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[goethbeforethefall]

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Visuals Caldera Vhenan

Solas The Dread Wolf Fen'Harel

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[goethbeforethefall]

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?"

[loosed]

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.

[goethbeforethefall]

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.

[loosed]

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.

[goethbeforethefall]

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."

[loosed]

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."

[goethbeforethefall]

"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.