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Solas?

[ She's almost finished getting ready for bed, and is currently trying to gentle wrestle a wooden comb through her curls. Once they get more bones, she's going to spend all of it on her various hair tonics and makeup. ]

What did you think, when you first saw me? Or met me, if you don't want to count when I was unconscious and you were trying to keep me alive.

[He considers the virtues of honesty while watching her in the candlelight. He's standing beside their window, feeling the cold roil off of the inside of the frame, and thinking about... about how different their prospects suddenly are. About the fact that... that right about now he would have been rallying the forces, leveraging alliances, pouring over maps and plans, and the last thing in the world on his mind would be rest.

Elgar'nan's death was the most vital task, a monumental feat that he has been working towards for millenia, and he had been coiled like a spring to see it done— and then he was here, and so helpless, and she was... She was sitting on the side of a bed they were meant to share. The scene is so warm and small, so mundane, that looking at her makes him feel he is losing his mind with the contrast.]

I would prefer to tell you that my first thought was that you were beautiful. [He says is low, almost ashamed, but she does deserve the truth, or as near a shade to it as he can manage.] But you seemed so... young, lying there, of The People, marked as a slave, caged by the shemlen, and fallen prey to cruel circumstance. I was... frustrated, by how badly things had gone with my focus. When we met, I was only glad to see you alive. I knew that if you had died, all would truly have been lost, and the last, best link to the power of old left in Corypheus' hands: a grim fate.

[Does she even want to share the bed? He has no desire to force intimacy on her, even the relatively uncomplicated act of lying in the same place to sleep. He wanted— a kiss was no excuse for it, and certainly not permission. Oh, but he wanted to hold her.]

At that moment, you were the most beautiful sight in the world.

Edited 2025-01-06 02:37 (UTC)

[ Her laugh is laced with surprised, and she has to put the brush down to turn and look at him. Well--It was fair, she supposed. She had been in a position that only someone facing that worst of fates would envy. And it only improved under grueling, terrifying, painful work. Maybe it was silly to hope that he'd seen anything besides what a singularly miserable creature she'd been. ]

Then then I opened my mouth and was Dalish at you, yes? And woosh--[ She makes a hand gesture of something being swept away. ] It disappeared.

[ She's teasing. She pats the space besides her on the bed. ]

Can you help me with the back of my hair? It's hard with-- [ With one arm. The prosthetic has already been set aside for the night. ]

[He scoffs at her good humor, but joins her willingly. It's... upsettingly vulnerable, to seat himself on soft covers, crosslegged, her back to him. There are scars on her back, her shoulder marked by crazed lines where backblow from the mark's progress had mazed like lightning. She has freckles there, cast by the sun, and time, and he is allowed—

No, too weak: he is being asked to reach out and touch.]

Of course.

[They have touched before, of course, but it is very different now, with all that has passed between them. And there is a different texture entirely to a touch that comes not with necessity or heat, but simply because she is tilting her head and he has the opportunity to brush his fingertips against the nape of her neck and pass the comb through the soft fringe of her hair. It is trying to curl, unruly after their swim, and as the wood moves through it, it slowly tames itself into ringlets that wind and split and wind together again. It is deep red and tarnished gold in the candlelight, and when he is finished he says nothing, only sets the comb on the bed and sighs.

Was this what it was, when there were no more wars to fight, no more causes to champion? Nights like this, with the smell of water in her hair, and the softness of breath, and... he was nothing more than a body with folded legs, and the quiet of the moment, all wisdom and pride fled in the face of this consuming peace?]

Ar lath ma [He says it thoughtlessly, without even knowing he's said anything at all. The truth rises out of him with all the inevitability of loss, and none of its sting.] You are beautiful now. Dalish and all. I have learned better, I think.

Edited 2025-01-06 03:26 (UTC)

[ It was silly to feel nervous for him to do something that she had asked. She feels it anyway, strangely exposed. This is no accidental sighting during the awkward shambling of dressing at camp, or necessary exposure for any healing needed, or the other mundane reasons someone might see her body. This was a kind of intimacy different from any of that. Different than any she had experienced with him, even.

But the brush in his hands is so, so soothing, and her eyes close, shoulders relax. It is a moment of peace and comfort, and it occurs to her: They could do this again tomorrow. And the day after. For as long as they stay here, the two of them can live like this.

It's intoxicating.

And then he speaks, and she wonders if a day will come when those words don't give her a thrill, where they are so common to her ear that she hardly notes them. Hopefully not. ]

My heart. I would never have thought I would have something to teach wisdom. [ She turns to face him, presses her lips to his forehead. Then, almost guiltily: ]

You had the grim look and sense of knowledge of a hahren. Odd, for such a striking young man, I thought. But I was glad to have another elf with me. I would have lost my nerve, if Cassandra had fetched human guards to accompany me.

Edited 2025-01-06 05:17 (UTC)

[He chuckles] I have not been young for a long time.

[He remembers having hair once. Then again, he also remembers being thirty and stupid and thinking he knew everything that mattered about cost and effect, and the worth of things. For all his regrets, he would not go back. Solas steadies her balance when she turns in his arms and all at once they are nestled together. It is both familiar and shockingly new: he has had lovers before, but this... quiet, deliberate comfort, the warmth of skin, and her knowing touch. He has no right to such things, but drinks them in regardless, and looks up at her, smiling.]

Seeker Pentaghast was always a formidable woman. It took very little acting to seem intimidated by her authority; in truth, she could easily have done worse.

As for wisdom... [He hesitates. Wisdom. No one has called him that in such a very long time. Even Mythal seemed to have forgotten that he had ever been anyone before Solas, a man of pride.] I would tell you a story, my heart.

I am sure you have always been strikingly handsome.

[ His smile is returned, and she is grateful for his support as she leans against him. Her eyes close then, enjoying the moment, the feel of him. His quiet voice, his comforting presence. Is he as happy as she is? It is what she wishes for, above all else. That they can stay like this, stay happy. Surely they've earned it.

And she decides not to keep talking about how scared she was of Cassandra. There's more pleasant conversation topics than her fear. ]

A story? [ She opens an eye to look curiously at him. ] I would love to hear it

[She leans closer, and her weight, the trusting warmth of her hair on his shoulder, is its own agony of undeserved joy.]

Long ago, there was a spirit of Wisdom. I— [his courage falters, briefly. He has never told anyone of this.] An old an powerful spirit, which had learned much of the fade, and never concerned itself with the physical world. It had for a companion a spirit of Benevolence, until one day that spirit vanished.

[The room is small and warm, and his arms hold her close against his chest. He can feel his own pulse, in the contact between them, rapid in a way that has nothing to do with sexual excitement— fear. It is fear. He does and does not want her to know these things about him.]

It followed its companion's trail, and found it in the physical realm, trapped there in a body forged of lyrium. In despair it asked, what happened to you, my beloved friend? And the spirit of Benevolence shook her head and said, that she had chosen to live outside the fade, to live in the physical world. She told it that she needed Wisdom, to hold back the foolhardy voices of the powerful. To protect the people. To help her, despite the danger, and the greed.

I... allowed her to convince me. I chose a physical form, and A body was forged. [It felt safe, to let go of the pretense, if only for a few words, his voice captive in the few inches between them, where no one could hear it. Even the lighthouse no longer held these secrets, he had made sure of it.] Solas, she called me. Wisdom turned to Pride, and I... I was no longer my own self.

[There, it is done. He breathes.]

You have had more than you know, to teach to Wisdom, Vhenan. If only you knew.

[ She listens, as she has always listened to him, with a quiet, attentive interest. No, it does feel different now. It's hard to compare it when she's cuddled so warmly against him. And his voice is so solemn.

She stills as he speaks, a sudden feeling like ice in her veins as the story is revealed to her. Not from his revelation, but because she already knows. And he does not know that she knows. With a lurch in her heart, she is certain that she can't share how she was told. To tell Solas about the regrets that Rook saw-- that she had helped collect the regrets. She could not bare it. Cowardly, for he would surely find out from Rook eventually. But she is not brave enough to hurt him.

Still, she can't feign the surprise. Instead, she pulls away enough to get a better look at him (and press another kiss to his cheek). ]

You could not stand Varric trying to turn Cole away from his nature as a spirit. To turn him mortal. You thought it cruel.

I find this Benevolence cruel to do the same to you.

[ She does not bother to hide the genuine dislike from her voice. Mythal. She had stolen so much from Lavellan's beloved. She should've had some words with that sliver when she dared to show her face. ]

Wisdom fits you far better. Is that what you would prefer being called? Dirthara?

Edited 2025-01-06 14:38 (UTC)

[He laughs, feeling light, and strangely relieved. She understands. Of course she does, his brilliant, compassionate beloved.]

An apt comparison. Varric... always meant well. But he only ever saw a person as real if they were— in his own words, people.

[It would take so little, for a Spirit of Compassion. They are already aligned towards the desires of others, eager to serve and soothe. Without Lavellan there to be the stronger influence... Varric meant well. He believed what he said. And with all the good intentions and love in his stalwart heart, he would still have crippled Cole for all of time; Solas knew intimately how true that was.

But these are dangerous topics, as close as skin to one he dares not tread. He says nothing, waiting for the blade to fall, waiting for her to ask— and again, to see the ugliness of his worthless wisdom, His poor judgement. He has to laugh again, when she deferrs.]

Ah, the Dalish. [He mutters it, relief alive in his half-teasing chagrin.] 'Knowledge' and 'Wisdom' are not the same.

[And does he want to be called that? He has been Solas for so long. And yet he does— or is he, in any way, still that original self, from so many ages past? His hands are loose, lying useless between them and he accepts her kiss with a child's grace, closing his eyes and tiling his head to meet her.]

Sileal. [He says it softly, indeed.] I have been Solas for many thousands of years, and I cannot fully escape the consequence of my prideful folly. Nor should I. But to you... I would prefer to be known as Wisdom. As Sileal.

Edited 2025-01-06 23:38 (UTC)

[ She had not thought about it at the time. Not as much as she should have. Didn't understand why it seemed so personal to him. Maybe something to do with his spirit friends? She had simply felt a connection to Cole's struggle: the pressure to change who you were, how you'd been made, to fit better with those around you. She had, simply, hoped that they could both remain who they were.

Cole had managed it. She wasn't sure she had. ]

People don't understand. They don't understand spirits, or what it's like for them. I didn't. Even now, I doubt I do, fully.

[ She might have gone on about how the Dalish viewed all spirits as suspect, granting them autonomy, but with the inherent danger an autonomous being could be. And they could be very dangerous.

She's spared from the admittance by Solas disparaging the Dalish for her. Her nose wrinkles, she huffs, and is only saved from a truly devastating pout by Solas' next words. Her face smoothes then, thoughtful. She tests it out on her tongue. Likes how the word feels on it. ] I wish more people saw you as Sileil than Solas. I wish they could see you. But until then, I will hold the name close. [ Her own, private word. It makes her heart swell, and she adjusts so she can touch his face, leaning on him for support. ] You are so beautiful.

Sileal [Gently, he corrects her pronunciation, and then soothes that small annoyance with a kiss.] I cannot hope for their compassion; they will see whatever they wish to see. So long as you see me as I am, then I am not alone.

[Though, in truth, he should be. At this hour, her face is bare of more than ink, clean and soft, and strangely intimate without the cosmetics. He wonders how many have seen her this, without her armor or warpaint. It was a flagrant, magnificent luxury, just to look at her.]

Come, vhenan. You must be weary; it has been... a very long day. Would you lie with me, to sleep? I... [Sleep, he abruptly realizes. Dreaming. The Fade. As dreamlike as this moment was, the question of sleep hung over him for more reasons than the unfamiliar mundanity of being together.] ...I would ask, only if you are willing. I do not know what will happen.

[He has never not been a mage, except for when he was not an elf at all. And he is afraid of what that means.]

[ Only the kiss saves him from getting groused at, a small huff all he gets as the kiss is returned. ] And I will be there with you, Solas. For as long as you would have me, you will not be alone. [ Not that it will save him from getting grumbled at. ]

Oh--[ She's eager to accept, but the look on his face makes something click in her mind. Without a Fade, will they even dream? For a man who spent so much time wandering the Fade in his sleep, facing something like that must be. Difficult. Well, she can't fix that, but at least she can comfort, as best as she can. So she presses light, fluttering kisses over his face. ] I would love that, Sileal. Do not worry, if you cannot visit my dreams, I will simply visit yours. [ Not a promise she can actually keep. But it makes her feel better. ]

[It's a light jab, but it still wins a twist of the lips, despite his trepidation. Sileal indeed— though the idea of a dream where some other thing, either his own memory or some curious spirit, wears her face and voice...]

I have not dreamed of you in many years. [The admission comes reluctantly, almost shy. He leans back into the bedding, drawing her with him as he does. Trite as it is, this is their first night in the same bed, and he will not lie next to her like a plank of wood when he could do better by holding Lavellan near his heart.] When I watched, it was only ever from a distance, and whenever my dreams began to form a facsimile, I... could not bear it. It would not have been you.

[Solas stills her gentle affection with a hand cupped around her cheek and jaw, fingers warm in her hair and the shadow of one ear. His answering kiss is deep and lingering, full of his long-held longing for her, the reality of her.]

But you are here. I will take courage in that.

I thought I saw you, sometimes. [ Haunting her, almost. Never close enough for her to confirm it wasn't a mere errant spirit, a black wolf between the trees of the Fade. ] Though-- I was afraid I was imagining it. It brought...some comfort, to know you were still out there, and that you still wanted to see me.

[ She knew he loved her, those long years. God of lies or not, he was a lousy liar when it came to her. But sometimes, after long, lonely days--it was difficult to not let her worries overtake her. That something had happened, or that he no longer wished for her company.

His arms are an assurance that this is not the case, pulling her in as they lay down. It's a wonderful feeling, his heat radiating from behind her, his arms around her. If she could just pause time, and luxuriate in this singular moment. The kiss is returned, Lavellan radiating her own happiness in turn, in the simplicity of this, in the culmination of getting all that she had patiently waited for. ]

And I will stay here, by your side. There is nowhere else I'd rather be.

If I had not wanted to see you so badly, I might have been able to do so without inviting disaster.

[Ten years seemed long, in the wake of the journey that they had shared. In ages past, he'd have spent as much time on what felt like nothing at all— and yet that decade had been feverish, full of searching and despair, of work and effort and the exacting nature of forging the tools he would need to cut the Evanuris away from the Veil, forever. But it had been for her, ultimately. To save her life, to stop her dying— he did it for all of them, of course. But in his heart, it was for her.]

Ir abelas. I know you do not agree. [It is said quietly, the acknowledgement of the truth he had offered her, at the beginning of this lie of domesticity. It feels unnatural both ways: to hide the truth from her, and to be honest. He simply turns his face to the side, so that as she settles in against him, his cheek and mouth lie soft against her hair, and as he sighs Solas is filled with the scent of her. Here in the dark, there is peace.] Do you have any other pressing question, Vhenan?

[Is he trying to put off sleep, despite his weariness? Don't ask.]

[ Lavellan is silent for a long moment, then another, letting her silence stretch as she muses over all his words. She knows that he does not entirely believe her, and she wonders if she is the villain here, to pull him in to her, knowing that he's not entirely ready. That he has not fully let go of all that he held so tightly in Thedas.

But if she is, then she will take whatever punishment falls on her head for it, for she knows she could not part herself from him. If he acts within that prerogative, if he tries to make another play against the people here, or the Veilguard--

Well. She's made a promise to him. His fate will be hers, wherever the dice fall. She sighs softly, pressing a hand against his. ] It is what is is, Vhenan. [ And what more can she really say? She can neither condemn nor agree. She understands, but she had to stop him. Will have to stop him, from his viewpoint. ]

I have no more questions, for now. It's late, and we have all the time in the world to learn more from each other. And it's been...a very long day. [ She'd started the day planning to kill a god and save another. Unsure if Solas would listen. If he would accept her back by his side--And here she was, nestled up against him. In a strange land, with strange jailers, but she was with her beloved, and she was happy. ]

Edited 2025-01-13 03:56 (UTC)

[Once, in another life, another dream, Solas had been kissed by her. And, enchanted, he had been unable not to draw her in, to touch her, even knowing he was hiding in those shadows, plotting her death and ruination. Even when his folly had branded her with magic that was killing her, when he had only been using her to try and regain the very tool he wished to destroy her world with— and yes, while sitting under the pretenses of noble and selfless motivations. Even so, he had done it, had been unable to resist what in him called to her, and from her in kind.

If she is a villain, to draw again into willful deception, to loosen the bonds of duty on his heart and distract him with what can only hurt her... Then he is the worse monster, for letting her. He knows better. The only thing that has changed, is that now she knows better too.

So too always, for fools in love.]

[Solas sleeps. His dreams are not unpleasant, really, but they are chaotic and intermixed, a hideous collation of a thousand poorly-remembered details, and he is cast, bewildered down amongst them. Nothing of the dream makes sense, conversations bleeding into action without logic, with nothing of—

— and then, abruptly, it steadies. He finds his feet on the ground, and the whirlpool draws back from his legs so that the dreams are only an invitation, not a overwhelming maelstrom. The Fade... the Fade finds him again.]

[He wakes with a terrible startle, half-jerking himself out of the blankets, and only slowly able to sink back down. His heart is beating as if he had been in terrible danger, and only just escaped its jaws, and yet... He can feel it again. He can feel the wholeness, the texture of the world gone back to what it was. Not properly, not fully; it is like coming up from Uthenera all over again, and he is so weak. But the difference is enough to bring him to weeping with pathetic gratitude; even knowing what this is, that it's merely a carrot to sweeten the threats of the stick, he cannot stop himself from feeling it.]

Vhenan? [His voice, like his hands, are shaking. Solas seeks to master himself, and tries again.] Lavellan? Beleth.

[ In her dream, she sees the wolf again. It is not uncommon, though how she acts depends on the night. Sometimes she ignores him, bitterness rising in her throat. Sometimes she calls, begs, cries. Tonight is one of the nights that she chases. As usual, he runs. But this time, there is something different. She feels renewed, strengthened, and with the sound of hooves stamping, suddenly she begins to catch up. Then she realizes-- those are her hooves, brilliant white against the dark of the forest, racing towards him, and she reaches out--

Then she awakes with a sudden, miserable jolt. Her first reaction is to groan, and grab for the blankets. She'll beg whichever servant was sent to wake her for another few minutes, unless the need is dire--But then she hears Beleth, her true name, not the name of her clan that others insist on using like their shemlen surnames. There are few who dare wear it on their lips, and none are servants. Her eyes open then, and she sees Solas. That is when everything rushes back, and if she were not someone accustomed to having to wake up and greet some Situation or another, she might have had to sink back to her pillow and take it all in. But that can wait.

For now, she analyzes his situation. He's slept for the first time, without the Fade, and now he's undone in a way she has never seen before from him. Her first thought is that he's had his first nightmare. A cruel introduction to the world of uncontrolled dreams, but he certainly has had enough waking nightmares for them to haunt his sleep.

She rises to her knees, and throws her arms around him, bringing him against her. Small kisses are pressed into his face, wherever she can reach, as her voice calls gently. Soothingly. ] It's okay. It's okay, vhenan. I'm here. You're safe.

[He grasps at her, clinging first at her nightclothes, and then shoulders, bowing his head as she pulls him closer, to lay his face against her shoulder. He's being foolish, childish, he knows that— this is no more than any mortal elf, than she herself experiences, nearly every night. And yet, and yet, the contrast!

Solas reaches up to touch her cheek, and clasp her close against him, holding on.]

I'm alright. [His voice is rough with sleep.] Vhenan, I—

[It's too much, too pathetic. He raises his head and presses his forehead to hers, seeking to find some tattered edge of dignity. Solas has not felt so small in millennia.]

Mmh. This must seem painfully dramatic, to you.

[ She continues to hold on to him, making soothing noises as he moves, grabbing her, holding to her. There's a small twinge of guilt--it's comforting, in a strange way, that it is her, that gets to see him this vulnerable. That she gets to be the one comforting him. Another glimpse into her beloved that is for her alone. ]

Sileal. I am here. It is alright.

[ She closes her eyes as their foreheads touch, and starts taking deep, loud breaths. Steady breaths. She counts, in, then counts, out. Slowly. Trying to provide some way for Solas to calm. It's fine. She's here. Breath with her. ]

On the contrary. A child's first nightmare can be horrific, and they have only a few years of life for a nightmare to build off of. You have been through so much, my love. You have been done cruelly by the world, and for so long. Of course your nightmare is that much worse. You are allowed to be upset by it.

[He asked her to call him that, and yet the recognition is a blow that shudders through him in a nearly-physical way. To be seen, to be known for who and what he is, and loved regardless... It is an impossible joy. How can he deserve this? And yet, it doesn't seem to matter. She breathes with him and he recognizes the technique even as it begins to work on his panic.

He nearly protests: he is no child, has never been a child, and yet... Why even fight it? He is weak, and he needs her in this moment, desperately.]

It was... [Eyes closed, struggling to remember; the dream slips away and that is almost more upsetting. Will he forget this experience, forget the Fade entirely, night after night, morning after morning, not even able to know his soul's home in this fumbling, broken way?] ...I cannot remember.

[He can hear the horror in his own voice, and doesn't care. How can they live like this? How can any of them want to live like this?]

I cannot remember.

[ She doesn't speak for a few moments, keeping her arm wrapped around him, continuing the breathing. And trying to think of what to say. That's normal, is her first inclination, but it's hardly normal to him. It would do little to comfort him. She is almost frustrated by her own inability to truly wrap her head around how it must feel for him. She isn't even a mage, can't begin to truly grasp his connection to the Fade. Save, possibly, for the anchor. But that was less a connection and more of a tool that she wielded, no different than her bow. ]

Yes, that happens. Sometimes, it is a gift to not remember. Especially the bad dreams. It helps the terror abate faster, if you can't remember what caused it. Focus on what you do know. [ She presses a kiss to his forehead. ] You are here, and I am with you. You are safe. The nightmares will pass, and life will continue.

[ Is it the right thing to say? She's usually better at this. She can empathize, sympathize, she can see their point of view and tell them what needs to be heard. She can tell this wholly upsets Solas, and she aches to soothe him. At the least, she can offer her presence and her love. What she has always offered him. ]

A gift

[He wants to weep, for the suffering she has endured. Her life is already so brief, and she spends fully half of it in the Fade, in chaos and uncontrolled madness where anything might happen and it is a blessing to have lost that half in a void of non-memory. They have so little, these mortals, and they are so wounded that they think that to have even less is normal.

Bad enough, for a stranger, but to imagine Beleth crippled thus, and to know that it has been so for her, all her life... The loss of a limb seems almost the kinder amputation.]

Ir abelas. I will endure, until— [There is a sound, soft but sharp, like an intruder at the window. On the sideboard table, built into the wall, they had left the two plump sacks of bones that had been awarded them in exchange for the gathered mushrooms. And now there was only one— the other had simply collapsed, its contents vanishing from inside with the sound of a collapsing pile.

Solas gasps, stricken, as it comes flooding back to him— first the burning under his skin, a lyrium prickle and the burn as old senses find their places. Then the world seems to expand, almost painfully stretched, a stiff muscle finally allowed to relax. Could it be that simple?]

I... Something has changed.

[Experimentally, he pulls back, one last gentle caress against her cheek in gratitude. His cupped hands between them, head bowed over them as if in prayer, and a tiny spark of veilfire lights itself from the aether, at his bequest. He laughs, a wet little giggle, full of tears, and extinguishes it, collapsing forward against her shoulder again. Whole.]

[ There's a barely discernible twitch when he echoes her words back to, with tone that indicated he did not agree with her assessment of it. But now is not the time to be annoyed. He doesn't mean anything by it. It might be hard for him to understand, that some nightmares can haunt you long past when you wake, and to be rid of the memory of them is to loosen the hold of the fear. Maybe he will see her wisdom, in time.

But then she hears a noise, like something--no, someone, and she jolts. Training kicks in, her arm clutching Solas protectively, other arm going to the knife hidden--

But there is no other arm, and there is no other knife. Damn it all. She starts to get up, to find some way to seek out the intruder and deal with them, when Solas gasps, pulling Lavellan's attention back to him. Had he been attacked? Had some magic that she couldn't defend against been done to her beloved?

And then Solas pulls away from her, and Lavellan, still lost as to what has transpired without her understanding, goes to follow him. But then--is he praying? No, he's-- ]

Vhenan...your magic.

[ Her arm, that had been moving to brace Solas, terrified that he'd been attacked, now grips his shoulder as he leans against her. Relief for both the return of his magic, as well as the knowledge that they weren't being attacked by some mysterious interloper, makes her sag into the bed. Maybe he'd avoided having to understand nightmares, after all. She presses a kiss to his head. ]

I'm so glad. Are you alright?

[He makes a small noise of assent, against her shoulder. As she slumps back, he simply follows along, shivering when she turns to kiss him, but making no protest.]

I... [Whatever he was about to say, Solas trails off. He what? What could he say to ease this moment? There's nothing. Even to apologize again is asinine.] Vhenan

[As wounded as she is, the worst of his sins all borne upon one person, how can she still love him, still wish to hold him thus? But she does, and she wants him here. The strength of her arm, anchoring him nearby, is irrefutable fact. It is impossible. Illogical. It is the only truth that can matter.]

I am. I am alright, now. The shock— I am alright, now.

[Perhaps by repeating it, it will sound more true.]

Ar lath ma, Beleth. My heart.

It is okay to not be alright, vhenan. You've been through a great deal. And you don't have to pretend in front of me. You know that, right? [ Her hand goes to his cheek, hand gentle, even as her eyes are firm. ] You are allowed to feel, and you are allowed to show that in front of me. I will not think less of you. You are the one I have bonded myself to, Sileal, and it would take more than your grief to break that bond.

[ She smiles, then, though it is...more sad than happy. ]

I hope that one day, you can tell me that without it sounding like an apology. [ It does wear on a person, to have their love be seen as a tragedy that should have been avoided. ] I'm glad that you have found your way to the Fade again, but I think that we should go back to sleep. We should be rested for tomorrow.

[ She releases him, and takes a moment to glance at the bags of the strange currency they had collected. A boon for a boon. She ought to be grateful. For whatever mercies the leaders here inflict upon their laborers. She does not feel grateful. Instead, she turns, and lays back down. In this moment, what she is grateful for is that she can't control her dreams -- she does not think they would be very kind. ]

[He opens his mouth to protest— and then, thinks better of it. She is right, after all, as she so-often is.]

If that is true for one of us, then... [Gently, too-gently, he stretches out a hand an lays it across her cheek. When he had met her, she had worn the green whorls of Mythal there, mirror to his own dedication, and it had made him shudder to see it. Now, she is free, and yet the chains remain on her.] ...Will you allow me to guard your dream, vhenan? I did not know... I have been— selfish.

[It is not, strictly speaking, an apology. But it is closer to a real apology than he has come in years. Perhaps longer. If Solas realizes the contrast it makes, he shows no sign of it. Instead, he shifts higher in the bed, following her direction, and drapes the blanket more fully around her narrow shoulders. It is a poor shield, against the woes of the world, but it is warm and close, and she is beautiful like this, with her hair spilled out against the pillow.

Not for the first time, he wishes— but no. It is not the time.]

May I ask...

[ His touch melts her rising irritation at the injustice of their (and her specific) situation -- it doesn't solve it, of course, but his hands against her are a balm on frayed nerves, and she leans into his warmth. She's not...particularly sure why he seems so distressed, but she likes the offer he makes. ]

You want to walk in my dream, vhenan? I would like that. I want to spend as much time with you as possible, even in the Fade. [ That's what he meant, right? She recalls him visiting her dream at the beginning of their relationship. His turn away, her reach, and then suddenly he was grabbing her and their mouths were pressed together, heated and--

Ah.

She wrenches herself away from those thoughts. Solas has a question, and it wouldn't do to have her head in...other places. ]

Of course, I'll answer whatever you wish to know.

Bonded.

[The word was meant as a question, or perhaps an accusation— a wonderment, maybe. But instead it comes out like a bird, small and meek and fleet-winged, gone almost before he'd opened his mouth to let it fly. Bonded. What had she meant by that? What had his future self done? Or perhaps it had been done long ago, and he had been running all this time from the truth.

But it is not a thing to assume he knows. He has to ask, to have it spelled out clearly.]

I have never wished to be a chain around your neck. A bond such as the one you mentioned... Is that how you see us? Is that what you truly want?

[It boggles the mind that it would. Passion and love and lovemaking and the good of world, of course. But this was both more and less than all that. This was personal, soul-deep. He had to be sure.]

[ Well. She turns to face Solas, for this is a serious topic, and sits back up. ]

I swore to you that I would walk besides you, wherever that path leads. I told you that I would be by your side through whatever transpires. That our love will endure, through all trials. I know that you do not remember when I said that I would follow you into the Fade, but I trust that I have made my feelings clear, regardless.

I know that we don't have a Keeper on hand, nor would one, likely, agree to aid us in our declaration. [ What with everything with her, and everything with him. ] But one is not necessary. And I have already declared my intention to the only person that needs to hear it. [ That's you btw. ]

I do not see how it could be anything other than a bond. How I could be anything but bonded to you. Still--If you do not like the phrasing, then I will refrain. I would not ask of you to share my feelings on the matter.

[All through her speech he is staring at her, first in complete bafflement, his eyes wide and hungry, mouth slightly open and slack. Wonder transforms him, a rising glow of hope in his eyes as she continues, as he starts to believe— if not in the fullest sincerity of her promise, then in the fulfillment of an ancient and long-discarded dream. Every word out of her mouth is a gift, and

Still, if you do not like—

Solas surges up to silence her, on his hands and knees over her body, one hand cupping to curve of Beleth's cheek and jaw to direct her as he kisses her, as deep and as thoroughly as he knows how. How could he not like it? How could any man hear what she is saying, look into her violet eyes and stay sane? He pulls back, tries to find the words to express it to her, and ends up only shaking his head and kissing her again, pressed down with his weight on one elbow, until the fire turns tender, and the kiss ends in breath rather than teeth.]

Yes. [He says, quietly, breath of a whisper.] You have been stalwart. I... I never... Even before...

[Even when it was Mythal, to whom he had given all that he was, all that he might have been, she had never even thought to offer such a thing in return. It had been Elgar'nan she wanted, after the end of it all— that traitorous monster of a man. And he had been left with nothing but duty, and regret, and grief. But here, the shadows have all retreated to the corners in the face of her shining glory. He has to kiss her again.]

Thank you. I have no words, for the gifts you offer me.

[He will save her. He will save her. If it kills him, and half of Thedas he will not care. He will not let her go to die with the rest of them.]

Var lath vir suledin, Vhenan. I did not believe you. I believe you now.

[He will make those words into truth.]

[ She'd been starting to wonder, through her explanation--if she'd pressed too far, if she'd pushed over the line, if she'd gotten too intense, too much. But then, her back hits the mattress with a soft thump, and Solas' body covers her own, his expression just as vehement as she had worried she'd been. It's enough to already start her heart racing, then he kisses her, and any worries she had are blown away.

His heat burns her again, but this time, the fire does not smolder away. When he pulls away, she has to struggle to catch her breath, to catch her control, which has fled away from her. It feels, then, like something has finally clicked for him.

He believes her. He accepts that she loves him, and that she can not be dissuaded on the matter. Her blood is pounding in her ears (and traveling to other, more interesting places), and she grabs him. Her love. Her wonderful, kind, incredible beloved, that she would leave all that she was and could have been, to stay with him. And he seems to have finally accepted it. ]

I can think of something that does not involve words.

[ Then she kisses him again, hard. There had been plans she'd made, even for this, both in Thedas, and when they had come here. To give it time, to get to relearn each other. But she loves him, and it feels like he finally accepts that, and she is burning for him. Her body arches up, in case Solas has not quite grasped the meaning of her words, one leg brushing against his. She wants, in a way she has never truly understood in other people. It is a fascinating enlightenment. ]

Edited (what are word tenses) 2025-01-20 05:42 (UTC)

[So rapidly does she go from the profound to the profane that he has to laugh and draw her up into him, acquiescing to the unspoken demand with an eager will. The blankets are a rough wool and smooth linen, and he rolls them both so that in the next breath they are tumbling down not onto pillow and mattress, but down and down and down again, into the Fade itself...

And there is waiting a crystal lake, moss-soft, hazy with memory, and a brighter way than the unkind past.]

[Morning comes, the day after their shared dreamscape, and Caldera's sun flings a shaft of pale gold through the gap in the curtains. The room is small and snug, wood-floored, and wood-paneled, like most accommodations of the Dryad peoples. Solas wakes by inches, rising up from the fade like an idle bubble, coming to the surface.

He opens his eyes and the joy and beauty of her is an unlooked-for miracle. She is close, so close indeed that he can feel the warmth of her body all along his side and shoulder. Peace is a daydream that washes over Solas with all the force of the tides, and he can only reach out in dumb wonder, to brush tender fingertips against her cheek. He smiles for her, as she wakes, soft-edged and beatific.]

Good morning, Vhenan.

Edited 2025-02-05 05:54 (UTC)

[ It is an odd feeling, to have been conscious in your dreams, then pulled into the waking world, still just as aware. Is this how it felt to be a mage? Go from consciousness in the Fade to consciousness in real life? She doesn't know that she cares for the sensation. It still surprises her, a little, when she awakes, and sees the humble bedroom of their apartment, rather than the lush trappings of her rooms in Val Royeux. But even if she mourned the loss of fine silk curtains, there is one thing here that outstrips any luxury that Leliana could give her.

She turns to face Solas, a soft smile growing on her lips as she soaks in his touch. ]

You're here.

[ He has occupied many of her dreams, though it was hard to tell if any were the real man, lurking in the background, and which were the yearnings of a broken heart. But in all of them, he'd been gone when she'd awoken. ]

I hope you had a good sleep.

[He says nothing, neither to confirm nor deny her hope, but the gentle stroke of his thumb across her cheekbone and the slight widening of his smile are enough. Oh, but she is so beautiful, the shine of joy in her, and the way the light lays gentle on a willful curl across her brow, rendering it in auburn and gold. Her voice, so soft and dear, and close at hand.

He thought his heart would burst, merely to look at her. And this, this was merely the first time, the first morning when they woke up together, like this. How many more would he have with her?]

I am. [He whispers, and shifts a few inches closer, not even to kiss, but merely to be closer, and to see her better still.] How do you feel?

[ She feels soft. The lighting, beams across her, the smile on her face, the feeling in her heart as she looks up at him, they are all as soft as a cloud, but so much more real. She feels happy, too. More than she thought possible. Years of pining and yearning, planning and plotting. Going to sleep and waking up in a cold bed, hoping that one day soon, the threads she wove would come together into a tapestry where they could finally be together.

And here he is.

Still heavy with sleep, her hand goes up to his that caresses her, gently brushing fingers against him. ]

Like I could freeze time, for I cannot imagine a time when I could be happier than I am now.

[It feels silly, bordering on idiotic, to do nothing more than to lie there and smile stupidly at her in the wake of such a sentiment. But it's all he can manage for a long minute or two. It is all just so perfect; the warmth of the bed, and her weight so near-by, the soft contented expression, the tenderness in her touch.

More than he deserves, and so terribly, utterly wrong, to be lying here and loving her, when all the while he is still planning to...

Solas closes his eyes, and sighs again. There is never any peace, is there? Not while the work is undone. And yet, one morning, well-warned, can make no difference. Be at peace, be at peace; you owe her this much, at least.]

Ar lath ma, emma'nehn.

Hello Solas?

You have shown interest in my previous inventions; I thought you might be curious to see another I have successfully restored to functionality. I call it Diplomacy, and it's a gauntlet that deals with lighting damage.

It works like true Diplomacy, all with a handshake.

Percival, was it not? This is Solas.

I am indeed interested in the function of such a device. Are you offering a demonstration?

[ Less than a day after he wanders off: ]

In case.

[ He has acquired a bird.

The brevity means only in case of emergencies. Sending it at all means stay out of my dreams brosef, perhaps, though he never asked if that was even possible right now.

He expects Solas to understand both implications.

But like five days later, ]

Do you have your magic back? How long have you been here?

Work diligently, and perhaps our new masters shall be merciful.

[He’s still like this, even after thousands of years, sorry to say.]

One month

Have I ever told you how much I appreciate your clarity and directness? One of your top ten qualities, I would say.

[ One month is clear and direct, though, and not as long as Felassan had assumed, and he has no idea he can attribute the proximity of this arrival to the all-powerful beings controlling everyone with their brains and computer keyboards, so, ]

Maybe they brought me here to screw with you.

The thought has occurred to me. Lavellan and I were both brought here after Rook and her team. The Iron Bull, a Qunari once beholden to the Inquisition, followed in the month after. The pattern is clear.

[As well as the idea that he himself was brought here primarily to annoy Rook, or more accurately for the sake of a connection between them.]

And yet you continue to ask me questions. Curious.

Edited 2025-02-13 15:10 (UTC)

It's a sickness. Does anyone know if our gracious overlords can read what we write here?

Ignorance is bliss, I believe that saying goes.

[no. They have not. He is so tired.]

Then I’m sure they have a truly good reason for all of this. Do Rook and her team and this Iron Bull know who you are?

They would say that they do.

[Which is to say, No, but you can't argue with some people.]

I credit Beleth for her efforts. [She tried.] In their defense, they have been given other reasons to despise me.

Such as?

Really?

[You're really going to make him do this? You're an asshole.]

I killed a friend. He was Rook's mentor— though I suspect most of them have only the potential loss of the Veil for personal motivation.

[ How was he supposed to know it would be something Solas was sad about?

Other than knowing Solas for more than ten minutes. Other than that.

Anyway, dodging the subject of the expansion of the Killed Friend Club for the moment. ]

I can’t imagine why they might take that personally.

Do you think it is possible that I have not understood that I am the only one who still sees things this way?

[He is so, so tired. It really would have been better never to wake.]

I missed these discussions.

There's my god of lies.

Do not. Ugh.

[Disgusted noise]

Was there anything else you wanted to know, or did you only make contact to mock me?

Nothing that can't wait.

[ Do you ever have trouble settling down to rest because you're sleeping in trees in a new and unfamiliar world without any of the magic you rely on to not die and also you're used to years of regularly checking in with the guy who killed you to update him on your progress in the grand restoring/destroying the world plan? No? Just Felassan?

That's fine. ]

If you would prefer a less observable venue.

[He can tell, more or less, that he isn't welcome in general. And fair enough, he has his own business to attend to in the Fade, even if he still had nothing to do both day and night, except to wander and scheme and wait for Felassan to check in.

...but there's a difference between showing up, and being invited.]

I found the manner of mortal, magicless dreaming to be... challenging. [He hated it, hated being unaware, unable affect or to remember most of it. Solas had never experienced that kind of profound loss of mental orientation without the use of drugs or magic or terrible injury.] Though I understand this perspective to be unreasonable.

[Beleth had words, he doesn't need to say.]

I used to set wards against the Fade and chew shemadin'an [ a word I have just made up for whatever herb he could use to prevent dreams ] whenever I did not want to talk to you. I thought about running.

[ Speaking of conversations perhaps best not had through these little birds. He sends a subject change quick on its heels. ]

Does it feel the same for you here?

It is not the true Fade, as we have known it, but it is a Fade. Just as whatever constitutes the Veil here is not my Veil.

[He is not surprised to see the subject change, though he is surprised to hear that Felassan had considered running. Somehow, that makes it both better and worse; that he had not been sure. That he had been afraid.]

But it reacts the same, in most ways. It is empty, however. Almost nothing dwells where I can find it, in the dreams of this world.

Lonely.

[ A description, not a complaint.

A great deal of rumination is not put into words and sent through the bird. ]

One of the locals told me you if anyone who is not true of heart enters this dragon bone place, they will burst into flames. If you do not hear from me again after tomorrow you will know what has happened.

I shall light a candle in your remembrance. Unless that would be too on the nose?

No. Funny. Do it.

[ A (partial) life philosophy distilled. ]

[ The note is folded in half and stuck to his workshop door, to be found when Beleth has stepped out of the house already. Someone, apparently, remembered her dumb joke about bad poetry. ]

As the halla yearns for the forest green
So do I long to be by your side
You alone are my heart's desire
Just as I am your bride

As the rabbit yearns for it's den below
So do I long for your lips on mine
You alone are my heart's desire
The finest flavor of wine

As the falcon yearns for the sky above
So do I long for your eyes on me
You alone are my heart's desire
And we are well and truly free

[ Underneath the carefully written words is a scrawled note: 'Give me another century to work on it and I'm sure it'll knock your socks off.' ]

[So there is no way Gadriel could do this via voice, or EMPEROR FORBID, in person. So, text it is.]

I need your help. Someone here is possessed by an owl.

[There is a long pause, in which a muffled conversation can be heard. Eventually, silence, and then the sound of a longsuffering sigh. This isn't what he wants, but to please Lavellan, there is little he would not do.]

....

Who.

[Trust him, there's a reason Gadriel chose text, because the sounds of actual physical pain coming from him at having to do this would definitely ruin the joke.

[If the joke were funny to begin with. Which it's not, but even if it were, Gadriel doesn't get it.]

I am sorry. This is not working.

They were both reading quietly in the library, the silence pleasant and gentle. Beleth isn't sure what Solas is reading, but she'd been indulging in some frivolous romance. A forbidden romance, which had appealed to her, until--

The book is shut, decisively, and put down, accompanied by a furrowed brow. "I don't think these two people actually like each other."

That declaration made, she stands, and promptly deposits herself into Solas' lap. Whatever he's reading can wait. "I like you, as well as love you. You're my friend, as well as my partner." It did not seem such an odd concept to her, and the lack of it in the book seemed ... bizarre.

Edited 2025-03-31 18:04 (UTC)

I don't think these two people actually like each other

Solas is pulled from his own book with a sensation not unlike being wakened unexpectedly from a pleasant dream. It was a golden afternoon, a deeply soothing peace he had come to rely on, and a needed balm after the grim, frantic work of the past few weeks. Their home was largely intact, and both of them alive and now uninjured...

Every day he found himself heaped with baffling good fortune, all undeserving.

And then Beleth is in his lap; he has just enough time to rescue his book from being crushed. It is in him to be annoyed, but despite the startled edge of emotion, she is here, alive and warm and in his arms... and her words are a pool of cool and shadowed depths on an over-hot day.

"I thank you for the sentiment," He says, accepting it with bare honesty. Solas' arms come up automatically, to balance and hold her. The slim strength of Beleth's waist is always a temptation to the hands, "I like you as well. Even if things were not as they are between us, I would love you, as dear a friend to my heart as any has ever been. Greater, perhaps, for being more true."

Not everyone can bear up loyally under the pressures she has been subjected to, after all. And yet, she always has. Not for the first time, Solas wonders idly what she might have been, were she born a spirit and not an elf of waking flesh. Loyalty? Steadfastness? Strength? Grace-under-pressure? Something rare, he is sure, and powerful.

"Yet I am glad, that that is not so. You are beautiful, graceful, and strong; I would grieve to never have caught your interest, in some other life."

She grins at that -- how can she not? Solas' words are, as ever, sweet and loving, warming her and brightening the day, like the gentle brush of the sun. Her arms go around his neck, leaning in to give his cheek a chaste kiss.

"I feel the same -- it would be so embarrassing to have an unrequited crush on you. I was bad enough when I wasn't sure of your feelings, mooning after you like a puppy." Then she laughs, shaking her head, and giving him another kiss, then another. "But either way, you would have captured my interest. How can you not, when you are so interesting?"

That had been what caught her eye, at first. Never had she met a man like him, and she knew that she never would again. No other such man existed.

"I'm glad you'd be my friend, though. I'm gladder still I can do this." And then a much less chaste kiss on the lips. A thing she had spent much time wanting, and so little time able. But now she has time to catch up

"When was this?" Solas laughs, closing his eyes to submit, as always, to her ministrations, "The young woman I remember was bold, declaring her interest in no uncertain terms. Vowing to protect me with her life, even though she had as of yet no power to make good on any such promise. She kissed me before I ever dared to so much as hold her hand."

But then she is kissing him properly, and Solas abandons dignity, surging, stretching, trying to prolong the contact. The angle is all wrong for control— she has all the leverage, and the power. Though he be the taller of the two, it is Beleth who controls this moment: all he can do is tilt back his head in a mute plea for more.

Oh, oh, this woman! She will be the death of him. What joy, to die thus— and to live.

"Vhenan," He whispers, husky and broken, when she allows him the privilege, "Emma lath. Please."

"It happened when you weren't looking." She answers, as prim and proper as you please, to hide her embarrassment at being called out for her boldness -- even if it was true. And even if Solas quite liked it. "Ask Dorian. He had to put up with me gazing down at you often enough."

But oh, she does like this. Likes the way his lips follow hers, the way he openly desires the contact. She hadn't meant to get too into this, but how can she deny him anything, especially when it was so enjoyable for her?

And perhaps she's not beating the boldness allegations any time soon, because it only takes a little adjustment for her to turn and face him, straddling his hips, and now she's in the perfect position to continue.

"Yes, my heart?" And she's peppering his face with kisses again, making sure his lips receive their due attention as well. "If you want something, you need only ask, you know."

"I..."

He wants... He wants this. This moment, just like this. His hands on her hips, crude mirror to a dancer's stance. He wants her weight over his thighs, her laughing mouth slanted over his own, and the tender press of her body against his, flush from belly to breasts. Her arms cradling his face, so near.

He wants this. This for a thousand years would not be enough. He wants her to stay, to stay with him always. To never have to fear the day, inevitable and swiftly approaching, when she would be gone. When he would never again say her name, except to speak of the past.

"I wish for you to stay," He admits, helplessly, "I have run from you. I have... destroyed much, and all my plans come apart. I want to save you. I want you to stay. Even if you never loved me, Vhenan'ara, ma arla'ema. When I am here, like this with you... I am home."

His words draw her face away from his, so that she might examine him closer. Her expression is open, easy to read: and it is full of love. Soft, inexorable devotion and affection. It is easy for her to wear a smile like an Orlesian's mask, but for Solas, her joy in him and in his presence are all too transparent.

Her fingers rise to his face, gently tracing each dip and rise on his skin, each wrinkle of worry, his proud, strong nose, his soft lips, too often turned in a frown. She traces him like she wants to memorize the feel, like she wishes to recall every inch of him by touch alone. Only when she is satisfied do her hands move to cup his jaw, thumbs gently brushing his cheeks.

"I have no gods left to swear to, so I can only swear upon myself. I love you beyond measure, beyond time and space. And I will not let any of those stand between us. Sileal, I am yours, as much as you are mine, and nothing will part us, until time and all worlds cease to be. And even then, perhaps, when all is void, my hand will still find yours, and we will walk it together."

And then she kisses him, as deeply and thoroughly as she is capable of.

It is not an Arlathan bonding ceremony. There is no assembled crowd, no spirits as witness, no binding Spirit of Love to connect their hearts and minds for all time, and make emotion and reality one truth. But there is her, and her vivid gaze, the measured, inimitable force of her voice.

Solas is not given to trust, either to indulging in it, nor to embodying it. But he catches his breath in the light of faith and, all unwilling, he believes her.

If all that is good and wicked in the world shall come to pass, whatever happens, they will go together into the dark. She will not leave him. Impossible truth, impossible future: that a mortal should arise to this power. That he should be overmastered by such fancies.

But the gods had all fallen, been cast down by her own hand, or by her proxies. Even his cleverness and power, his own long plans had been seen and undone. If a mere and rude Dalish nobody could arise to the seat of Inquisitor, then why could she not take the reigns of the world itself, and shift it all to save him?

He believes her.

In a few hours, or a day, cynicism will regain its footing, his own doubts creep in, the teeth of self-loathing find his throat once again... but for now, he believes her, and in terrible, heart-cutting joy Solas surges up into the kiss with his arms rising to meet her.

"Yes," He whispers, momentarily breathless and exultant, shining with joy, "Yes, Vhenan. Let it be so."

Let him keep her, this one shining thing. The only good left in his life, the one person worth living for. Oh yes.

Beleth doesn't want to invest herself too heavily into hope, into the belief that she sees on his face.

Since they first met in Caldera, on that snowy, chilly day, when he stared at her like she was his greatest hope and fear both alighting down to torment him, and she realized that he did not recall anything that happened between them in those last hours, she knew that the task of convincing him would not be an easy one. She is one person, a sole woman, without Mythal, or Morrigan, and Rook was not in a cooperative mood. How could she convince him to lay aside his campaign and come to her, when in ten years, she'd been unable to do so?

She has told him what she knows, and what she has seen. She laid out the plans of her allies, so that he could not trip over them, and the only path for them would be to help her save him. And sometimes, it felt like he could see it, see the future that she told him of. Then something would happen -- his regrets, his fears, his duty too great a burden. So it might be, now. But she has to hope, and she has to enjoy when she sees the belief on his face.

And the love, which is always there, when his face is turned towards her. She will never stop enjoying that.

And he is kissing her, and she can taste that hope, that faith, and that love on his lips, and she returns it as best she can, sinking into his arms. Even if it's just temporary for now -- it will become permanent, in time. She has seen it. And she thinks to the orb, to the picture of him holding that little baby, placing a kiss on its forehead.

They will be happy, together. It is the only option she will brook.

"It will be." She tells him, with the confidence of knowing nothing else is possible. "I should sit in your lap more often, if this is how you act when I do it." Both their books are discarded, and she suspects they'll wait a little longer, as she adjusts herself, starting to trail her kisses around his face, lingering near his jaw, and neck.

"Maybe I would not be a good friend, after all. I don't think I'd last very long at not being able to touch you."

"Ten years you endured," Solas reminds her; she does this often, belittling her own strength, and courage, as if adhering to reasonable limitations had ever once been her mein, "It is no mystery if you grow impatient, now. As I once told you that I longed to experience what it was to be dominated by you..."

No, his heart was strong, and now that it is safe to do so, Solas revels in it.

"...I can say now with confidence, it is as fascinating an experience as I might have predicted. You grow more skilled with every repetition, and the effect is... breathtaking."

"It's different." She replies, lips pulling into what threatens to be a pout. "That is to say, it'd be different if we were friends. Though I'd still want to kiss you, I think." She cups his face, a smirk on her face as she examines it closely. "You are very kissable, I fear. I'm not sure I'd have the wherewithal to resist." She hadn't, after all, when Solas and her were in that dream together. Throwing caution to the wind and grabbing for him, the surprise on his face...

No more surprise now, of course. She's made her opinions quite soundly known. And when he mentions how breathtaking her skill is, she can't help but look quite pleased with herself.

"I could say the same of you. To hold dominion over the Dread Wolf... or to give myself to him entirely..." That smirk only strengthens as she slips a hand under his shirt. "Either way is thrilling. Though I will say, for as much as I will complain about the book, it did give me an idea or two..."

"Shall I take you then, my heart?" He challenges, reaching at last to satisfy himself, hands easy on the fullness of her rump and leaning allow her own raving hands more freedom, "Shall I set a wolf's fangs at your throat and wring pleasure from you until you are weeping for mercy?"

It was an enticing thought; Beleth was so controlled, so full of prepossession and care. To see her incoherent, blind with pleasure and exhaustion, utterly spent, unable to do more than weakly protest... only to bend and pull yet more from her weary flesh. Yes, that was a thought, indeed.

"Or perhaps you will yet tame the Dread Wolf, and hold him to heel: all the hounds of Ferelden, put to shame."

His hands and his words work in concert, a dual attack that leaves Beleth's ear tips red, both imagination and heart racing. Solas has always been good with his words, poetical when the mood strikes him, and tantalizing with other moods. Tempting and teasing.

But she has her own weapons.

"I want both. I want it all." She tells him, lips moving to his ear as her fingers toy idly with the band of his pants. "I want you, in every way that two people can be together. We have all the time in the world, my love, and I want to spend no small amount of it trying everything that is there to be tried." It's easy, in this position, to move her arms around to his back, nails gently gliding over the skin there, not quite enough to be called scratching, as she presses herself up against him.

"More than anything else in Thedas or Caldera, I want you."

When Solas was injured, Felassan stayed a few days. With Beleth injured, he's stayed again, though not any longer. By the second morning he's wearing or carrying everything he owns again — save his cloak, still damp from being scrubbed of blood and dust and still hanging up to dry — in a clear sign he's intending to go before long. But he's not scurrying, fleeing, or generally rushing. He's moving at a leisurely pace, braiding his hair (also damp from recent washing) back at the temples and whistling a tune that slips in and out of audibility, when he finds Solas painting the outer wall, where there'd only been the ghostly outline of a halla on the day Felassan first arrived in Caldera.

"Will you do the whole wall?" he asks.

"In time," He agrees, glancing to see Felassan only after he's spoken.

It was strange, and interesting, how one adapted to the quick world of the mortals. Friendships had formed over the course of that one brief journey, no more than a handful of years, which seemed as if they might last an age... And yet, he had known they could not. His memory of the Inquisition would outlive every one of them, a thousandfold, and yet...

...Felassan is at a different pace. Not as measured as it once had been, in the old days before the worst had come to pass, but slower. Deeper, somehow, depths and currents flowed between them, some light and easy, and other with sharp and hungry jaws.

How inviting that felt! How strange in its familiarity, and how already he mourned Felassan's leaving. But then, his friend had always been prone to wander, and to make his own way. In time.

In time, indeed.

"Will you return, soon?" He says it carefully, voice level, as if unconcerned. But it is a lie.

"Sure," Felassan says, like it's nothing.

And it could nearly be nothing more than a promise to come back sometime in the next decade. He's spent centuries believing they would have freedom soon, that he would find Solas soon, that they would repair the world soon — in all of that waiting for soon it came to happen that he spent more of his life in the world with the Veil than he ever did in the world before it. Now he's watched at least one child grow to adulthood at a quick clip. He learned to measure time in the weeks between each meeting with her instead of the years between generations. Soon still may not mean tomorrow to him, but it doesn't mean in a year or two anymore, either.

So that's something. And it's something, too, that Solas has asked. He's asked carefully and evenly but not with disinterest, and Felassan knows him. He has to stand here holding that, the knowledge Solas wants him around, right next to being so little removed (two soons) from having been equally certain that Solas would prefer, however regretful the mathematics, a world without him in it at all. Wedged between them the question of how much of this distance is acceptance of his place and how much is punishment.

Not all of it, regardless. Some of it is that Felassan likes to go see what there is to see. Some of it is that no more-or-less married couple freshly united after a long separation likes a hanger-on. But some of it is feelings, of one kind or the other, and Felassan examines the drying paint and finishes his braiding while he suffers through feeling them.

"I had the thought," he says after that pause, "that I might owe you an apology."

Edited (glanced at tag before closing tab and almost didn't understand what i had meant to say) 2025-04-11 03:46 (UTC)

Solas' brush pauses. He stands, staring at a dribble of color as it works its way down, threatening an inappropriate mark, with his mind completely blank of thought. For one brief, blessed moment, he has nothing to give: not grief or fear, not love or wisdom. And then he twists the brush to rescue the line, and remembers to breathe.

"Did you have a particular transgression in mind?" He asks, a little thoughtlessly. It is a joke, you see, to cover the way his mind is stuttering along; that Felassan has so many transgressions, so many pranks and oddities, that he should be spoiled for choice, when it comes to apologies.

That he should apologize to others, to beg forgiveness, and be punished, is obvious. That Felassan should do the same seems unfair. Wrong. He killed his friend; surely that terrible act wiped away all debt between them, or at least all that was not Solas' to bear. Surely.

For what it's worth, there will be no begging forgiveness. Certainly no begging for punishment. Felassan keeps his chin up and his shoulders high as they ever are, a relaxed dignity that doesn't cross into stiffness or formality, and he huffs quiet laughter at the question.

"I left your office in the Lighthouse in some disarray," is also a joke. True — in the immediate wake of the world's sudden sundering and Solas's disappearance, Felassan's search for anything that might help was not what one would call orderly — but a joke, to preface the real issue. "And I should have believed you could be convinced."

It's more than that. But that's the succinct, actionable end point of a longer series of mistakes.

"I was thinking about myself, you know? I was thinking about what I was and was not willing to do to her and to them. I never really thought you would listen. I would have approached it differently if I had. Maybe it would not have changed much in the end, but you did deserve better than that from me."

"You need not concern yourself with the Lighthouse, I think. It has other keepers now."

And he does try not to be bitter about that, he does. He tells himself that it is a good thing, that that ancient place be brought to life and light again. That it should live and breathe, and the caretaker be offered more to do, and that Rook and the Veilguard should have a safe haven is. Good. It is, objectively good.

But it is also hard to know that all his private places, the secret diaries and rooms where he dwelt together with friends... were taken from him. Even the memories pulled out and put on display, tutted over by strangers who judged him harshly, and thought of him as an enemy. To know that Beleth, that Lavellan, had a hand in it is... It is. It is good. It must be for the good. He had forced her hand. It was his own fault.

I should have believed you could be convinced

Solas is shaken out of his spiraling reverie by that, and after a pause turns to look at Felassan almost in confusion. Was that what had motivated Felassan to betray him, in the end? That he had truly believed Solas so inflexible, so unwilling to learn? Pride, in truth, rather than merely in name? That's... painful. He cannot summon anger, or even resentment, only a limp, wide-eyed uncertainty, like a betrayed child.

"There is something of Wisdom in me still, perhaps," He says, feeling hollow and hurt. When had he strayed so far from himself, that even his closest friend no longer knew him? "Despite myself."

Was it worse, somehow, than the idea that it had been a matter of principle? Principle, and the courage to face the consequences of upholding them: he had grown used to the idea, respected it, grieved it, and now it was all overset. Solas turns back to his painting, raises his hand to continue, and then cannot. He breathes, and remembers to breathe, and resolves that the work might as well be done, for the day. He is in no mood to create, anymore.

"For what little it can matter, I forgive you. No one can say I did not exact retribution, and you owe me nothing. Your Briala holds power in Orlais, and by every creditable account I will be defeated, and the mortals hold sway, as you wished." He will fight while he can, for what he believes in. Perhaps even he will change fate; he knows it is possible to do so. But Solas is not going to try to argue his many contingencies and plans in the face of Felassan's renewed generosity of spirit, "It is all come to nothing, in the end. I do not deserve to mourn something that I myself have destroyed."

Not home, nor Elvhenan, nor it's people. Not Felassan, nor their long, easy friendship. Not even his own freedom, which he discarded so cavalierly in pursuit of greater goals, hoped-for revolutions. Not even Mythal, not completely. He grieves regardless, the emotion an unstoppable tide, and because he cannot deserve to indulge it, it turns inward, always. Destructive as ever.

Like pulling a knife out of a wound, in the immediate the blood flows thicker and the way forward is more treacherous. Felassan stays silent and still but sorry, truly. His inveterate indisposition toward pleading or crumbling or crying over anything, ever, is not enough to keep fretful regret out of his eyes while he watches hurt seep through Solas's face, then watches him turn away.

For what little it matters, Solas says of something that matters to Felassan a great deal, and you owe me nothing. In that Felassan hears a dismissal. But that is part of the problem, part of that longer series of mistakes that led him to his knees in that clearing. For ages Felassan put his feet in rivers and rubbed his itching shoulders on tree trunks and found new things to taste and let snow fall until it covered him to see how heavy it would feel, and all the while Solas was immaterial in a world that wrapped him in reflections, untouchable and shadowed, and maybe to Felassan he began to feel more like a memory, a ghost, a god. A force to follow or to reckon with. And he had deserved better than that. Felassan had promised him better than that.

No time like the present. Felassan permits him the privacy of his turned back, but not his distance. He puts his hand on one of Solas's shoulders and his cheek to the other, nose briefly squashed down against his arm. New world, new habits, new company, new millennium — he smells like a stranger.

"I have never wished you defeated, harellan," Felassan says, mustering some tongue to put into his cheek at the end. An honest label, but one he's rarely aimed at Solas before without a wink or an elbow to his ribs. "And I don't think mourning is about what anyone deserves, but even if it was, we were destroying ourselves long before you raised your hand to try to stop it."

He is not expecting to be touched.

If asked, Solas would be forced to admit that he is not expecting anything at all from Felasson; the apology had been shocking, more than a surprise. That it had moved him so deeply was worse: he had hoped only for another, mild tidbit of hope. A nothing-promise that he would see his friend again. That perhaps one day he might be forgiven half the trespasses he had visited upon him. Solas had had no thought to any pain of his own. And now, he does.

"Did you not?" He asks, thick-tongued and foolish.

Like an unruly mule, once pain knew you could see it it behaved all the worse, as if performing for an audience. But he can feel the warmth of him, at his back. Close, so close, and Solas cannot quite hold himself straight anymore, curling in, feeling strange and weak. He wants to weep, to scream; why, he could not have said.

"Please, " He rasps, voice rough and choked, forced out through a throat that is closing of its own accord. Will no part of him behave, tonight? Will nothing do as it is told? "What does it matter? They will never forgive me, as it is. Falon, I cannot."

Cannot bear up against the gentleness of his attack. Cannot withstand compassion in the way he could easily have stood for a thousand wicked barbs. Why? Why did Felassan not hate him? Why could he not simply wish Solas dead, and have done with it?

"...I..." He can feel himself slipping, the dangerous salt-hot upwelling, and Solas can feel his whole body clench with the force of fighting it. All at once the damn breaks and he turns and clings to Felassan with a sound that even torture could not have pulled out of him. Solas is the taller of them, but he is bent with the weight of sorrows.

Of being allowed to sorrow. He is at the end of his strength, he must be; he has not the power to hold back even tears, though he will die before he allows himself to sob.

Felassan could make meaning of those fragments if he tried, but he doesn't, really. His attention is on the shifts and hitches of Solas's shoulder under his cheek, his choking tone, the stumbling staccato rhythm of his speech when he's usually so fluid and self-possessed. There is meaning to find in all of that, too, and Felassan finds it, so when Solas's shoulders pull out of his grasp he isn't caught by surprise. He isn't expecting a recoil or a retreat, but exactly what he gets. He doesn't flinch or startle. He meets him.

Something in him needed this, too, but the shivering tremor that passes through his torso is fleeting, there and gone, like the shadows cast by high-flying birds when they cross the sun. The hand he puts on the back of Solas's head to keep him tucked into Felassan's neck and shoulder is more permanent. The fist made around the fabric of the shirt on his back. The rise up onto his toes — Solas is too tall. That is the first thing Felassan says: "You are too tall, my friend," against his ear in measured elvhen.

But he's not really too tall. Felassan can manage holding him.

"You will be all right," he adds after a stretch of seconds has passed, a sentence saved from being entirely empty comfort only by Felassan's faith in Beleth's tenacity. "Who will not forgive you?"

Edited 2025-04-15 03:32 (UTC)

"It was not by choice," He retorts, an old bitter joke that skews too close to the truth, the call-and-response as well worn as their friendship. Felassan too short, Solas too tall, he should rise to the occasion and Solas be taken down a peg let he get too full of himself...

...there is little of pride in this, now, the weeping, pathetic thing that he has become. Was this better, or worse? Was this the promised breakdown that one heard so much about, that had him weak in the knees, leaning heavily into Felassan's shoulder for support.

Ah, but it is a question worth answering. How could he not? Weak. Weak. Weak as ever to the quest for knowledge, and the ability to give it. Babbler. Blathermouth. Fool of a Pride demon, masquerading as if he had any claim to Wisdom. Broken thing.

"I had thought my enemies wished me dead," He admits, falling into a vague rocking motion, his hands tight-fisted at Felassan's back, "And while Elgar'nan still lives, and walks the world, that will still be true for his part. But the Veil is sustained on the lives of the Evanuris, and when he is dead it will fall. That is when—in the moment after the battle, when I am still weakened..."

And though he had faced the world with admirable calm since learning of it, the despair is a dragon that writhed and roared beneath his skin. All these millenia, all the lives lost, the war, the fighting, the pain and effort, all of it come to an eternity of loneliness, imprisoned and made nothing more than a power-source to fuel his greatest mistake. His greatest regret.

Solas will never be free.

"...I have seen it, and Beleth has lived it: Rook will take my blood, by force or trickery, and seek to imprison me in their place. The last of their gods, to carry the Veil forever."

Edited 2025-04-15 04:12 (UTC)

If Felassan only thought of Solas, if he could put the peace and safety of any one person in the world above every other concern, then a lot of things would be different, stretching back thousands of years. That's not who he's ever been. It's not who either of them have ever been. There's a line, though, that startles and shakes him to think of being crossed. Enough so that he leans back, still close but not that close, and moves the hand on the back of Solas's head to his jaw instead, trying to lift his gaze so Felassan can aim his sharp-eyed frown directly into his wet, miserable face.

Containing a stubborn, unstoppable force so it doesn't wreak havoc is one thing. This is another. Solas has broken so many chains. He broke Felassan's. And in the immediate wake of understanding, before cooler thoughts can prevail, millennia fall off his face, cynicism and callousness peeled off to leave a (relatively) young man who thinks they're supposed to be better than that.

"Throw Elgar'nan back in," he says — snaps, really — like it could be that simple.

"Ha," It's a sorrowful smile, and Solas shakes his head in quiet denial. Elgar'nan would fight them with every drop of blood and blight in him, and sooner die than be returned to his rightful place. For once in his life, Solas cannot blame him for the sentiment, "If only it were so easy."

He is still a moment, as if thinking it over, just the same. It does make for an enticing fantasy... but no. No, it is impossible. He does look up, finally, and for a few seconds Solas is rendered speechless by the nearness of Felassan's face.

Millenia ago, he saw his friend for the first time, and the eyes were the same, but so much else had changed. Skin rougher, darker, hair worn differently, faint wrinkles where there once had been none. He had not aged, not in truth, but he had... worn in. Life had touched him, while Solas lay in dark and shadowed dreams, and he had lived it.

His hand, calloused at the fingertips, was warm on Solas' cheek, and he leaned into it unconsciously, seeking comfort like a blind flower, turning towards the light.

"Beleth believes Rook can be merciful. I have not seen any reason to agree. But Elgar'nan cannot be permitted to blight Thedas, and they cannot defeat him without my help. I will return to that world, and I will... I..." His face twists, but the weeping too is at the end of its strength, and he is able, at last, to wrestle it down, "...I will face what awaits me."

Just as Felassan once did. Though, perhaps less humbly.

Edited 2025-04-16 04:04 (UTC)

The natural time to take his hand from Solas's face comes and goes, ignored in the wake of Solas's lean against his fingers and his seeping resignation. Felassan stays where he is. In fact, he adds a second hand, holding Solas’s face between them, both thumbs swiping once beneath his eyes to clear away tear tracks. But that's the only real gentleness involved. Otherwise his hold is firm and his focus sharp, and what he says as he stares up into Solas’s eyes is, “Who are you supposed to be now, Despair? Don’t give me that shit.”

He needs to move. His options are closer again or further away, and he chooses the latter, a half step backwards as he lets his hands fall to Solas's shoulder instead. Perfect to shake him by, if Felassan decides he needs shaking later.

The Spring air is brisk. Birds are chirping. He would like to tell Solas that he's coming with him — or he's coming back — or he'll be there, one way or another — but there are two problems with that. The first is that he doesn't trust these gods enough to truly promise it. The second is that Felassan can't say anything about Beleth's vision of the future unless he's going to say all of it, because Solas has been able to tell when he's lying for a very long time now.

Instead: “What is any of this,” he asks, “if not a chance for us to find a better way?”

For example, throwing Elgar’nan back in. Felassan isn’t giving up on that one so easily.

The pressure of his hands, physical and undeniably real, is grounding. For all of Solas' love of the Fade, and of wandering its endless, mutable landscapes, he has not been a spirit in more than facsimile for a very, very long time. How body is an animal that craves connection, solidity, and certainty, and his mind is as much a part of that body as it is of the world.

Of course, Felassan is right.

This place represents a unique opportunity: to rest, and breathe, and grow his perspective. To know peace and practice at happiness. To learn more, and to plan... Had Beleth not already given him more information that he could ever have learned on his own? His heart was true in ways that Solas himself could only aspire to.

And Felassan, who had come to him with open hands. Solas bows his head between them; he had never looked for his own pain to be recognized, had not deserved— But no. I don't think mourning is about what anyone deserves, he had said. If they are acknowledging faults, and resolving to do better, then let it be mutual.

"You make a good point. I have become something of a pessimist," His own hands grip and stay, holding Felassan's shoulders in a mirror to his own. Their arms are the bridge between them, physical representation of what is still being rebuilt, "Though I must acknowledge what may come to pass... if I hold myself alone and apart, I truly will become Despair, eventually."

It has been thousands of years and Felassan is still annoyed by them. There's something charming in that, lovely and sweet, despite his ire. Solas smiles to think of it.

"Forwarned, I can do much, but even if my memories are taken from me, I will trust Beleth for her part in things. She is cleverer than anyone knows; moreso than myself, even. And if I can I will make better use of Elgar'nan than to allow him the mercy of death," His hands flex, and Solas inhales to speak further, then hesitates and lets it go. But no, he tries again, "Would you leave this place, the world of Caldera, and return to Thedas, if you could?"

Solas says the things he needs to say to avoid being shaken by his shoulders. To make Felassan smile, even, a crooked and satisfied little grin. He did make a good point, and to know Solas might try is all he would ask for. Felassan squeezes his shoulders instead, grip turning firmer and bracing, like he's done a hundred times before turning away to set the newest of Solas's clever machinations into motion.

They were so often of one mind, in the beginning. Less toward the end, and less now, after the end, but — but nonetheless Felassan is not shocked when Solas broaches the same subject he has just decided not to broach. Many such cases. But his eyes do narrow infinitesimally all the same, wondering if clever Beleth might have said something to Solas after all, and he takes a half a second longer to say, "I would." Really, if he's being as honest as he can be without breaching Beleth's trust, "It hadn't occurred to me want to stay."

That's more determination than resignation. He'd said it his first day here, thinking mainly of Solas and his prison: maybe they do not have to be returned precisely to the time and place they were stolen from. He would prefer not to die and intends to avoid it if he can. But if he can't, Felassan would choose dying in Elvhenan, returning his body to the earth it was built from and the stuff of his spirit to the swirling eddies of the Fade, reunited in that way with the People — he would choose that over living forever here, in a foreign world, beholden to the whims of new gods.

Edited (what's a planet) 2025-04-20 01:10 (UTC)

It hadn't even occured to him to want to stay.

Solas' answering smile is sad, and proud, and every bastard mix of strange and half-malformed love that has stood between them, over all the years. Abruptly tender, he reaches and clasps Felassan not by the arm or shoulder, but in the gap between jaw and neck, a gentle, approving touch. Yes. Courageous man, bold of spirit; it really would be so, that that was his desire.

"I can make you no promises," He says, quietly, feeling the strange equilibrium of purpose coming under his feet once again. A project, vast and fascinating; and dangerous, as all things must be... but worthy, nontheless, "But I will do all in my power. This place, these gods... they are not our struggle, except as much as they must be. But the power— I will make you no promises."

And for once, only the fate of they three might hang on it, not the world entire, not all of Elvhenan. It felt... good. Better, at least, than it had.

Edited 2025-04-25 04:04 (UTC)

Solas says he can't and won't make promises, but even so, he's making the one that matters. Felassan looks up at him, small smile and slanted. For a moment he is thousands of years in the past, in the Lighthouse, Solas's face made strange by bareness, the world made strange by the decision to fight, bright and cracked open and full of possibility — and then, overcorrecting, he is mere weeks ago, on his knees, trying to tease through the certainty that he'll die.

His smile didn't slip then, and it doesn't slip now, but with his hand on his jaw maybe Solas can feel it: the way he sways, just barely, as if at sea, before he finds his center of gravity and pulls Solas's hand away in his own.

"Your power and your mind are remarkable, my friend," he says, "but it has always been enough that you try."

Pecking a kiss against Solas's knuckles is nothing Felassan has not done before, save that this time it's done without winking irony. No cheeky imitation of a deferential bow in sight. Then Felassan lets him go to finally complete the simple work of twisting and tying his hair up off of his neck.

"I haven't been putting up wards when I sleep," he adds, which could easily go without saying; it's only recently he regained the ability to block intrusions into his dreams in the first place. But Solas seemed to understand to stay away. He doesn't have to anymore.

Felassan's kiss casts the shadow of older jokes, but without the smirking irony of it, the gesture is strangely... sincere. Just for that one moment, his eyes are as the sun, lancing golden through a forest canopy, warm and lively, weighted any light. Were Solas less prepossessed, he might again begin weeping. But the time is passed, clouds swiftly clearing; his face feels dry and tight, and he knows Beleth will guess at his state, when he goes in.

He cannot begin to care.

"Then perhaps you can shall dream," He warns, on a laugh that is sharp-edged and ragged, splintered as a obsidian blade, "Thank you. You cared for me when all the world forgot. I was hasty, and I am grateful for another chance."

He shouldn't have done that, Felassan thinks, catching the tail end of that light. And he wouldn't have done that. He has had thousands of years of practice at not doing that. But something about everything — death, resurrection, a new world, a fresh hope, the real spray of freckles across Solas's real nose — has perhaps scraped a raw gash in his thick skin, and made him stupid(er than normal).

He grin like it's nothing, which it is, or at least will be after he's had a few days to throw rocks at trees in the woods.

"Me, too," he says, with a touch of insistence. This is his apology, damn it. His promise to do better. Solas doesn't get to outdo him. He unfurls his cloak over his shoulders. "I'll come back soon. And I'll try to bring some terrible ideas so you can think of something better."

"Hm," He teases, wrapping his arms around himself, tucking the his fingers underneath as if to keep them warm, or guard them from harm, "You shall find it a greater challenge, than it once was. But I look forward to it."

So saying, he smiles; a real smile, bright and true, and ducking his head he turns to go back inside.

She doesn't wait long to approach Solas, after she speaks with Felassan. Some time alone to gather her thoughts, formulate her plan in full, and what she'll say. And, of course, what she'll do if it all blows up in her face. If Solas rejects both her proposition and her -- well. All those vows, all the promises, the faith and trust. And she'd have no one to blame.

Felassan will, obviously, stay with the man that he's stood besides for thousands of years. He had put betrayal at the same level of his death -- he'd never do it for her. It's fine. She'll move to Finnick's Inn, and figure things out from there. She'll be okay.

And if she keeps telling herself that, maybe it'll be true.

But she certainly can't let the knowledge linger. Can't conceive of sleeping by Solas' side with these thoughts swirling around her head. He had extended trust and faith in her, and she would have to do the same.

She catches him when he's in the library, mind going to when he approached her, when she knew something was up, from the moment she saw his face. Aware that he will probably do the same when he sees her. She sits down on the chair next to him, and takes in the silence, for a moment. Considers attempting small talk, but knows that it will be useless, if Solas indulges it at all.

She doesn't look sad, or upset. Even if Felassan isn't here, she doesn't want to dishonor him by appearing so, nor make Solas feel that she is discontent with either man. She looks pensive, but firm in her decision.

"Vhenan. I beg your ear, for there is a serious matter I wish to discuss with you." She reaches out, for his hand. Selfishly wanting his comfort, even now. "I wanted to ask you, first, if you had ever... felt anything, romantically. For anyone else, besides me, and... her." There is only one person Beleth uses such a tone for. "If ever you felt moved by another, whom you thought could become something... more."

Solas turns to her as she enters; he usually does, as incapable of ignoring her presence as a lodestone is to true north. And what he sees gives him pause.

It is rare for Lavellan to seem so worried; whether as inquisitor, or as merely Beleth, she carries herself with extraordinarily prepossession. But here, and now, she hesitates, the terse uncertainly a furrow in her brow, a tightness of lips, and nervous hands. Willingly does Solas reach out to her, and take those hands into his, to offer what solidarity he may.

“No,” he says shortly, growing more uncertain with every word, as to what this could be about, “When Mythal lived, she was my sole focus, emotionally, if not sexually. Our relationship was… complex, and fraught.”

To put it mildly, he supposed.

“I had other encounters, other lovers, over the centuries, of course... But since leaving the Evanuris, very few. And since the creation of the Veil, none— none, save yourself. Why? You cannot fear comparison, I hope.”

"I do not fear comparison." She answers, voice feeling somewhat distant to her. She squeezes his hand, relishing the feeling.

It was as she had assumed -- though it was not entirely impossible that Solas had noticed the way Felassan's eyes followed him, the softness around the edges there, and simply did not feel worth mentioning to her. He could be the same as Felassan -- acknowledging that these things happened sometimes, and it wasn't the end of everything. It was okay to let it be.

But things didn't have to be like that. Beleth had learned that. That things could be better. That is the thought that gives her resolve.

"I had wanted to know, if... It had ever occurred to you -- or if you had ever noticed, I suppose." She hesitates, now, because this is the precipice. "The way that Felassan looks at you. Has looked at you for some time, I would suspect. The way that he looks at me." She glances away, towards the window towards the garden. It was a beautiful spring day.

"Because I noticed." Then she grips his hand again, and pulls it to press a kiss to the back of his hand. Reassurance, for both of them, maybe. "And... I found myself not opposed to it. For either of us." That was the important part, she thought. This was not her trying to slip Felassan in as some kind of side piece. If he were to be involved, it could only be with both of them. That was what she wanted, more than anything.

"Felassan?" now Solas is the one carrying a furrowed brow, his mind turning over the idea. It... wasn't impossible. Infatuations amongst the ranks were common, and Felassan had always been frank and open, free with his attentions, as was his habit. There had been a time when Solas had admired his ability to love so openly, even envied it; his own heart had so often put him into impossible positions, where the choice was between the chains of grief, or regret.

Felassan had seemed... freer than all that. More honest, somehow.

That he should show admiration for Beleth was not wonderful either; she was a beautiful woman, and Solas had no doubt that many amongst the Inquisition and beyond followed her for reasons less of duty and more of the heart. He had not expected her to remain true to him, for all this time, had in truth expected quite the opposite. But things were different now, surely. They were... all that had stood between them was...

He has been silent for too long. She can no longer meet his eyes, had turned away toward the cheery views of the garden, where the ivy is overtaking the wall, tiny buds of pink-and-white flowers only just beginning to bloom.

Felassan... But how could it be? It had been millenia, and he had said nothing. If Beleth wished only to seek his blessing, she must have it; though jealousy twist his gut, he would not allow himself to become a shackle placed around her throat. If she wished another lover, even one as... as much as Felassan. So it had been with Mythal, but. Was that what she was asking for? It seems not. But he finds himself uncertain.

And does it bother him more, too, that it would be Felassan? If it were Finnick, or Dorian Storm, or Vax'ildan, or even someone closer to her such as Cullen Rutherford, he would mind less. But Felassan inspired some new, additional pang of loneliness, of jealousy, to imagine himself left out. And again: that did not seem to be what she was proposing.

Say something! Fool of a wolf! Pride demon! Spirit of fallen wisdom, if you are silent, she suffers, say something!

"...What do you propose to do?" He asks, quietly, hoping he sounds only half as lost, and confused, as he seems.

Edited 2025-05-12 23:08 (UTC)

Beleth knew that her words, and what they suggested, what they could lead to, would not be a simple matter to digest -- even if Solas were to dismiss her out of hand, he was not a man who reacted rashly. He'd dwell on it, before turning her away. So it is neither balm nor burn that he takes so long to think on what she's said.

Patience is what he deserves, and what she gives, hand clutching his tightly, a lifeline that she needs as she waits for Solas to give his judgement. Her eyes turn to his face, now and then, and when her worries grow too dire, she turns back to the garden. Weeding. She needs to weed. Spring has brought even unwanted growth into her garden.

It's easy to focus on the garden. Harder to focus on Solas' continued silence. What would she do if he did rebuff her? Tell her that she was just like Mythal, that she was no different from the woman who had done him so cruelly, and turned away from her? What if--

No. Look at the flowers. Focus on the dust, quietly falling in the light of the window, snow soft and peaceful. Don't think about his face growing cold and hateful.

Solas' voice breaks her out of the tearing of her mind into worries and attempted meditation, brings her mind into the present, her eyes refocusing on him. He's... not mad. Which is a good start.

"If anything is to happen," She revisits her thoughts from before. "It must be between all three of us. I do not want you to stand aside, I want you to be a part. Felassan cares for you, vhenan. More than I have seen in some couples. I know that you are not always... aware, of such things, unless the other person makes it beyond your ability to miss." Like grabbing him and kissing him senseless, for instance. "And he has always thought it a lost cause, not even worth making it so. But I thought it could be different. That it's not so hopeless."

She lets the silence set in, after that. Eyes focused back on his hands, her fingers brushing his fingernails, the subtle lines of his hand. She's said her piece. Now it's up to Solas, to examine his feelings, and make his decision.

Edited (words are hard) 2025-05-12 23:40 (UTC)

The three of them. Solas looks down at their joined hands and tries to imagine it. Felassan is still the point of greatest confusion; Beleth's appeal is obvious, but that Felassan should want him as well... The look he gives her is sharp; very well, he can be... singleminded, but he's not unobservant. He's not blind.

...Is he?

His annoyance subsides on the guilty realization that he might very well be. Beleth would hardly bring this to him if she were not sure; she was cautious, and the risk of upset far too great for a gamble. Again, he tries to imagine the form it would take, the future ahead of them. Tries to imagine a life with Felassan, for it would be a lifetime, not merely a few decades of idle pleasures, or a brief encounter: too much stood between them for it to stand so lightly. What would it be like to hold Felassan's hands, to feel his own on Solas' waist— to kiss him?

The tips of his ears pink slightly. Ah. There it was; the truth of the matter. Wise Vhenan, to see it before Solas himself understood.

"It is not hopeless," Solas admits, his voice quiet with distraction. How had he not known, or seen, or... or realized... But he knows the answer. Mythals' influence had shadowed his entire being, until so much later that Felassan must have rightfully given up hope, even as he continued to serve Solas, "Are you sure of this, Vhenan? Felassan is... This can be no trifling matter. He is my friend."

It came out softer than he'd like, soft and vulnerable, easily-wounded.

"I care for him, deeply, even without an element of sex, or of an— an addition, to our partnership. You are my heart, and your proposal is not without merit, but the way forward is dangerous, and I wish not to cause any further harm to him than I have."

Beleth's patience continues through the disbelieving look Solas shoots her, an easy thing to grant, when he is sounding more and more amenable to her proposition. If he wants to think that he is beyond missing details of another's affections... well. Pride and wisdom can make a stubborn mix. She knows the truth, recalls the baffled look on his face when she pulled him to her.

The pink ears are quite interesting to her, and when Solas admits that the case is not hopeless, she nearly surges up to kiss him silly right there. It's hard to beat back the flood of relief, when there are still matters to discuss, delicate things that must be handled with all the care that one would treat a heart.

"I confirmed it with him, before I sought you out. I had suspicions... but I thought it wise to make sure that I was not being egotistical, seeing affection that did not exist. It would be... unpleasant, I felt, to speak with you about this, and then find out that I had been mistaken." Humiliating, more like. In front of two men she admired greatly. She could think of deaths she would find more enviable.

She pulls his hands up to her lips, presses another kiss to them, then another. "I could hardly blame anyone for finding you desirable, of course. He was quick to admit it, though again, he thought the cause long lost. I think if the two of us explain to him that his affections are not as unrequited as he had assumed, then..." She pauses at that, and reaches up, to give Solas' cheek a kiss.

"It won't be the easiest path, perhaps, but it will be worth it. The three of us will see it through."

Solas feels a terrible, glorious thrill at her words, at her clear elation. It is a risk that somehow feels greater and more personal than any mighty work of magic he has worked thus far: to love, and be loved by a friend. A ridiculous notion; he turns his head, when she bids him lean that she might kiss him, and returns the gesture with no insignificant passion.

She is beautiful, and her heart is overful; how can he not wish to heap it still higher, and bask in the warmth and glow of her? She is his sun, and all that makes life outside the Fade worth living.

"Ar lath ma," He whispers, his arms around her waist, voice soft and private, "Whatever we do, we do as one. I will speak with Felassan. And then... we will go forward. Together."

[ The text sent to Solas is not words, but a carefully drawn image... careful, though not particularly skilled. Still, it's easy enough to see what it's supposed to be: Beleth, laying down, in a negligee that is detailed enough that it's easy to guess that it's something that she drew from reference. Beleth's face is gives a little wink. There is no actual words to accompany it. ]

[

]

[ A minute or so later, actual text follows: ]

Well, at least the sun enjoys looking upon me. Someone ought.

Earnest beauty holds above all
high house's artifice and gilded streams
though kingdoms fade and empires fall
your daring mein shall hunt my dreams

["It's the thought that counts", he might have said, but a poem is almost as offensive.]

Thank you for the drawing, Vhenan. Though your sense of humor is as charming as ever, I find art pales in comparison to the reality.

I'm putting my clothes on and leaving.

[ Since no one around here wants to kiss her!! They just want to write poems apparently!! ]

An interesting proposition.

[Crudely-drawn underwear is an unusual form of communication, Vhenan, but in your defense he has been known to, literally, be a mindreader. So maybe that's on him.

Still, Solas does at least now understand the game at hand.]

How do you plan to get past the wolf?

[ She thought she was being obvious! But maybe that's because her idea of obvious is what some might call esoteric. But he seems to have caught in, at least. Not that it'll save him from teasing. ]

The wolf does not seem interested in me, so I feel like I will be quite safe. Though perhaps I can outrun him, if the situation changes.

Fully clothed, of course.

Of course. Though you would have to be quite fleet-footed to outrun him, so encumbered.

Are you sure? A wiser course may be to take another form. Though, of course, that may compromise your commitment to clothing.

Taking the form of a halla isn't quite the same as wearing lingerie. Can you say a halla is naked when not clothed? Perhaps I would be more clothed in halla form than I am currently.

Maybe the wolf would be more interested in a halla, though, since I have been left to my own devices. Alone.

[Whether or not she can hear it, he laughs at that. Alright, the game of chase and catch shall be, perhaps, for another day. He drops his brushes into their cups of water and dusts off his hands.]

I can think of no one, nor anything, more desirable than you. Such a wolf would be foolish indeed. Although...

Do I sense an invitation in your message, my heart? Would you prefer to stay home instead, and forgo clothing for the afternoon?

[ There is no response from the bird. However, as Solas begins to tidy up, he'll see a flash of white at the window. Then another.

It's only when she's quite sure that he's seen her that the halla takes off. See you later, alligator. ]

[For a moment, he is surprised, dumbstruck as he has not been in longer than he might care to remember. That she is the one person who has most often in his long, storied life extracted such an emotion ought to be more shocking...

...but it is not. He is delighted.

A moment later, there are two creatures racing through the woods: a fleet-footed white Halla, bounding deerlike, and the swift-running shadow of a wolf in pursuit. No Dread Wolf this, only an ordinary-seeming wolf, save for the brilliant intelligence in his eye. Run, run, as fast as you can, for if he catches you—!"

[ It is Beleth's fault, really, that she gets caught. For a while, there is just the chase, the exhilaration of running as fast as a body can allow, the adrenaline of being hunted, with just enough undercurrent of safety to not truly stress her. She'd be at a disadvantage in any case, Solas long used to his form, and Beleth new to hers, only just accustomed to running on two legs.

But it's not long before she starts to tease (as she ever does), allowing Solas to get just close enough to give her a little jolt of danger, then dancing away, trying to seem within grasp, before pulling a hard left right as she might have been caught. She would've been wiser, more careful, if she had truly feared for her life, but this is fun, and nothing is more fun than dangling temptation in front of her love, and getting to witness his desire.

Which is how the halla is finally tackled, though it's a laughing, gasping elf who hits the ground, hair splayed out in disarray. A lie given is revealed: She did not put on clothes to leave. Only the lingerie she had tried to sketch out for Solas is left on her, little but cunningly placed lace and fancy ribbons, hiding just enough to tantalize. And even in her defeat, she is smug. ]

So the wolf was interested after all, I see.

Edited (bully) 2025-06-24 20:08 (UTC)

[Solas' own pursuit is no less playful; a shadow following through the bracken, snapping jaws and near-misses. He spoils the image of a vicious beast in the whisk of wagging tail and canine smile.

The Halla goes down in a laughing tangle of limbs and magic, and Solas' own transformation is slower, and more controlled; the beast that lands over her is still barrel-chested, half-elven, hunched over her. And as the fur recedes from him and pointed ears migrate to their proper places, his teeth are still fangs when he bends to set them at her throat— he laughs, with a wolf's growl in the shadow of it.]

Ah, but shall the wolf devour his tender prey? [The bite is real, wide-mouthed and grasping, and then another, and another, just at the top of the curve of a breast. Solas looks up at her, his right eye catching silver light and what he sees there undoes his control: he is surging up to put that mouth over her own, instead, wet and wanting, deep-tongued, domineering. He leans back a little, breathless by the time he has finished, and looks down at her appreciatively.] So beautiful.

You are perfect, ma'lath. What a gift I have here in my hands: to unwrap it seems almost a shame.

[But he chuckles then, low and wry: his wandering hands tell another tale.]

[ Beleth watches the transformation from her position underneath him, laid out with curls splayed wild across the ground. Purple eyes glint in the light, wide and intent, but there is no fear in them. Only open, naked desire. Each bite and nip is accepted with a gasp, arching up into him.

She burns, and she wants, and each whine and pant that escapes her lips echoes with her desire, more overt than she would ever dream of being with any save him and their shared beloved. He looks half mad, or half beast, the creature that lurks in the tales of her childhood, but it is not fear that pounds in her ears, flushes her cheeks.

But her attitude isn't completely vanquished quite yet, even if her mind is rapidly turning towards a number of things that would require a little more cooperation. ]

Well, I would never make you do anything you do not wish for, Vhenan. Even if that includes me. I can... simply go home. Put on a sweater.

[ She makes no motions towards carrying out her words, instead lifting up to meet his touch, one hand sliding up her side, to adjust some of the lace to hide a little less -- not that it was doing much before. ]

[That is incorrect— Solas stops her with another biting kiss, taking her hand by the wrist and moving to pin it out and away, up above her head where it can do no further mischief.]

Or perhaps I shall leave you as you are, and bring you to climax again and again, until you are begging for a rest. [With the hand not holding onto her, he wanders; soft breast, smooth satin, the barely peep of pink nipple. Lower, teasing along the straps and lace, hooking one finger beneath the narrow band between her legs. The heat against his knuckle is shockingly sweet; his teeth part over a grin, wolf-like.] Shall I, Vhenan? I could ruin you entirely, whilst leaving intact the enticing view you have so generously provided.

[ His threats leave her contemplating pouting, but his clever, skilled hands working their magic upon her skin leave her entirely distracted. She shifts underneath him, each touch earning him another noise escaping her lips. Well, it seems there's only one thing for it. ]

Solas. Sileal. Please. I want you, ma'lath. [ And if just begging doesn't work: ] I want to feel you inside me. I want to feel your desire.

[It is enough: Solas' self control is not equal to the task of denying her. True to his impatient promises, he does not wait, nor try to undress her, but simply moves aside what clothing must be, and slides into the went heat of her body with a fumbling, eager passion.

It is not a graceful coupling, there is no teasing slowness, no drawn-out poetic moments. He has chased her through forest and dell, his rightful prey, and Solas puts his teeth to her throat as he fucks Beleth in the moss and sunlight, their bed a bed of last year's leaves. When it is over, he is left panting, a little ashamed, but despite the raw, importunate, wroth of it all... he cannot help, but to be satisfied.

Even so: he kisses the marks he has left on her, and whispers promises of healing. In a moment. When he is not so tired, nor so smug.]

[ There are no complaints from Beleth on the roughness or the rawness of their coupling -- quite the opposite, each time she feels his teeth against delicate skin, she gasps, each rough grind meets eager hips, and his growl causes her to clench around him, until they are both finished and she is left boneless and self-satisfied. Letting Solas take control, letting herself go and unraveling the self control she's twisted so tightly around herself... each time, it is new and just as much a relief as the last time.

Though, of course, being in control has plenty to recommend it... but that will have to wait.

Meanwhile, she wraps an arm around him, lazy and quite pleased all around at the fruits of her machinations -- even if part of it had been a silly doodle. She'll figure out something better next time. At his whispered promise, her hand goes to one dark mark, and shakes her head as the tenderness makes itself known. ]

Leave it for a little while. Let me admire your handiwork -- marking what you have rightfully claimed. [ A kiss, then another. ] I wish to see the proof for some time -- something I can look at when you are not near.

[Solas makes a small, skeptical sound, caught between tenderness and the absurdity of it all. Still, he cannot truly leave it be, pressing kisses into the blooming bruises, the tender places already welling with blood. Marked indeed: she would wear the evidence of this day for a week, and he cannot glory in the idea of her pain... but her satisfaction is undeniable.]

You are... perfect. [He whispers it to her skin, to the junction of neck and shoulder, the tea-scent of her hair. He kisses her properly then, breath mingling, her own kisses making him hitch her higher again, sensitive, and now groaning.] Insatiable, unstoppable... My heart, my heart...

[He loved her so dearly, he thought it would burst. Even when all he could remember was the ways he had wronged her, that love would remain.]

Yet another clever scheme come to your desired end. I suppose I was a fool ever to think it might be otherwise.

[ Beleth's eyes close as Solas pours kisses over her, making a small, content noise. The impression is not entirely unlike a cat soaking up the attention of a good pet. Truly, after a life of trials and effort, this is the finest result she could ask for: being cherished and loved so thoroughly, so deeply, beyond what even she could imagine. It made it all worth it, entirely. ]

And you are everything I have desired -- Sileal, my love. [ And then it's hard to speak, not when he is kissing her so thoroughly, groaning against her lips, and she feels the satisfied after glow start to fade and be replaced by a bright, renewed interest. Though she can't help but laugh at his words. ]

Not all my schemes end the way I wish. [ Though she demurs from providing examples. Instead, she turns to run her hands up his sides, across his chest, up his collarbone and to his face. ] Just the ones that matter the most. And what matters more than the ones I love dearest?

Solas looks at her for a moment, shaking his head against her audacious humility. He must kiss her: he does, slow and sweet, tender, ending with his brow pressed against her own, resting his weight on his elbows above her, as she cups his face in turn. They could not be more entangled if they tried, and Solas has not even truly undressed.

"You have changed the world. You have changed me. You change everything," He whispers, low and fervent and full of wonder, "I have had time enough to be important. Is it not your turn, emma lath?"

"Did you forget that you're speaking to the Herald of Andraste, sent by the Maker to save Thedas? I'm quite important." Beleth responds primly, and even manages to say it with a straight face. Well, she'd said it with a straight face often enough to have practice at it. Often enough to make the people close to her believe it -- because they'd needed it. And if Beleth was nothing else, she was what was needed of her.

At least what Solas needed was not the Herald of Andraste, or even the Maker. What he needed was simply: her. Her, loving him, entwined with him, and with him. It was easy to be what he needed, because it was what she wanted to be.

And slowly, something occurs to her. Something that she hadn't been quite hiding, because she had always intended to tell him, but it was never the right time. Before Elgar'nan laid dead at Solas' feet, before his service to Mythal was over, before he had turned from his duties, he could not know. But here he is, wrapped up with her, and nothing hanging over their heads. She was so full of love, his and her own, twisting within her heart.

Surely now would be the time, if there should be one.

"Sileal." Her voice is low now, eyes suddenly more focused, fingers caressing his face as she studies him carefully. "There is... something that has been sitting upon my mind, but I must confess I did not tell you immediately. I... feared your reaction, and my heart could not take you being unhappy at it. When Cordelia asked us to trade meaningful things and receive visions, I accepted. I wanted to see the future that awaited us in Thedas, after all was said and done."

It was something that others seemed to have the benefit of, that she did not. Most of those from Thedas had come from an earlier time than her. In Hawke's case, decades separated them. None had, to her knowledge, come to Caldera from a later time than she. And she had desperately wanted to know how their leaving to the Fade had gone for them.

"I saw us in the Fade, standing together. And Felassan stood besides us. I couldn't tell at the time that it was romantic in nature, but it was obviously friendly. And there was one other with us." The look on her face begins to turn to a bright, barely contained joy. She can't help it, even now -- thinking about it makes her feel like she's glowing with the happiness of it. That sight in the orb, the little face hidden away in a sling.

"It was a child, Sileal." And now she feels like she really is glowing -- it's easy to see why she'd kept the news close to her chest, when she thought he would not care for the news. Because she can't keep out the warmth when she finishes with the obvious conclusion: "Our child. And they were... they were perfect. They were the most perfect little baby I've ever seen."

"To me," Solas murmurs, a gentle correction left between the pressure of his lips and her tender collarbone, "I have put aside all such things, and placed my wishes, my duty, where I thought it must go. No more."

Importance was so poor a word for the worship of blind fools; he knew, as well as she did, that she was no more Andraste's Herald than he was Fen'Harel. They both were, and were not, and in all the ways that mattered most... were only themselves. Particularly now, with his robes rucked up and dirt on his knees. But he can be sober, despite the moistness between them, and Solas looks up at her serious tone, and affects a listening pose.

His thumbs are still stroking soft circles against her skin, idle affection, but he is... he truly is listening.

And more and more he really is listening, stilling as focus turns inward and the light came into her eyes more clearly. He stares, not sure what to think, or to say. A thousand denials come into his mind— that it is not possible, that it is inadvisable, unwise to become parents here, that it's... that any child of theirs might be more of the flesh than the Fade, may age and die. That Cordelia's magic might have lied, and how could they— how could she—

"A child," He says, numbly, as if the word were a form of gibberish, meaningless and strange, "Our child?"

And they were perfect. They were the most perfect little baby I've ever seen.

The joy in her at the idea was undeniable. Whether or not this specific promised child were real, whether or not it came now, or later, it was clear that the idea was one that Beleth cherished. But Solas is still recovering from the stumble, and must inhale sharply, to refocus, and remember himself.

"Are you certain?"

Beleth's eyes are on his face as he grapples with what she's told him. He'll need a moment, or two, of that she knew well enough. Even a man who had led a far simpler life than Solas might need some time to come to terms with what he's heard. What she saw.

So she continues cupping his face, brushing his cheeks with her thumbs, letting him mull over it. And, of course, there are nerves. She'd sounded confident when she'd told Felassan. He's not ready now. But he will be. She'd felt confident, too. That this vision were her desire come to pass -- Felassan and Solas by her side, and her child in her arms. But, of course, she could hardly have that latter part without Solas' willingness. Had she not been careful with her words or timing?

Then again, maybe the timing really wasn't the best... Well, it was what it was, and they were here now.

"I am certain of what I saw. And while I can't guarantee that the child was born from us... they had purple eyes. And we were in the Fade. I don't imagine it's easy to find children there. Though I suppose it's possible that we manage to leave at some point, and found a purple-eyed child to raise as our own." She takes a moment to consider the possibility, then: "It would not matter if we bore it or not, not to me."

Perhaps less dangerous, at least, if another found out. They were content to let the Dread Wolf go, as long as he politely removed himself to the Fade. Would they be as content if he were making a family there? It did not matter, she decided -- no threat could be sustained against the three of them, particularly if they were safe guarding a family.

"Others have suggested that the orb meant only to show what I desired, not the truth of the future. But... did you not just say that I am skilled at making my desires come to fruition?"

And Solas... does not know what he wants, nor what he is feeling. He wants to feel certain, to respond to her with passion and eagerness. He wants to voice his fears, his trepidation, his certainty that it is a lie, a mistake, a fool's-dream. But it is no fool's dream, it is her dream; whatever lies Cordelia's orb had offered, that much is no spate of wishful thinking made manifest. He can see it in her face, her voice, the flash of her throat as she breathes.

She wants a child, and will have no other's but his own; if he could have induced her by evidence of cowardice, to leave him, then she would long ago have gone. But she is here, with him, waiting patiently for an answer.

"I..." And still, he does not know what he wants, except not to hurt her again, and again, and again. But there is no clear path to it: honesty, fear, confusion, anything but an unreserved, dishonest joy seems doomed to failure. The chance to lie is all but gone, in his shock, and hesitation, "This is what you want? We have never spoken— though of course, there was never much time."

Not yet, though there should have been, and now is that time indeed. Finally now, at the end of their long journey, when there is nothing but to heal, and heal the world in place, a broke bone left unset too long.

"...Vhenan..."

She did not expect him to be giddy at the idea -- Solas is rarely giddy about anything, and any important news tends to turn him inwards, where his thoughts are rarely kind to himself. It's why she had waited, for if she'd told him before he felt his business was done, then he would be... well. She suspected his reaction would be worse.

It is not the worst reaction she had feared, nor is it better than she had hoped -- it is simply... Solas being Solas, unable to act as any other than himself, time after time. It is almost endearing. And it is time, she thinks, for a story.

"I spent most of my life with what would happen to me already planned out. It had been so since it was confirmed I had no magical powers to claim. I would be bonded to another Dalish, preferably a Keeper, and I would spend my life having children, like a good Dalish woman, and helping my clan, and being..." She shrugs, vaguely. "...I think I described it to Felassan as content mediocrity." She would have been happy enough then, probably. Told herself that she had done all that was expected of her, and be pleased at the thought.

"But truth be told, I had not relished the idea of bearing children, even as inevitable as they seemed. They, and the man who would have fathered them, seemed to be as much a duty as hunting deer, or gathering herbs. Things that were done for the good of the clan, because we would die without them. My enjoyment was a nonissue." And Beleth, as Solas, and anyone who had spent any time in her general proximity would probably note, was a woman who would do what must be done, no matter her private opinions, nor what it would cost her.

"And then... the conclave happened, and all expectations of my life were as thoroughly demolished as the temple. Perhaps it is unkind to sad this, but for as many people died in that explosion... gaining the anchor allowed me to live. Of course, it nearly killed me in the end, but." And here, she reaches for his face again, fingers gliding over his skin. "You saved me twice -- more than that, now. I had a new chance at what to get out of my life. I had choices. And this..." She leans forward then, pressing her lips to Solas, before pulling away. "...is what I have chosen. I love you so much, Sileal. I have chosen you, and if we have a child, that it would be a choice between us."

Her hand moves, to rest over his, and it is a soft, gentle smile that she gives him, full of love and satisfaction. "If you don't feel ready, Solas, I understand. It's a choice for both of us. I have as long to wait as you need. And if that time never comes... than that is the path we will walk, together." The image of her holding that child flashes in her mind -- but after just sharing her own fears of having children out of obligation, she would cut out her own tongue before forcing it upon her beloved.

Some of the fear recedes from his heart.

Solas has always been someone who loves with all his heart. Even as a spirit of Wisdom itself, the most important decisions in his life had been determined by love, for the better or worse. Falling in love with her had been the most wonderful thing he had ever done, and the most frightening; to realize, once again, that he might be shackled and tethered by his idiot heart. That she might pull him this way and that, away from his path and his nature, broken and skewed though it might have become.

Terrifying. Terrifying. Why else had he spent ten long years running?

But she has never broken a promise, not where he could see it, not to those she loved. And if Solas trusts nothing else, it is that she does love him, as he does her. Long ago, she swore to lay down the power of the Inquisition, when its mission was done, and so she had— he need not fear that her sorrow and longing will be used as a goad to bend his neck.

And, free from that terror, one among many, he finds the room to breath, and makes a decision.

"Show me," He says, quiet and urgent. It is the voice he once used in the field, to direct them around a particularly problematic rift, or to point out a danger a non-mage might have missed, "Dream with me, emma lath, and show me what you saw."

Solas sits back on his heels and rucks up his trousers, putting himself aright before rising— and extending a hand to her. Where intuition and emotion cannot hold sway, it is in asking the question, and in being curious for more knowledge, that wisdom lies.

There is an attempt on Beleth's part, to try to school her expression. Solas has delivered no form decision, and to be so obviously pleased by his statement would walk back her declaration -- for surely him seeing her gladness at his desire to see the child would serve as a kind of silent pressure, however unintentional.

It's just as well that she finds something new to focus on, as she takes Solas' hand, rises to her feet, and turns to face the way home. It is then that she remembers that she is wearing little but ribbon and lace, some distance from the privacy their home promises. Well... at least there is always the halla, able to neatly solve both the problem of her expression, and of her semi-nudity.

And then it is a quick journey, to the house, then the bed, wrapping her arms around Solas as they are pulled into the Fade.

They stand in the Fade -- the Fade of Thedas, or Caldera's facimile of one, as close as this version can get to mimicking it. And before them, as in the orb's vision, stood Beleth, sandwiched on either end by Solas and Felassan. But it is, of course, the bundle in the sling across her chest that draws the eye, a little chubby hand appearing as a tiny voice fusses. As before, it is Felassan that draws the infant out of the sling, holding a flower to the child. And it is Solas who plucks the baby away as Beleth immediately starts scolding him.

The infant is of a skin tone between Solas and Beleth, lightly tanned, with wispy hair, and a healthy chubbiness to them. But it is the eyes that stand out -- the cherubic face turns, and vivid purple eyes are as clear as anything, staring directly at the two observers. The others carry on, oblivious to the dreamers.

It is, Solas thinks, a charming lie. But like all artistic endeavors, this holds a core of the truth, one he knows for fact the moment he hears Beleth breath in the Fade's facsimile of air between them.

They will have a child. If it is not this precise child, it will still be so like as to mean no difference. They will raise the babe not in the physical world, but in the Fade, where they will be born of its eddies, and washed in every heartbeat by the endless currents of dream and emotion, power and life.

And he knows, with all the terrible, undeniable force of his very physical body, that that is what will give him the strength to complete the great task: to clear the Blight, to rescue Felassan.

This moment. That child. Those small, violet eyes peering back at them from some unnamed future. He cannot blame Beleth for wanting it; it carries the force of the inevitable.

"Oh," He says softly, and for a moment or two is more vulnerable than he has been since his own first breaths, reach forward by instinct as if to touch that tiny hand, "I see."

He wants that future... And so does she.

"...I..." Solas hesitates, turning away, "I... have never been a father. Nor a parent of any kind. Occasionally, a teacher, but I am told me methods... are harsh. Are you sure, Vhenan?"

Not that this was what she wanted, of course. He understands now, her heart-deep passion for this. But with him? Will he not ruin such a small and fragile life?

In the dream, the three adults don't acknowledge the two of them. They seem almost frozen in place, slightly faded into the background. Beleth's focus is on the child, who peers at the two dreamers curiously, just as they had seemed to see her through the orb. Slowly, the baby reaches out, to met Solas' hand, and grab his finger.

And Beleth wants it. Watching Solas look upon the baby, and the baby stares back at him, unafraid. That baby seeing what Beleth sees every time she looks at Solas -- so much more than all of his titles, he is the man that she loves. He is her beloved. And she wants this proof of their love, a life they create together, wholly separate and more wonderful than either of them.

Slowly, she steps forward, reaches up to touch Solas' face, run her fingers down his jaw, then cup his cheek. Her smile is as full of love and gentleness as she is capable of. "You are a good husband, and you will be a good father. There is so much love in you, Sileal. And you deserve all the unconditional love that will be yours in turn. Neither will you be alone... between the three of us," And her eyes move across the adult figures, eyes all locked on the child, "I'm sure we'll figure it out, together."

They will. Whether or not Cordelia's orb was true hardly matters. It is the future that they desire, and between the three of them, what could possibly stop them from grasping it?

He allows the touch, allows himself to be turned away, held close, and embraced. For a moment, everything in him wishes to rebel; to declare it all foolish, unknowable, impossible. But Wisdom wins out: what was the use? She was right. The fact that he wanted her to be right did not make it less true.

She declares him full of love and he feels himself a creature bound up entirely in uncertainty and fear, a broken figure of grief and regret.

But her faith in him has never wavered. He sighs, and bends his face against her hand, dropping his head forward in agreement. Yes. Yes, he will master his fear and forge ahead once more— had he not done so once already? It made no difference if it was into the Fade itself, or to this strange new reality, suffused in beauty and love. If anyone threatened them, his family, he would show them a Dread Wolf indeed...

"Var lath vir suledin," He whispers, almost in recognition. Her words, his wistful desire; if they commit to this path, it will be made true, "Ar lath ma, Vhenan."

As he leans into her hand, Beleth moves until there is barely a breath's width between their bodies, her other hand wrapping around his body (he's gotten some weight on him, she thinks with pleasure, since he came back to Caldera. He'll gain more if she has it her way.), and closing what distance there had been. Her head rests against his chest as she looks up at him, still cradling his face.

"And I, you." She whispers to him, then gives a long, happy sigh. Content -- that is how she feels. Content in the world and her life. Wrapped around her heart, loved and loving. It hardly matters when this baby will come about: what matters is that it will, some day, and that Solas will be there for it, and happy that it has happened.

It's almost a strange feeling. To be so pleased with everything, with how it has all turned out.

"Kissing you in that dream, so long ago, was the best thing to ever happen to me." She tells him, voice only slightly muffled in his chest. "I love you so much, Sileal."

Solas is not yet fully recovered, but he's recovered enough that, by Felassan's reckoning, he's due for a dose of fresh air and sunlight. So Felassan does whatever cajoling is necessary to draw him out into the woods beyond the house, onto a narrow deer trail that cuts through the trees. There's not much undergrowth; on his own Felassan would go wherever he liked. But he's seen Solas stumble and collapse enough to last him for a while, and the trail means the dirt beneath their feet should be trustworthy, packed well and not crossing any pits or mounds rotten enough to collapse beneath them.

Felassan still walks ahead of Solas, just in case.

"I have to bring Beleth a deer," he says, glancing back over his shoulder. "Maybe more than one, after you set the bar at giving her an entire fortress. Thanks for that."

"I did it purely to inconvenience you, of course," Solas replies, with such dry calm that anyone who did not know him very well indeed might think he was being genuine— for a minute, at least, "That Tarasyl'an Te'las is the perfect gift to impress a beautiful woman is merely incidental."

It's a good joke, he thinks; of course he had given it to her for less pleasant reasons. She had needed it, the nascent Inquisition had needed it, and what was more it was nothing but an empty, moldering hulk after so long uninhabited. But yes, he doubted that bringing Beleth a beautiful, nigh-magical castle at the top of the world had not done him any harm, in her esteem.

"Perhaps you could bring her an Eluvian network, if venison is too far beyond your powers?" He teases. They can joke about this now— he hopes they can, at least, "Or I could help you."

He could, truly, despite how shockingly tiring it is simply to walk along behind Felassan along a perfectly-level deerpath through not-particularly-challenging forest. He had thought of himself as fit and fairly well-conditioned, not so long ago. What is worse, he suspects Felassan is humoring him, which is humiliating... and gratifying. Tender, that is what it is. Solas doesn't know how to deserve it, and the best he can do is simply to make no objection, no comment at all.

"Why else do you think you're here?" Felassan asks. "Because I like your company?"

He's smiling. He's been smiling since Solas's dry retort, and only wider at his teasing about the Eluvian. He doesn't turn back to display the smile now. Maybe it's visible anyway, cheeks stretched and eye corners crinkled as his head angles this way and that to listen to and look at the forest; it's almost certainly audible in his voice. But Felassan doesn't feel the need to turn and make a display of his good humor, with millennia of following Solas around — whether that meant charging into war or only lying around making idle talk while he painted or played or studied — to make it clear that he isn't serious. He's never been less serious in his life.

But seriousness seeps in. The next breath he takes is a long one, held in his chest for several steps in a way that signals his intent to do something besides merely exhale it.

"I did not give the eluvians to Briala, you know. She took them."

It's a minor distinction. But it matters, to him, to be certain Solas knows he didn't plan it, didn't hand them to her as a gift. He had to choose one of them to betray. Or he thought he did, certain as he was that Solas could not be bargained or compromised with anymore.

"I thought she would let her empress have them, and of course I would handle it from there. She chose her people. She gave up the life she'd known and the love she'd hoped for, and she was so damned clever about it. I hoped she would eventually, but then, that way? I didn't see it coming. As I was saying," before he was interrupted by, you know, dying, "she reminded me of you."

"If you do not, I am particularly easy to evade, lately."

Which is about as close as an admission of weakness as he'd like to get, really. The silence that meets such a statement is full of sunlight, and Solas' own amusement entwines with Felassan's like dust motes in the warm air of early summer. Then it passes and his friend breathes with the next step, warning enough to sober Solas in turn, for which he is grateful.

"And you could not have stopped her? I know you," He says, acceptance and refutation held both in the same hand, bow with arrow, "You may not have had any grand designs, but you made a choice, knowing the consequences. I respect your courage, though it should have been unnecessary."

How many times will he need to apologize for this? As many as days he has yet to live, which are enough to weigh on him with killing strength, if he allows himself to think on them. Despair is a lance of pain from fingertip to elbow, and Solas takes his own deep breath to hold until it eases. It is not much, but it is sharply-pointed, like the needle it so resembles. A goad to remind the Dread Wolf of his place in the world, and his obligations.

As if he could ever forget.

"I will take your assessment there as a compliment, I think. She was reckless, foolish, but very brave. I was there when Beleth cleared the path for the assassins, and secured Celene's doom: your Briala did not hesitate to capitalize on the opportunity we granted her."

"I could have taken them back from her," Felassan says, an agreeable quibble to Solas's accepting refutation. Could have and could never have — not because he had no choice, but because she had been a child who slept beside his fire, then a woman who met him every month with problems and opportunities and dreams for her people, like steady stitches reattaching him to the world. And because he'd been so terribly proud of her. Now he endures hearing her called foolish with a great deal of magnanimity, if only because every part of Solas has been too recently broken for jabbing him anywhere with an elbow to feel sporting.

Speaking of. That held breath has Felassan turning, first looking back and then walking backwards for a few steps, wondering if this might be too much, too soon. The walk, not the conversation. Any conversation they have now is likely as not to be four thousand years overdue.

"I saw some of it, and Beleth told me more," he says as he takes measure of Solas's gait and posture, looking for pain. "Thank you for not holding what I had done against her too much."

Perhaps doubts from Solas wouldn't have been enough to change Beleth's plan, clear and clever as it was, but it matters that he didn't try. It matters that he did not consider her a loose end to tidy when he retook the eluvians. Felassan might have, in his place.

The sound of running water ahead creeps into hearing range. Close enough that Felassan does not feel particularly guilty about deciding Solas can walk that far before Felassan proposes stopping.

He sees but cannot meet that direct examination. Solas clenches his aching left hand until the cramps ease and the tendons in his palm cease their fitful twitching, trying to betray nothing of it in his face; he does not know how well he can succeed.

"It was the Inquisitor's choice, not mine," Solas says, at last, "My own plans required me to resecure access to the Crossroads, and Beleth... She had good reason to believe than instability in Orlais would lead to nothing less than the complete ruination of all Thedas, within a year's time. That Briala could offer a remedy to both of us was fortuitous."

Or perhaps, if you wanted to look at it that way, Felassan's gift to her had been the safeguard to her life and freedom, in that moment. The Eluvians, and the death of her lover, both were a steep price to pay, but it was the only coin that could have traded for what Briala sought, that night. And Felassan had given her the ability to offer both.

So Solas says nothing more as they emerge into a charming little glen, the trees bowed over a shallow, narrow stream with an equally humble waterfall and a pool that is neither deep, nor particularly well-appointed. But it is lovely, the water dappled in bronze and brilliant gold as the sun filters through overarching trees. There is honeysuckle and raspberries, the shrubs overgrowing the banks, and the foliage all around leaning in presents a vision of the water, and the rocky spit of shoreline, of a safe and private place. A green temple, gilt in sunlight, and hidden from all prying eyes; the clover grows thickly, on the embankment there, red blossoms nodding their heads in a patch of light, and it is altogether a scene of profound natural peace.

Solas stands, blinking, stupidly watching as a single dry leaf floats down the creek, encounters the waterfall, and is swept down and away.

"May I—" He begins, and then clears his throat, flushing at the ears with embarrassment at the abruptness of the question, "...Would you tell me, Falon, of the fang, on your side?"

Edited (clarity) 2025-06-25 01:06 (UTC)

Solas might have succeeded with someone less familiar with him. He might have succeeded with someone who has less of a knack for seeing through people. But Felassan is neither of those things, and his inspection ends with his eyes fixed on that clenched hand. He only smiles, though, for now, a wistful crooked thing that is less happy than it is a mark of understanding, and turns back to walk the right way around before he can embarrass himself tripping on a root or backing into a low-hanging branch.

Aimed back at the path ahead, his smile warms as Solas explains himself. "Very fortuitous," he agrees, equal parts genuine and teasing, as they come upon the stream and he, too, falls quiet. This. This is why he never grew truly tired of being alive, even at his most aimless and alone.

He's listing to one side. He's of a mind to take Solas's hand — not only to make sure he stays steady on the rocks, not only to capture the painful splinter for examination. Those things, yes, but also his sparse romanticism making an appearance.

He doesn't, though. The question pauses his incremental lean, and he cocks his eyebrow instead, looking sidelong at Solas.

"What about it?" is rhetorical; he continues on without waiting for an answer. "You had been gone for some time. There was a good chance I would never have to hear about how much you hated it."

Not that Felassan would have admitted to those odds at the time, and not that he believes what he glimpsed in Solas's face in the dining room was hatred, and not that he will refuse to listen if Solas wants to say he hates it now. He reaches to pinch the tip of Solas's ear between his fingers for a moment, rubbing as if the color might come off. Or like it might be rubbed in more permanently. Felassan likes it.

When he lets go, his hand settles on Solas's shoulder instead, to insist he come along to the bank of the stream, to sit on the rocks, to dip feet into the water. Along the way, Felassan says, "Revadahlen did it for me. These, too," with a tap to his own shoulder, where hidden beneath his shirt bands like tree rings circle his bicep. He names some of them now, a half-dozen flesh-born elvhen from the rebellion he knows Solas will recognize. "When we began losing them, until we realized it was not going to stop. But the fang was..."

Complicated. And simple.

"I wanted something I was proud of."

Solas consents to be seated at the edge of the water, on a long, flat stone. Its bottom half is furry with underwater greenery, and tiny fish that dart away in terror when he dips his feet into the coolness of the stream, and the examination of these minuscule details takes up the whole of his attention for the next few minutes

He can envision each face, as Felassan names them. Young and bright, or older, lined with pale Vallaslin. Fresh-faced young elves barely a century old, who had never known servitude, except to the cause, and never would know harsher, had he any say... but they had. They all had died, because he had killed each and every one; time itself had been the knife turned against them, when the Veil rose up to destroy their connection to their own life-source.

Solas had killed them, as surely as he had Felassan, or Varric, or...

His face twists and he has to look away, and his hand twinges again. Marked and shackled, and this the best of all possible outcomes, according to everyone he knew, and all he had loved or trusted. He had accepted it, had forged the anchor himself, had committed and bound himself to it, but... But it was all such a terrible waste. Impulsively, seeking relief, he bends to put his left hand underwater, to let the cold soothe it— and it does help. Some.

"The mere fact of your survival is reason enough for pride," He said, meaning too that that was another fine thing that Solas had destroyed, "I am glad that something of them remains, even now— when all has been lost, or forgotten. Ir Abelas."

Nothing else to say, then. In the end, the one to destroy Elvhenan had not been Elgar'nan, or the other Evanuris, it was Solas. And the one to set them free to destroy the world more recently had been Solas too, whatever his good intentions. And now, the one to uphold the magic that had killed them, and defend it with his very life... that too, was Solas. There could be no repair for it: he had surely done more than enough damage in the attempt. As Beleth had said, it was done. It is time now, to stop trying.

Solas closes his eyes, and tries to let some measure of it go, as if into the water, to be swept away and washed clean. The regret is alive in him, as old a habit as the motion of his lungs, and is not so easily expunged. But he is trying.

"I do not hate it," He says, eventually, subdued and weary, "I feel I should. If anyone had marked themselves for The Wolf when our rebellion was alive, then it would have horrified me. That it is for your own reasons, in your own time makes the difference, of course. It is unexpectedly gratifying, to see... to imagine..."

That Felassan is his— not as a possession, though there was an element of that to it. That he could, in any way, lay claim to him ever again. Ridiculous, of course: he had forfeited all right to such sentiment. And yet, Felassan had returned, again and again, even when there was no cause for it, and nothing to return to; when he had been supposed lost.

What did that make him, to enjoy such a thing, even as a secret, forbidden thrill? More than all his past mistakes, Solas wished not to make of himself someone else's endless regret.

"May I tell you a story, ma'nehn?"

Edited 2025-06-26 00:02 (UTC)

How many times have they sat this way? Side by side, looking out at the world together, saying less than they thought and understanding more than they said. And how often has Solas been caught in a tangle of worry and self-recrimination that Felassan couldn't soothe, pressed beneath the weight a burden Felassan couldn't truly help him carry, whatever he would have wished?

But this is new: when Solas offers his sorrow, Felassan answers with a look that hides nothing, not his grief and not his love, and brushes fingertips over Solas's temple, his cheekbone, his jaw. "Me, too," he says. "But there have always been worse things than dying, ma'shiral. They knew that."

The little fish in the stream nibble harmlessly at his toes. He lets them, even holds his feet particularly still for them as he listens. Once he tips his head in agreement; during the rebellion Felassan himself would have come down like a thunderclap on anyone trying to trade one brand for another. But so few of them knew Solas as he did. So few of them could have meant it the way that he did. Gratifying draws one corner of his mouth into a pleased little smirk, and Felassan wants and does not want to hear what Solas imagines — even if he might guess, it is another thing to discuss it, as any complicated emotion or desire might be made either sharper or more awkward by vivisection beneath a bright light, or both at once — so he is relieved and disappointed when he doesn't say.

But both a swept away swiftly enough at Solas's request. "Always," Felassan says, and he extends his hand, too, in an expectant request to be given Solas's damp, troublesome palm while he tells it.

He hesitates, coward that he is at heart, and almost does not give it. But, in the end, it is permanent, and pertinent, and thisly unavoidable. Solas simply places his hand, river-cold and dripping, so that Felassan might examine the anchor as closely as he pleases: it is a hair-thin line in skin and soul both, glimmering a faint green glow— the glow of the Veil, of the raw fade, of Solas' own particular signature.

"When I was still only Wisdom," He begins, looking out over the peaceful glade, so as not to see Felassan's expression, "I had an especial friend. A spirit of Benevolence, who I loved dearly. For eons beyond record, we had met one another, explored the Fade, and discussed many things. But one day, I could no longer find my friend, no matter how I scoured the Fade, and so I searched beyond, into the physical world. I found her there, wrapped in a body forged from pure lyrium, and she... she was an elf."

He had no words to convey what a shock it had been. How unlike Benevolence it had seemed to him, how unwise, how pointless, how... strange.

"She had taken a new name, new duties, new friends, in my absence. And she begged me to join her, to help her in shaping the new world our people were becoming a part of. To take lyrium for myself, and rise as an elf. She needed me, or so she claimed. To offer wisdom, to curtail the greedy and tyrannical," Solas' story-telling voice is even and smooth, but each reason felt more obviously wrong than the last, dust in his mouth, and he knew what it sounded like, even as each item on Mythal's list of reasons dropped listlessly from his lips, "I did not want to."

Solas stops. Why had he said that? The admission had simply blurted out, soft and wistful and terrifying. He feels abruptly like he must cry, and inhales sharply to repress the instinct. Still, his voice is less smooth as he continues.

"Eventually, I agreed. I took a body, and became Solas rather than Sileal. Pride. Mythal's Pride. It was not until after the first war, the war of the Titans that she marked me as her slave, but I belonged to her from the beginning," And that too feels almost painful to admit; that he had been so stupid, and so blind. That she had possessed him so completely and her manipulations had shown so plainly, but naive and hopeful as he once had been, he had trusted her. She had been his friend, "I... I have never told anyone that, before."

His examination of Solas’s hand is brief. Felassan had time to look at it already, while Solas was awaiting a healer. He has already memorized the shape of it and resented its implications. Still capable of some exhausted but dogged optimism after all these years, he’d thought they would have more time. He’d believed that together they might plot some clever escape from the corner the world had backed Beleth and Solas into. Avoid the ending where a man who’d given everything for their freedom was asked to provide eternal service to the world at large, interminably bound to a reminder of what he’d lost.

But it hasn’t ended yet. Not really. Solas is alive, so there’s time, and Felassan will learn his lesson about optimism next time, or perhaps the time after that.

For now his interest is in the discomfort that the anchor is causing, even knowing there is little he can do for it. Hoping, still, that while he listens to Solas’s story and covers Solas’s palm with his own, chilling the air pocketed between them, it will be better than if he’d done nothing at all.

Which means that Solas, looking ahead, is not spared all of Felassan's reaction. The way his pinky strokes lightly and idly up one of Solas's fingers while he describes this old friend, peacefully unaware of where the narrative is headed. The moment he begins to realize, around the time Solas says curtail the greedy and tyrannical, and that movement slows, then stops: he did not want to.

Wanting to was not a factor, by Felassan's time, among Felassan's ilk, minor but active spirits who could fill the ranks of an army without any need to wait for them to grow or to make any mothers weep. Among his brothers and sisters, if he could be said to have those, to be swept along into a body was as natural and expected as for children to eventually emerge from a womb. So perhaps he cannot instantly and fully comprehend the horror of it, sitting here, happy to have a hand and happy to have Solas's beneath it. Even when he looked with a spirit's senses, Felassan has only known him this way: distinctive profile, precise hands, long legs. Felassan knew the sadness and laughter written into the faint lines around his eyes before he ever had eyes of his own.

But Felassan has known other old spirits, in his time. Strange unearthly things, some of them, strong and delicate as spiderwebbing, ancient complexities rendered smooth by the nature of their being. Reclusive. Gentle. And Solas didn't want to, and a thousand moments of hesitation and subtle disquiet Felassan has seen in his friend over their ages together take on a new and more coherent shape.

His mind does not want to move on from this, so for a moment he does not entirely register the rest of it, either. The moment he does — the moment he understands the full shape of the story he's been told, the moment he sees Mythal as not due some begrudging credit for seeing Solas's worth and elevating him to her side, but dragging him there, when he had known and trusted her for time beyond even Felassan's understanding, and holding him down — Solas might mark by his hand, all this time laid open overtop Solas's palm, transitioning abruptly to a grasp. There is no room for feeling flattered, now.

"Falon," he says, and for a moment nothing else, options discarded as quickly as they're thought. She has ever been a sore subject, Mythal. Solas certain she'd join them, building a refuge Felassan was equally certain would never see use — but they could not talk about it, not really. An impasse Felassan was willing to forfeit for peace between them. And then she was dead and Solas was shutting him out entirely, and then —

Another failure, on his part. He should have pushed. But he's still careful now, loosening his grip to a gentler hold and sidestepping every impulse toward profane insult.

"She was compelling," he says instead, "and you were... My friend, how have you borne it?"

"She was terrible," He corrects, softly, knowing in Felassan's silence a hideous kindness; even now he is thinking of how to safeguard Solas' heart, which has always been tender as regards Mythal. The pressure of his hand is a soothing balm, despite the crush of it. Solas feels in it the desire to protect, to snap and bite, to strike the oppressor— how many times had he felt it himself, on another slave's behalf? How often too, had Felassan watched him strike the chains, or held the hammer in his own hands?

As often now, and he could not. This was a chain forged from deeper magics than ink and blood. It is our mothers who best know how to tug on heart-strings, for they so often were the ones to tie them there in the first place.

"Poorly," He replies, after a moment's thought, "Very poorly. I always thought— hoped, that she would look back and see... Any of it. What her vision of The People had created. What it had done, to me if not to all of us. I do not know if any part of her, even a fragment, ever truly did. I regret so much of what we were to one another. Of what I did, and became, for love of her."

He had destroyed the world, twice-over, for it. And now, what did that leave him?

"But because of her, I am the man I am today. Solas would not exist without her, and whatever else I have been, there have been times of joy, and pleasure, which I would never have known, even to miss. It is not all suffering, lathallin," And he leans, interlacing their fingers, and pressing close. Strange, how light he feels, to have finally admitted it aloud, and on his own terms, "Beleth knows all I have told you, of course. Rook's... machinations uncovered ancient impressions in the Fade. She dug all my secrets out of the Lighthouse, and put them on display, humiliatingly enough."

Where surely they were all thoroughly documented and picked-over and written down, perhaps even published. And the inquisitor to receive copies of everything, naturally, reports all dutifully filed by her loyal agents. How else could she have known to send Morrigan? How else could any of them have known, to hunt down that last fragment of Mythal herself, the better to convince him onto the better path?

"The world knows me as Solas, the Dread Wolf, and Fen'Harel— and they always will, however I might prefer to be known. But at least, when Beleth and I are alone, she calls me by another name. Sileal."

Wisdom.

"She was terrible," Felassan echoes just as softly as Solas said it, but with a desperate sort of relief, like he's quietly letting out a breath he's had to hold for thousands of years. He could say much worse, of course. But it's enough for now to agree on terrible. It is enough to sit here, her mark still on his face, and listen to Solas speak of her without defending her. By the time Solas is pressing against his shoulder, it's no longer taking effort for Felassan to bite his tongue or keep gentle his hold on Solas's hand, even when he then has to think about a pack of strangers dissecting pieces of Solas's history in his home (their home). He does sway to the side, though, pushing harder against Solas's shoulder in sympathy while he watches a breeze stir the dappled light on the water.

The shift in topic lifts Felassan's attention back to Solas's face. There is no recrimination in his voice as he lists his unwanted titles, but there could have been. Felassan had not been the one to give them to him, but he had insisted on using them to their advantage over Solas's qualms. In speeches and stories he had woven a myth around his friend until it was out of either of their control and even he couldn't see past it, and —

And he would not take it back, no more than he would take back a successful strike against the Evanuris that felled a friend or caught an innocent in the crossfire. There are things that matter more than anyone's happiness or anyone's life. All three of them understand that, Felassan thinks. For those things they have wounded each other and may wound each other again, and to care for one another through it will have to be enough.

So, "Sileal," Felassan says, the name warm in his mouth. He is grateful to know at all, and grateful for the implicit invitation into this bit of tenderness Beleth and Solas share. He slips his feet out of the water to fold his legs beneath him — a kneel that this time gives him height, a few inches' advantage, to hold Solas's face in his hands and kiss the crest of his forehead. They're not spirits anymore. They can be everyone they have ever been, all at once, echoes of yesterday's feelings and impulses carried in their bodies even as they change. Which is to say, against Solas's brow: "I have loved everyone I have ever known you to be."

He will love this, too.

But for the moment he has reached the limit of his capacity for soft-eyed, open, vulnerable love, so as his mouth moves back he also stands, unfolding up onto his feet, and he finds a narrow part of the stream to hop across. Honeysuckle and raspberry. He'll come back with both in his hands.

Felassan says his name, as a name, for the first time, and Solas' breath hitches under the painful flood of emotion. His declaration of love is soft and secret, pressed between them like a dried flower, preserved for long ages, and finally set out in the sun to be admired. Solas' hands curl around his waist, automatic embrace, and when Felassan steps away, his fingers trail after him, along the edges of clothing, and linger in the air after he is gone.

Oh! Oh... how he longs...

But Felassan is not leaving. He is merely crossing the water, the sunlight throwing brilliant flashed into his hair, cutting shadows across his back, and Solas watches him go and reach for the first berry with a strange, quiescent heart. He wants everything; he does not know what he wants.

I have loved everyone I have ever known you to be

How do you live up to that, to the dedication, the affection of it? To the glow in the eyes of a man who knew you before he ever drew breath, and who knows you now, and who has seen you at your ugliest, and your most triumphant, and who adores each one without prejudice? They call Solas a god, but he feels a strange, strangled impulse to worship at the altar of such a sentiment; if there is such a thing as divinity, then it lives in the spirit of that feeling, that all-purifying fire.

In the end, he says nothing, only exists in the green-gold moment that Felassan has brought him to, and wonders if this indeed was what kept him living, all those long, empty years. Is this peace? Is this happiness? It is both and neither; something new and wonderful. He wishes, suddenly, that Beleth were here, to feel it with him, and to watch Felassan pluck ripe red raspberries with his feet in a stream, and see the yellow blossoms of the honeysuckle scattering down into the water below.

He closes his eyes, not weary anymore, or even sleepy, merely... content. Serene. The sun illuminates his eyelids in the vivid colors of skin and blood, and for once it is life that it brings to mind: not death, not servitude. Only life. Only one breath after the other.

Sileal opens his eyes slowly, when he hears the water moving around Felassan's legs, and smiles, soft and beatific. He inclines his head and extends a hand, whether in invitation, or to be grasped and pulled. It doesn't matter: all that he wants is to be closer, somehow, no matter the form.

Edited (gross...) 2025-06-28 01:35 (UTC)

Felassan fills his outstretched hand with raspberries.

That he knows this is not what he was being asked for is clear: his smile is crooked, mischief mingling with warmth. He rolls a berry of his own around his mouth, bursting its drupelets a few at a time, while he stands over Solas — Sileal — and contemplates their options, and the spray of freckles across his nose, and the uncommonly untroubled nature of his smile.

To be even partly responsible for putting that look onto this face is a fragile, heady power. He does not know what to do with it. There's part of him, the same part that can't get comfortable in a house or too soft a bed anymore, that wants to double down on impishness, kick water at his knees, sprinkle the wilting fistful of honeysuckle over the top of his head, tweak his ear. The rest of him doesn't want to ruin his friend's rare serenity more than the teasing berries and stalling might have already done. So Felassan only grasps him by the forearm and hauls him up to stand in the stream, brisk movement and brisk water to offset some of that overwhelming warmth.

"You know, it's strange," he says, and if it's a redirect it's a gentle one, thoughtful, with Felassan's arm slipping around Sileal's hips. "I wouldn't expect a new world to have the same raspberries, but they taste just the same."

Edited (left me alone with my thoughts and i rethought my entire life) 2025-07-02 04:26 (UTC)

Felassan pours fruit into his palms until it overflows and a few berries spill over and drop into the water, borne lazily on their way. For a moment, long and sweet, Solas thinks perhaps Felassan will kiss him, and he waits to see... but no. And even that choice is sweet too. He takes a berry for himself, and stands when he is bid, easygoing and very willing.

"Nor would I expect the sky to be the same color, nor birds to follow the shapes we know, nor elves and humans be so similar in form," He replies, with the calm honesty of someone who has thought about this before. Felassan is right, of course: it is strange, and there is no obvious reason for this place to so closely mirror their own version of reality, "Perhaps we are here in part because this world does not stray so far from our own. Or perhaps such things are more universal than we had thought."

He offers a berry to Felassan, to be taken directly from his fingers, leaning in to put part of his balance against his body, heeding the silent invitation in that encircling arm.

"If one were to travel from world to world, and explore all the possibilities therin, what would be the truth, I wonder? That we are special, nearly-unique in all worlds there are... or that we are commonplace, and many like us have walked these paths before?"

To take the berry from his hand with his mouth is a quiet thrill. So, too, to settle palm against hipbone, curled close and intimate instead of hanging off him with the loose grasp of amiable camaraderie. As long as Felassan has loved Solas, he's been certain Solas loved him, too — only not sure how, or how much, or how long a touch could linger before it became something unwelcome and ugly, until his restraint wore grooves like wheels on a dirt road and staying within them required no thought. He has to think about it now, to escape them. To look up at his face while he speaks and then to keep looking, admiring the words and the way his mouth moves around them, rather than turning his attention swiftly away.

He's beautiful. He always has been. And there has always been something in him that Felassan wanted to protect. Couldn't — not because he was weaker, not always, but because there were more important things than either of their hearts — but wanted to. He understands the source of it better now.

"Whichever one would be more comforting to believe, it is probably the other one," he says, smile stretching wider. He is that cynical, but he's joking, too.

"Ah. Cynicism," Solas acknowledges, with a laugh living in the nostalgia of his voice, "Much of you has changed, since first I slept... But not that."

Felassan was, at his heart and center, still himself, despite it all. Lonelier, perhaps, his humor a drowned and strange-grown thing, but old truths still held, and Solas felt himself safe here, in the curve of his arm, and under the weight of his hand.

Ask me for something, he thinks, a quiet wish, traitorous and small, I wish to be of use to you, to be made worthy by service. Anything, anything...

A familiar, ugly impulse. He indulged it often, in love; with Beleth it was easy. She craved authority, autonomy, the ability to affect the world, and he the opposite. True too, much of their long separation had been fueled by their symmetrical desires, and the knowledge that if she did find a way to ask him to stop...

...Well, then what had indeed happened, might have happened sooner.

"You are staring," He says, quietly, when it has been long enough for the observation to be a true one, "Are the scars so terrible?"

The thin brief line on his eyebrow, and the longer one over that selfsame eye and cheek; no one would call it prominent, but for Solas it is extraordinary. Once, he considered his body little more than a tool, and cared for it with the same assiduous precision with which he did everything of value. Now he bears marks of the world, each gained in weakness, all unwilling. Were he to truly exert himself, he could wipe them away, and go forth clean...

But what was the point? Even the weakness in his scarred eye, the slight discoloration of the iris visible at Felassan's close distance, told a tale. He could no more let go of them than his own regrets.

"I've always been staring," Felassan says, utterly unabashed. "You just weren't paying attention."

He's teasing. Anything except teasing would hardly be fair: empire and war provided a thousand good reasons for Solas's attention to be fixed elsewhere, and so a thousand opportunities for Felassan to exercise some of the subtlety he does in fact possess. Sometimes. When he feels like it.

But now that Solas has asked, his eyes slide — this, too, unabashed — from his mouth to the scars. His hand, too. It's still curled around a fistful of swiftly wilting honeysuckle blossoms, but he extends his forefinger to trace the longer line, torso twisted and leaning to allow for it without letting go of Solas's hips. Some of the flowers fall free anyway, swirling in the eddies around their feet and the hem of Solas's robe before drifting away, and Felassan traces past the end of the scar until his finger is on Solas's jaw.

"I'm tempted to find them striking," he admits, low, like this shameful. Perhaps it is, if they pain him — "Do they bother you?"

Solas opens his mouth to immediately reply that yes of course they are, and then reconsiders and very nearly says the opposite— but says nothing at all, instead. Neither is the truth, he realizes, and then again he falls upon the recognition that now, that now it is all laid bare, or shall soon be. He had said it that first day, the very hour that he had reappeared in Caldera, had he not?

I trust you. I will tell you everything.

"I had long considered my body as a tool," He replies, slowly, as if he must feel his way blindly along the sentence, groping after each word in the dark, "If it were marred, injured, or taken ill, I would be limited. First in how I could serve, and then... in other ways. When I woke, I was nearly powerless; I had my knowledge, my expertise, but my capabilities were no greater than that of any other mage in Thedas as it stands now. Less than many, to tell the truth. It was... humbling."

Humiliating, frustrating, enraging, horrifying... He had spent longer than he would like to admit just mourning himself as he had been, and raging against the new limitations, before picking himself up to move on. It was not until the first of his body's new scars that Solas had really understood what had become of him, and how far he truly had fallen in the world.

"I was forced to contend with the world as myself, fully within myself, for perhaps the first time. That experience has been invaluable. To answer your question... I don't know. I would not have taken them willingly, and each is tied to a memory of pain, or servitude. And yet, I cannot bring myself to wipe it all away. Perhaps that is foolish."

It isn't entirely guilt that Felassan feels. Either of them could have chosen differently; neither of them did. Perhaps neither of them ever could have. But something sits heavy in his stomach, whatever it might be called, at the thought of Solas stripped of his power and learning the shape of the new world alone. Felassan had never told him everything he might need to know because he'd been certain, until mere days before the end, that he would be there, along with Solas's strength and all of the necessary tools.

But it's past, and they cannot keep apologizing to each other in new ways for the same mistakes in an endless loop. That nameless feeling is tucked into a brief drop of his eyes and his hand sliding further down to rest against Solas's neck, until he finishes speaking and Felassan looks up again.

"Perhaps," he says. "Or perhaps it's incredibly wise."

Joking. Not joking. The fine lines at the corners of his eyes that crinkle with an affectionate amusement, they reach into the lines of the vallaslin that Solas could clear away the moment Felassan asked him to. But he never has, and the odds are good he never will, so who is he to tell Solas what's foolish here? Felassan still feels it sometimes, too: the divide between body and spirit, between who he is and the ingenious biological device he's acquired to move about the world with, though his sense of it is likely much less keen and more painless.

Less glibly: "It's pain that you've survived and servitude that you've cast off," mostly, "and when I see them I feel some sorrow that you've suffered. But grateful, too, that you came through it and let me have this time with you. And wonder that we can still change and learn, after all the ages. You are already so different from when I left you. Who knows what you will be in a thousand years?"

"Evidence might suggest I will be much the same: an intractable thorn in your side," He replies, light with feigned good humor, though his face belies the attempt. Serious talk, this, "Falon..."

The words crowd around his lips, jockeying for room. He cannot decide what to ask, what to say, and so is rendered helpless, and falls silent. Why is it so different, with Felassan's scars, than for his own? Why can he never let anything go, and be at peace? Will Felassan not ask him for more, and tell him more? The berry-taste is sweet and tart on his tongue still, and Solas feels the rough edge of a callous against the pulse-point of his neck, daring and dangerous and tender all at once.

"Will you not kiss me?" is what he says, finally, for it is the only thing he can.

Seeing through Solas's tone doesn't stop Felassan from smiling, himself, and then smiling wider. Thorn in his side. The fang there could very well be. The next time someone entitled to neither of their histories asks what it means, maybe that's what he'll say it is —

— though it is never what Solas has been. Even at the worst of times. Felassan has stood in thunderstorms, and he's stood in forest fires, and he's stood beside Fen'Harel, and it was never because he was helpless to do anything else. He could have, just as anyone who only feels right and alive and themselves on a battlefield could nonetheless find the costs too great hang up their sword.

"I might," Felassan says, smiling wider still, pleased to have tied up his tongue and outlasted his patience. He takes his time about it nonetheless, trailing his fingers down, contemplating the options presented to him. Mouth first. He's unhurried and steady, trading berry-taste for berry-taste, and if Solas has ideas to the contrary Felassan will retreat and press forward again with more insistence on slow.

It leaves him time to ask, half into Solas's mouth, "Did you remember this when you were gone?" I missed you, Solas said, but he'd had cause to miss them, both of them, either way. Felassan does not sound anymore afraid of the answer than he did while he was waiting to die — but it is not for nothing that he's taken this long to ask.

Solas accepts the kiss with pleasure and an eager heart, at first merely letting himself be guided, relaxing into the gesture, then building into a mounting interest in the wet heat of tongue and teeth— only to be chastised and stymied, and forced to begin again. Who was it that was a thorn in the side of whom, once again?

But he forgives Felassan immediately, and loosens his grip on his collar, until they are both breathing hard, and overheated, despite the cool of the water and the greening shade.

Did you remember?

For a breath or two, Solas in uncomprehending, then his hands harden and he surges to his feet. The bottom of the stream is silt and clay, alternating between slime and grit between his toes, but he pays it no mind. His answer is ferocious, reaching grasping, biting, as much to say I will never forget you, as to illustrate the viciousness with which he clings to that memory.

Solas would tear himself to pieces, for the sake of the memory of those he has loved; not a metaphor, nor poetic speech. His is a dangerous love, so often self-destructive. You had been warned...

"I remembered this, all of this world, as a dream," He says, rough-voiced and husky. The river-damp is creeping up his robes, unheeded, "It faded, or tried to fade, but I am not a mortal dreamer, to shake off the night every morning, as if the Fade were no more than a fantasy. But it could mean nothing, not while Elgar'nan yet lived, and the blight surging. I remembered this."

Another kiss, searing and wet, almost hostile in its fervency. Solas has thrown his arms entirely around his lover, and given himself to the moment entirely.

"I will remember you until my last breath, Felassan."

No instinct for surrender, has Felassan. It's something he has to reason his reluctant way around to, and with Solas crashing in like a storm surge there is not immediately time for reason. So Felassan cedes no ground, gives no slack, feet dug in to the stream bed and a fist threatening to leave lasting wrinkles in the fabric against Solas's side and kiss clashing toothily against kiss.

For those moments he doesn't understand the ferocity. It might be apology. It might be fear. To lose these months and what the three of them have become would be its own kind of mortality.

He doesn't understand until Solas explains, and as he does relief floods out some of the stubbornness. Some. Felassan's stance turns softer without turning slack, and he meets this next kiss with collaboration instead of competition, a noise in his throat, and open roving hands. One finds the side of Solas's head. No hair to rake his fingers through (or to hold and tug, in another genre of fantasy) but there's a separate tenderness in finding the ridges of bone and the lines of tendon with his fingertips. How strange to be made of so many different pieces —

Felassan doesn't hurry out of the half-daze that comes from being remembered and wanted and grasped at. When he gathers himself up enough to speak, it's quiet.

"Is that all?" he says. "I've remembered you past mine."

This is only true from the narrowest of angles, one that counts his impermanent death and not Solas's, but the point isn't accuracy. It's only to tease. Let Solas remember, if Felassan can't follow him and Beleth into their forever after: let him remember Felassan joking about the worst thing between them without bite, all forgiven. And Felassan's hand slithering through layers of clothing to press a callused palm against the skin Solas didn't want to inhabit and to stroke a reverent thumb against the ridge of a scar he doesn't want to erase. And Felassan adding, "Sileal," like a punctuation mark, and the first L making his tongue dart out against lips.

Solas thinks, very briefly of doing any number of things, most of them wrong, many violent, all inappropriate. Shortly, he cannot bear to discard all of them, and so is forced to break the deadlock by attempting to choose to least offensive among many.

"I ought to drown you like an unwanted cat," He hisses, annoyed at Felassan's teasing and the presumption that he would have forgotten, and the fear that he might've.

He turns his head, meaning to bite him, and the motion is a stroke against his cheek and Solas is once again knee-deep in the memory of Haven's unswept snowbanks, and someone is touching him with gentleness for what seems the first time in his life. It was only an iron will and an age of ingrained guilt that had kept him from tears, that night, when Beleth had first kissed him— it is the same, now.

A longing he did not know he had, rising up, impossible, impossible. He struggles, briefly, against the irrepressable softness; no, he is annoyed, and rightfully so! But it cannot hold, and so he sighs and allows Felassan to gentle him with his name, and wraps his arms around him against for a kiss that is nothing of teeth, smooth and wet and tender.

"I wondered if they would be so foolish as to give me my tools," He murmurs against his mouth, when they are both breathless and leaning into one another, soft and slack and in love. He knows Felassan does not need to be told, to know him, to know what he means. The water is cold, soaking up through his knees, and he welcomes the cooling radiance of it, "It was my intention, when they asked me, to make the attempt— to bring you home. I will not beg as if I were a servant; we should not be in their power, and I can accept no denial in this. If the orb and dagger cannot be enough, I will do yet more. You deserve the effort."

Another time, Felassan wouldn't try to soothe him. Another day he'd be pleased to wrestle and bite and pinch halfway out of their clothes in the river or the trees, playful and vicious as the games young animals play with fang and claw. But today has been sweet, and the stream is too gentle and the breeze is too warm, and Solas is not fully recovered, and Beleth will probably have come home by the time they turn back.

Felassan still grins at the threat, though. Try it makes it from his chest to his throat before he stops it without a sound, for the sake of this embrace that matches the stream and the breeze, a counterweight against all the struggling they've done and will do, with the world and one another.

The expression it leaves behind on Felassan's face, when Solas takes enough space to speak, is cracked open enough that he can't help the impulse to hide it. He ducks his head down and in, forehead to Solas's jaw, held still even when you deserve the effort threatens him with a shudder. (He does not lack confidence, but he settled into that last dream quite confident that Solas would find him disposable enough to dispose of. He was right. He was wrong, too.)

He nods and says, "Beleth said something about it," relieved that she has now said something more recently than the first time, the orb and dagger and obvious prompt, and Felassan will not have to try to speak his way around what they saw in the Salt Spire.

He could not trust it, in the vision Cordelia showed Beleth. Easily manipulable; even Felassan can conjure up a false vision for a sleeper. He can't trust a god, he can't trust anything reliant on their favor, so he's been so reluctant to truly hope for anything he might have to ask them for — but it's a different matter, if Solas holds the power in his own hands. If they do not have to supplicate.

"There are things much worse than death, you know, and you've saved my ass from them all." His body is his own. His mind. Beliefs, choices, heart. Whatever responsibility Solas bears for his death, he's more responsible for the fact he died free. Felassan's hand strays to the side of his face, opposite the press of his forehead, to the dramatic angle his jaw, the soft lobe of his ear, adoration in his fingers belying the dryness of his tone. "But if you have another rescue in you, I'll take it."

"It was I who took you from Thedas in the first place," His wry tone is as adroit as his hands, tangled in Felassan's loosened hair, and fisted damply in his shirt, with a fine tremor running through all three, "Therefore, it seems only fitting that I serve to return you to it."

How few of his regrets, his mistakes, could ever be se remedied? It was an impossible chance. But the possibility of true forgiveness, of truly setting something, anything, anything at all, that mattered, to rights... He could not help but long for it. Just this once, let some folly of his come to a good end. Let anything he has ever done be aright.

In the meantime, Solas closes his eyes and leans his face against Felassan's palm, suddenly weary for his burst of furor, and grateful to be held. Of course Beleth had told him. Of course— clever Vhenan, always safeguarding them both.

"We must... bring her here, some time. She would appreciate the beauty of this place."

"She'll add to it," Felassan says, smile pushing his cheeks against Solas's jaw. "Soon, while the berries are still this good."

They can come back with Beleth, with lunch, with a basket for the raspberries. With what Beleth needs to save honeysuckle for her teas and with something for Solas to sketch with. With a blanket or two. If Felassan is very charming perhaps he might convince them to forgo their soft bed and stay the night here.

He stores the plans away. Solas was not quite shaking, a moment ago, but near enough. The lean of his head is heavy and tired, and Felassan eases back to look at him. The vulnerability he'd been hiding has seeped out of his face, for the most part, but not the love; it's only more surefooted, as sturdy as his hand against Solas's cheek. His fearsome, fragile friend. He tilts Solas's face within range to kiss the eyelid of one of his kind, sad, mischievous eyes, and the sun-touched bridge of his nose, and one last time — at least for an hour or so — on the mouth.

"Let's get you home," he says. They'll have to hunt another day. A fiercer day than this one, which he wants to keep this way now, gentle and unbloodied. "After the time she has had lately, it's best if we don't make her wonder where we've gone."

Solas huffs a breathy chuckle, low and dry, but genuine, closing his eyes to linger a moment longer in the weight and warmth of it. Then he sighs, and cannot argue: yes, he is tired already, and the water which had been a bracing refreshment a moment ago is now merely cold.

"Yes. I have given her many reasons to fear that I might vanish," He hesitates though, in moving to go, though he has not yet even stepped away from Felassan, not fully, and turns back, "...Perhaps you can sympathize?"

He had found those notes you left, lost letters, ancient pleas for help to a man who's mind had been struck low by his own folly, and who had crawled through the mud towards survival. Solas thought, perhaps, that it might give his detractors among the survivors of the Veil's initial rise, to imagine him thus... but it was a cold comfort, and useless. He had left the messages where they had been found, and hoped that if they did not vanish into history, that they might at least bear witness to his crimes.

"Ir abelas, for your pain, but I think... you both know who and what I am, now."

It's an old pain — a wound that has not healed cleanly, maybe, but has healed, in the thousands of years since Felassan last glimpsed the Lighthouse and what they left behind there — and Solas is a thousand things, becoming more by the day, always shifting in the light, and to claim to understand even the simplest man fully and forever would be arrogance and boring besides —

But Felassan knows enough of the hard things in Solas, and the sharp things, and the things that slip out of his hands if he tries to hold onto them. Felassan came to love him in wartime, with blood on his teeth and lightning in his hands. Every part of Solas he's ever bruised himself against was a part that also helped free their people. Every story he told Briala about Fen'Harel's inscrutable cunning he told with affection and admiration. So Felassan knows enough of him to nod with confidence, smile small and unbothered, as he links his arm around Solas's to draw him out of the water and back toward the deer path.

"Someone we'll lose," he proposes, "and someone we'll find again. Although you are always welcome to communicate your plans," he adds with a touch of tartness, "if it suits you."

Solas, I never got to ask, and I'm sure you've had far more important things on your mind.

But I assume you had no difficulty breaking through the crystal dome I raised around your dining table?

[Barcus is not, after all, a mage, and new to the gift of shaping stone and gems this way. He's a pretty good architect, though. The whole house could have collapsed onto that dome and it still would have held.]

As fortune would have it, I am capable of keeping many things on my mind at once, and your construction's clever geometry did not elude me. Indeed, I was surprised by its robustness: it was beautifully made.

In the end, I found I did not wish it destroyed. Beleth required a return to the free use of the table, of course, so I simply removed it. It posses a number of fascinating qualities, not the least of which is its beauty, and so we have fallen into the habit of using it decoratively.

Oh! Goodness, thank you. I'll take the compliment. [Not that he's entirely shocked; he has engineered structures before, though not usually domes. Shaping the cavern in his backyard has taught him a few things. Regardless, honest praise from Solas feels like a rare gift, worth savoring.

Quietly. With dignity.]

I'm honored to have provided you with a very large, very sturdy fruit bowl, perhaps? Let me know if it starts a trend, maybe I missed my calling as an interior designer.

But truthfully, it got me thinking about something Gadriel was telling me regarding shielding generated by--well, not his armor, but the same sort of technology.

Magical shielding is an ancient and lively field of expertise, as prone to evolution as are the efforts to defeat it. I have no doubt your unusual background will bring a new perspective to the art.

Tell me more of your thoughts?

Oh, well, any kind of discovery can set off an arms race. That's he blessing and curse of innovation. It always leads to more of the same.

Anyway! Gadriel mentioned a device that some Astartes wear called an Iron Halo, but what he described most certainly was not made of iron. It sounded like an energy field, in a half-dome shape, quite simple in design.

Of course, if you know Gadriel you're well aware he doesn't think much of sorcery, but he's been willing to trust me a little. First I was thinking of energy fields, and things like silencing spells that don't really have a physical structure; they're more a matter of will and a twist of the Weave. But the idea of being able to generate a shield--and not just a simple shape, but something dynamic, something that could adjust to the pressures exerted upon it--that's very compelling.

I can see how to do it with the stone manipulation ability I have--by hand, for lack of a better term. But I'd like to be able to make a device that could do something similar, to be given to someone to use when I'm not present. Maybe an automaton? I'm not sure; there would have to be a lot of sensors in order for it to respond to an outside stimulus. And an automaton wouldn't have any will of its own to use, so you would almost have to have an elemental source that could be linked to it, like a fusion of magic and technology. That may be too ambitious.

And now I'm thinking aloud at you. Your perspective could be invaluable, though.

Indeed, you are on the correct path.

Ordinarily, the act of erecting and maintaining a shield is work fit only for a living mind, but a sufficiently detailed, and purpose-built mechanism can recreate the specific energies, if in a more limited manner. It will not be capable of the full flexibility and dynamism as when managed by an actual mage, but such devices will outlast the attention of any living being, and can be more than sufficient for many circumstances; to guard a vault, or an entryway, for example.

I am impressed; your ability to rediscover principles long lost to time and decayed expertise is remarkable, and the idea of mounting such a tool into armor is novel in my experience: my people have no need for such innovations. I hope you will pursue it farther than the engineers of Arlathan ever could; such works were eventually abandoned in favor of methods more expedient, in the name of efficiency.

[Barcus always feels ridiculously pleased when Solas compliments his thinking, and this is no exception. It is perhaps fortunate that they're communicating over text so he doesn't have to hide the fact that he's blushing. And preening subtly.

Anyway.]

Well, I shall certainly experiment and see what I can come up with, after encouragement like that! My experience with automata before coming here was mostly with small constructs for scouting dangerous tunnels or helping trapped miners. And...the Steel Watch, but they were quite literally aberrations.

[Abominations, no less. Incredibly clever monstrosities.] Perhaps I'm in a unique position. I have studied the magical principles of my world enough to grasp the theory, but I have no facility with the practice thereof, and so I turn to artifice instead to get the work done. I can only hope that makes my work applicable to more people. Certainly, the Gondians approved.

[And Gadriel, whose comfort level with sorcery is nil.]

It was so with Beleth, as well. Though she rose to extraordinary power, actual magic was beyond her in Thedas, at least thus far. Here, one may earn the ability to use magic, in defiance of all I have known... But it is a joy to see a dream long denied, brought to life in her.

I am sure you have seen similar benefits to the Calderan system, in your own life and work.

Though I am curious; what is it that makes the Steel Watch aberrations? I know something of your world, after this long, but you have not spoken of them before.

I have been told repeatedly to be careful with these powers we earn. That if they've been given by the faction leaders they can just as easily be taken away, or used to control us somehow. I think about that. On the other hand, I doubt I'd be any use at all in the field, so to speak, without them.

I can make things, and given enough time I have confidence I could learn to build anything, but my physical assets simply don't match up with others.

The Steel Watch were only automatons in part. They were an unholy hybrid of automata, infernal machinery, Myrkullite necromancy, and psionic mindflayer larvae. Part of a plot to subjugate not just the city of Baldur's Gate but the entirety of Toril, and other planes of existence, given enough time.

I was in the dubiously privileged position of being asked to dismantle the remainder of them personally after their originator died. The design was unbelievably ingenious, clever beyond anything I've ever seen in person, and also more brutal than anything I could have imagined.

[Further proof that people find him so earnest and innocuous they'll give him full access to anything.]

[Solas' reply is somewhat delayed as he sits in contemplation, for a moment, on all the abominations and horror wrought in the name of creating an army, or the effect of an army, whilst avoiding the simple fact that all truly effective armies were comprised of living people. Even he, himself, had done...

...But nevermind. Old regrets, fresh pain. As always.]

You carry more secrets than most, my friend. I can only hope their burden is not too heavy, nor too obvious; such knowledge is dangerous in and of itself, on occasion.

A well-made weapon is heavy, but we carry it close in case we need it. Knowledge just happens to be the weapon I wield best.

[Barcus cannot hear him chuckle, nor see the smile on his face. True too, he cannot hear Beleth ask him what the joke had been, nor hear his explanation; Our gnomish friend is cleverer than he knows, nor Felassan's answering retort. You have friends in this home, Barcus Wroot.]

Despite what may seem, we have that much in common.

Inbox // IC Communication

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[text] ingenuity

[text] dreadwolf

@slowarrow

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[a note]

I AM SO SORRY part deux Text @gadriel

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