie. Why???

Apparently Mamae isn’t up to much tonight because the dots indicating that she’s typing up a response show up immediately.

Mamae: You don’t need to watch the movie if you don’t want to. Papae wound up telling his students that there won’t be discussions about it in his classes last week.

Mira: My friend and her friends wanted to watch it. I didn’t really have a choice.

Mamae: If it’s any consolation, your papae is far sexier than that actor.

Mira: MAMAE! 🤢

Mamae: Love you too. ❤️

Before returning to the living room she stops to refresh her drink; a necessity after Mamae dropped that bomb.

(She can just hear Mamae cackling now. She must be very pleased with her trolling. Ugh.)

Returning to the movie, she discovers that Iris and Solas are taking a romantic stroll through the Exalted Plains because apparently nobody informed the person writing this movie that there was a civil war going on at the time and a bunch of demons wandering around. Leah and her friends sigh dreamily, discussing how romantic the scene before them is.

Her? She bites her tongue, refraining from pointing out that corpses and burning buildings tend to mar the romantic vibes of the desolate plain the Orlesians stole from their people.

Oh. They’re tongue kissing amidst the civil war. She pulls out her phone to text Mamae.

Mira: The two of you are making out on-screen now. Stopppp.

Mamae responds right away, again.

Mamae: Gonna go make out with Papae. Be right back.

Helpfully, Mamae changes her availability to “do not disturb”, a fun little enhancement to her already successful trolling. Sighing, she slips her phone back into her purse.

The break-up scene seemingly comes out of nowhere but maybe that’s a narrative choice that works because she’s pretty sure Mamae felt blindsided by the break-up too. 15 minutes after that she retreats to the kitchen to put a pan of nachos into the oven to avoid watching actors playing her parents have simulated sex. Again.

She supposes the final act of the movie is her favourite part, if only because she doesn’t need to keep coming up with excuses to avoid watching her parents fuck, and she has almost no information directly from her parents about the events shown in the film, given that they weren’t there for a lot of them. The others like it far less and complain loudly that they wish Iris and Solas were on-screen instead.

They get their wish in the final few minutes after Solas, brutalized by Lusacan, is confronted by Rook and Iris. He agrees to stand down, but only if Iris joins him in the Fade as his prisoner, offering her a season in Thedas every spring. She stiffens and her eyes sting with tears that she attempts to mask by sipping at her margarita, only for them to slip down her cheek. She curses, wiping the tears away with her finger, and Leah pats her on the arm, sniffling herself. “The pinnacle of romance. It’s so beautiful,” Leah says.

“Yeah,” she lies, because it’s disgust driving her own tears. How dare they assassinate Papae’s character like that? To spread Chantry propaganda that Mamae sacrificed her freedom for the sake of Thedas when she chose to join the great love of her life in the Fade of her own free will!

Of course, there’s not a dry eye in the room and, as the credits roll, Leah offers them tissues. She blows her nose, swallowing down her own fury. Making a show of looking at her phone, she announces that it’s late and that she needs to grab a train home to feed her cat.

(Not technically a lie; she came here straight from work so her cat is liable to be cranky.)

She waits until she gets home to text Papae, if only to hide the extent of her sadness from Leah and her friends. Not bothering to turn on the lights in her living room, she plops down onto her couch, pulls out her phone and texts Papae.

Mira: Hey… don’t watch the movie they made about you and Mamae. It’ll upset you. Like, beyond the standard hurt of watching painful memories altered for the sake of entertainment on-screen.

Papae doesn’t tend to respond quickly to text messages so she’s surprised when he begins responding immediately, his message coming through shortly thereafter.

Papae: I had not intended to but, given how much your mamae has been giggling to herself, I suspect she has successfully annoyed you tonight with her commentary about your own viewing experience?

-Papae

No matter how many times she’s told him he’s saved in her contacts and that he doesn’t need to sign his name after every text, he still insists on doing so. At this point it’s either because he’s old and set in his ways or because she specifically points it out.

Mira: Don’t watch it, OK? Or, like, look up the ending and brace yourself.

I’m so fucking mad at what they did with that stupid movie. You aren’t like that.

Now, Papae is quiet for a long while, so she changes into her pyjamas and feeds a protesting Princess Buttercream (rescued in her parents’ backyard when she was just a little bottle baby while she was over trying to teach Papae how to make buttercream frosting. The lessons didn’t stick, but she got a lovely little white cat out of them). Once satiated, Buttercream comes and sits on her lap, purring away while she scrolls through her social media, discovering that one of her friends from elementary school has died.

98 years old. The woman lived a wonderful life and has half a dozen great grandchildren. Still, her friend’s face was aged, her body weakened and gaunt, and she still looks as if she were in her early 30s.

Reaching for a tissue, she wipes her eyes, allowing herself to mourn, even though she hadn’t seen her friend in person in nearly 20 years. Her phone lights up and she grabs it, finding another text from Papae.

Papae: No, I am not. People will believe what they wish and in Orlais, the Dread Wolf remains a reviled figure. It is the story most compelling to the audience they sought.

Our family knows the truth, which is enough. Put it out of your mind and focus on kinder things.

I’ll be heading to bed - unless you wish to talk?

I love you.

-Papae

No, she doesn’t want to keep Papae up, so she tells him she’ll be heading to bed soon too, and that she loves him, and tosses her phone back on the couch cushion next to her. Buttercream startles at the sound, lifting her head and letting out an inquisitive meow. She scratches her behind the ears. “People are so shitty sometimes. Papae and Mamae have to be so careful to hide who they once were because people would be weird otherwise, even though they’ve been members of their community for so long. Now it’s gonna be even weirder for them because people think the Dread Wolf kidnapped the Herald of Andraste. So dumb. Especially when they established that Solas was a big believer in freedom! Total character assassination. Ugh.”

Buttercream has nothing helpful to say in response.

Papae is right - it was fiction and those who matter to Papae know the real story. He doesn’t need her to take up arms in his defence, but even so, she wishes they’d told the accurate story, even if it’s slightly less cinematic than making the Herald of Andraste into a sacrificial lamb at the altar of the Dread Wolf.

As if Mamae would have ever allowed herself to be the sacrifice, she thinks with amusement. She opens up her phone and scrolls through the photos from their hiking trip. At candid shots of her parents laughing, views of a seemingly unending snow-capped mountain range and a valley with a clear blue lake flanked by evergreen trees. A photo of Mamae with an elfroot pipe between her lips, her eyes already bloodshot at their campsite in the mountains. Papae struggling to grill the sausages over the fire (she took over shortly after snapping this photo, saving dinner from his well-meaning fumbling), his brows furrowed as he attempted to flip the sausages on the grill.

Long ago she had to contend with the reality that her artistic, nerdy parents are also powerful people with titles to match, but she prefers to think of them as they are now.

She thinks her parents prefer the lives they have now too.