He knew he had to leave, logically it was the right thing to do; but simply gazing upon the image of this woman he loved, her strength had never lessoned in the years he had known her, holding a child – his child – he could not express the depth of the feeling. Her eyes were full of life, ready to strike at whatever was coming to form before her child.

As Fen'Harel watched her he wondered how so could look so much the same and yet so different. She had also been a light in the Fade, but she glowed so much brighter – stronger. Her blond hair was long, framing her heart shaped face before draping her shoulders.

How he knew those shoulders, the curve of the muscle, and the small tattoo near her collarbone to remind her of the dead at Haven. There was the scar on her neck, a wound from the Fade. He knew the scars on her back; one from a human during her crossing into Ferelden, five from encounters with humans as she travelled to Haven, one from a fall in the Hinterlands just after the Inquisition had arrived at the fighting, another from a surprise attack on the road and the largest from the destruction of Haven.

Her rib cage had three scars, faint now – from her childhood. Just over her hip was one of his favorite places, it was easy to hold her close or tickle her to laughter. How easy it would be to slip his hand to the small of her back and hold them both close to him; to let her know he never stopped loving her, never stopped thinking about her or wishing things were different.

The wind blew slightly, moving the fabric of her dress and it brought a familiar scene to his mind. A green dress that flowed behind her as she walked up the battlements, the sun on her hair and face as she turned to talk to someone who had come up to speak with the almighty Inquisitor. He smiled at the memory, when he used to watch her from his space – and she would look over with a smile regardless of whom she was with, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. Secret glances, secret smiles.

He stepped forward, around the crib to her side, placing his hand on her neck as he gently touched his lips to hers. "Solas?" Vaeila whispered, her voice low and thick, and he startled – realising what he had done. She had already figured out there was someone with her, and he was sure she had seen him earlier – and once again he had acted impulsively.

He sank further back into his own power, moving away from this room as quickly as he could. The further he moved away, the stronger the pain of leaving - her repeating his name in confusion only to be met with silence.

He had a family.

A smart woman who had stood by him despite her doubt and struggle with her role in this world, constantly surprised him.

He stopped when he found himself in a familiar room, books lay on the old desk. What memories had brought him back to this place.

"I thought I would find you here."

She turned, her face getting more and more tanned with every excursion – the traces of sand still lingered in her hair despite her having shed her robes earlier when the group had returned. He had been counting the days until her return, she had gone carrying traces of a fever – and she had once again avoided him upon her return.

Those brown eyes looked more haunted, troubled – and she did not let her gaze linger on him before she turned back to the book in her hand. This room, hidden away below the main floors of Skyhold, held many books and scrolls that had long left unread. The chair too was ancient, yet showed little signs of decay – as if protected down in this far off place within the sanctuary. Vaeila sat with her legs tucked under her, a book flat open on her lap as she leaned on her arm which rested on the table – her cheek sitting in the palm of her hand while her right hand turned the pages.

"Did you enjoy the Western Approach?" He asked as he circled the table, noting the items which had been cleared of the dust, and subtle way in which she watched him as he walked; if he was anyone else he would not have noticed.

And still she did not respond.

"Are you ill Inquisitor?" He asked softly, clasping his hands behind his back as he stopped in front of her, looking down at the title of the book with an indifferent expression. She moved her lips slightly, not enough to indicate speech but it stirred those particular feelings. How soft those lips were, how smooth her jaw – the smell of herbs on her hair that lingered in his mind. Sixteen weeks, sixteen long weeks, had passed and still the kiss was ever in his mind. "I did not know you had an interest in Tevinter History." He commented on the book and she looked up at him slowly, the misty formations in her eyes startled him.

And for once he honestly didn't know what to say.

She closed the book gently, sitting up straight as she placed the book on the desk next to her, shaking her head as she wiped her eyes; a nervous smile danced on her lips. "Five weeks away and I've become the Inquisitor again." Vaeila crossed her arms, keeping them snug against her tunic. "I can't win, can I?" She looked away, swallowing back whatever emotions where rising there. "You'd think sixteen weeks would be enough time." She whispered to herself, but he heard her – he never thought she would have forgotten, nor voice her pain.

"Vaeila." Reaching out he touched her neck, moving his finger to the base of her spine where he knew pressure would be. She leaned into his hand as his fingers massaged, and he could feel her relax slowly. As her gaze moved back to him, he offered a smile and she fought the smile forming in return. It was a moment – the eye contact and the pull from both their souls drawing them in – he could not help it.

Once more he could not drive away this feeling.

He leaned in, lowering his lips to hers.

This time she smelled of sand and salt, but her lips were still as soft as they has been in the Fade; and she tasted like the peach dessert Josephine had ordered.

Time seemed to still like calm water under a setting sun, the candles casting their shadows on the wall.

He felt her hand on the side of his face, drawing in him in both safety and danger – or something in-between. He pulled her up gently, breaking the kiss to tuck a strand behind her ear. She had a slight red to her cheeks, a bashful smile playing on her lips as she made a noise; it made him smile.

She was the only thing worth protecting in this world.

He felt the frown forming, the crease in his brow – what was worth more; duty or love?

"You are regretting again." Vaeila stated, withdrawing her hand from his face as she backed away. As she turned he watched the movement of her tunic, and the inescapable feeling he was going to regret not being with her.

Fen'Harel sighed, returning himself to the place where he slept. As he woke he turned his head to look at the Eluvian that sat nearby. Sometimes he imagined seeing her come through, the look on her face, the draw of her dark brown eyes, the smell of her hair or the softness of her lips. "Halam'shivanas." He muttered with contempt.