A/N: This was written for a prompt, "a kiss we had to wait for." Thanks for reading!

At Last

Venara Lavellan was overly familiar with the feeling of separation.

At first, the mark on her hand and her sudden importance in the fate of Thedas had separated her from kin and clan. She had found new friends—and new family, of a kind—in this strange land, but oftentimes her duties separated her from them over long periods of time. She had fallen in love, but need and necessity had kept them apart, as did their own headstrong single-mindedness. She and Solas were not perfect—they fought, they argued, they challenged each other. And they had their own responsibilities. As Venara travelled across southern Thedas, investigating leads, meeting with politicians and aristocrats, defeating demons, sealing rifts and generally doing what she could to stabilize the countryside, Solas remained at Skyhold, embedded in his research, studying what he could of the Fade and the magic of the anchor, desperate to find a weak link in Corypheus' plans.

Sometimes he accompanied her in the field, as he had in the beginning. But just like the rest of her companions, his talents were better suited to certain places more than others. The more Venara became involved in missions in Orlais, the less suitable it was for her to have her apostate "elven manservant" at her side, regardless of his talents in battle. Despite how she argued it with her advisors, even Solas agreed that it would damage her reputation amongst the chauvinistic Orlesian leaders, a reputation she could not afford to lose.

But Solas himself had his own business to attend to. Though he loved her, he was happy to let others accompany her on her missions, as he had his own preoccupations. More and more, he turned to leaving Skyhold for weeks at a time, going where his research led him.

There was never a minute to spare. Venara was pulled here and there, from Denerim to Val Royeaux, from Caer Oswin to Griffon Wing Keep, attending to one crisis after another. Since the Inquisition's successful rout of the Grey Warden plot at Adamant, only the Inquisitor's hand could resolve a crisis when it raised its ugly head. Everything that could go wrong did go wrong. At this point Venara half expected the Sixth Blight to begin.

She had only just returned to Skyhold, to rest and recuperate after an extended mission in Emprise de Lion. Solas was gone. A letter waited for her on her desk, scratched in an odd Elvhen script, Solas' cramped handwriting both immediately recognizable and almost indecipherable.

Venara,

Though it grieves me to do so, I must begin this letter once again with an apology. Through the personal diaries of one Magister Felix Domitius (very kindly lent to me by Dorian, though I would be lying if I said "kindly" was not said with a hint of sarcasm), I have learned of a place deep within the Brecilian Forest, in eastern Ferelden. It is the site of both Elvhen and Ancient Tevinter ruins, where a great battle between ancient elves and humans may have taken place. I have hypothesized that these ruins may date back to Corypheus' time. If there is anything I can glean of our magister foe from this site, then I must investigate. Considering the amount of blood shed throughout the Brecilian's history, the Veil will be thin, if not torn. I will do what I can to alleviate the Fade's effects on the surrounding area.

Dalish clans often pass through the forest. If I encounter any, I will ensure their safety and give them a message of your goodwill.

I wish you well, vhenan. I miss you greatly… your smile, your laughter. I long for the day that will come soon where I can hold you again once more. It will not forever be this way. I have faith.

I have faith in you.

And I will return to you.

Solas.

Venara sighed when she scanned the letter. With a sharp sting in the pit of her stomach, she realized that she could count on one hand the amount of times she had seen Solas in the past four months. Somehow, they kept missing each other by days, sometimes even by the hour. Their paths seemed destined never to align.

It won't always be this way, she thought, echoing the letter. Someday, this all will come to an end.

She tried not to think how it could end with either her death, or Solas', or both.

Venara folded the letter, put it in a drawer with the others he had left for her, and forcefully pushed the drawer shut. Then she called a servant to draw her a bath—Emprise de Lion had left her sweaty, blood-stained and sore.

The following days were cold and lonely. After an evening of rest, Josephine had filled Venara's schedule with meetings with visiting nobles and diplomats. It served a necessary function—these people needed to be seen, their concerns heard and answered, their alliances or funding secured. But it also served a practical one: Empress Celene had announced a grand ball in two months' time, the peace talks at Halamshiral where, if the Inquisition did not intercede, she would be assassinated by Corypheus' agents and all of Orlais would be thrown into chaos. Venara needed to be there, and she needed to be politically shrewd enough to navigate the court. Josephine couldn't afford any more incidents like the one with Comte Bordelon and the Marquise de Marchande.

And political shrewdness took time and training.

And so Venara dressed accordingly, garbing herself in gowns and finery, pretending they were battle armour for a very different arena. She put her growing grasp of the Orlesian language to good use, recalled the etiquette lessons Josephine and Vivienne had drilled into her. She put the grace of a battlemage's forms into her stance and walk, the shrewdness of a scholar's mind into her diction and words. Josephine glowed with pride whenever a meeting concluded successfully, but Venara only felt drained.

She wished she could escape to the rotunda, watch Solas paint his frescos or delve into his books, his fingers stained with ink, a fleck of stray paint on his cheek. But she couldn't—he wasn't there. She missed him terribly, but there was nothing she could do about that right now.

So instead she escaped to the training ring, picking up a quarterstaff and training with Blackwall well into the evening. She thought of Solas, of his face, his voice, his beautifully slender hands. She thought of the feel of his hands on her back, the touch of his lips against hers. She ached for him, and each time that ache throbbed, she put into her strikes, her quarterstaff smacking sharply against Blackwall's until splinters flew. And as she worked, grunting in effort, the sweat wet on her brow and dripping down her back, she reminded herself, "It will not be forever."

Four days after her return to Skyhold, Venara walked with the Countess Anna-Maria Germaine, a formal representative of Hasmal, one of the more far-flung Marchan city-states. Her proximity to both the Tevinter and Nevarran border made her an important ally, as her city was often overrun with escaped Tevinter slaves who may have information about the Venatori. Today, Venara was dressed in black, the smooth silks of the dress clinging to her body and rustling at her sides. The hem was embroidered with gold thread and a gold sash was belted at the waist. With heavy sable furs around her shoulders for warmth, Venara knew the dress made her look as regal as any queen instead of the small, flat-chested woman who resembled an unruly child more than anything else. Josephine had chosen her seamstress well—somehow, the woman knew how to counteract all of Venara's flaws and present the best-looking version of her, no matter how fabricated.

As Venara spoke with the countess, they walked the gallery along the second level of the great hall. Vivienne was absent, and so Venara took the countess out onto the balcony so as to show her the sights—the training grounds below, the stable hands walking the horses through the courtyard, the odd mixture of dwarves, elves, humans and Qunari. They were agents, soldiers, farmers, merchants, blacksmiths, mages and templars, all necessary people to the daily function of the Inquisition. She saw Cassandra pass below, hand on her sword as she made her way to the training ring—she looked upwards gave Venara the slightest nod of approval.

"It is quite the… strange assortment of people you have gathered," the countess said, brow furrowed.

"We are all of diverse backgrounds, true," Venara replied. "But that does not mean we cannot learn to work together. And diverse experiences can only lead to a better understanding of our enemy and how to counteract him."

"I admit, I am surprised," the countess said. "You are Dalish, and a mage at that. Your people are notorious for isolating themselves and accepting no strangers. I would have suspected that they frowned upon such… forward thinking."

"You cannot describe the Dalish with generalizations, Countess," Venara said. "My clan has traded with neighbouring human settlements for at least two generations. My Keeper speaks Tevene and Qunlat, and carries texts originating from the Anderfels to Ferelden. It is only by common understanding that we can begin to make the world a better place for us all, regardless of our origins. And now, more than ever, do we need to find common ground. We all have a larger enemy than each other, yourself included, my lady."

"And I suppose that is why you need Hasmal's armies?" the countess said.

Venara turned to answer, but stopped before she could speak. She caught movement on the stone steps below that spanned the lower to the upper courtyard. In the glorious afternoon sunlight, there could be no mistake: she knew exactly who was making his way up those stairs. Her eyes widened, her breath caught in her throat. Her heart thudded, pounding so rapidly she could have sworn the countess would hear it.

"Inquisitor?"

Venara didn't excuse herself. She spun on a heel, gathering her skirts in her hand, and ran from the balcony. She pounded down the stairs into the great hall, turned sharply, dashing by Varric and a handful of dwarven agents, and pushing her way through the threshold and onto the steps beyond. A trembling hand reached out and grasped the stone railing. A breeze picked up, tugging her long, black skirts around her legs as she stood and waited, scarcely daring to believe it was true.

He rounded the corner, appearing at the end of the long, winding stairs that led up to the great hall's threshold. He looked tired and worn. There was a long, red scratch on one cheek and his clothes were torn and muddied from travel. His staff was strapped to his back, the wood mysteriously charred from some kind of suspicious magic. She wondered what he had faced in that forest alone.

Brave man, she thought, trying to slow down her breath. Stupid man, she corrected a moment later. Oh, Solas… the things you do in the pursuit of knowledge…

Solas looked up, one foot resting gingerly on the first step. He stared at her, lips slightly parted. She must have been a sight, her long hair flowing around her shoulders, the wind tugging at her skirts, all that black and gold trailing in the air. Then it occurred to her that he had never seen her dressed quite like this before, in near-royal regalia.

She pushed her skirts back and dashed down the stairs, her dress' train flowing over the rough stone. She came to a halt two steps above him so she was suddenly on the same level as him, a rare feat for a couple with such an extreme height difference.

"Solas," she said, her eyes sweeping his face, his weary, weary face, taking in the comforting familiarity of his eyes, his nose, his mouth, his jaw… It had been too long since she had last seen his face. Too long. "Solas."

He reached out with both hands, wrapping his fingers around her lower arms, drawing her to the edge of her step. "Venara," he breathed.

He pulled her to him then, and she was swept off the step and went crashing into his arms. She knew they were in full view of everyone in the courtyard, including the countess on the balcony above, but she didn't care. They could gossip all they wanted. She was back. He was back. That was all that mattered.

Venara locked her arms around Solas' neck, hovering slightly in the air as he lifted her up, her lips finding his. She kissed him, her lips wild and uncaring, covering his mouth, his cheeks, his jaw, everything she could reach. Their touch was electric, like powerful storm magic building before release. She could feel the warmth of his hands pressing into her back as he hugged her to him, a desperate longing fulfilled, replaced with a wish to never let go.

She broke into joyous laughter, and now she was laughing against his lips, as he was against hers. He kissed her, the pressure searing and intoxicating, and she realized that her lips were swollen from overabundance.

Venara pulled away and Solas put her back down on the step. She leaned against his chest, burying her face in the rough wool of his shirt, the shirt that smelled so wholly and comfortably like him. Creators, she had missed him.

Solas kissed the top of her head. "Vhenan," he murmured. "It is good to see you at last."

Venara linked her arms around his back and nestled closer, as close as she could get. She sighed happily, warmth flooding through her, and closed her eyes.

"Welcome home."

the end