[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.
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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.