goethbeforethefall | Inbox // IC Communication

Inbox // IC Communication

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This is the In-Character Inbox for Solas.
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It is... terribly novel, to have someone take care of him, in intimate moments such as these. Solas has refused help with all but the most absolutely necessary tasks of his dress and person almost since he acquired this body— the last time anyone had done something like this for him, it had been...

He cannot remember, and must reconstruct the idea from a memory of likely possibilities; the constructs and helper-spirits at his Uthernara site, perhaps? It hardly matters, not as Felassan's tender care matters.

"I... My reception from the Dalish was very nearly the end of my life. I was a week in feverish recovery, and avoided all forms of civilization thereafter, unless it suited a specific need, or a necessary purpose," Solas shakes his head, well aware of the foolishness of this attitude. But it was true also: he had no desire to die, and no one upon whom he could rely. Without even the Eluvian network to aid with travel, he had been restricted to the lonely, dangerous path of a man, traveling alone, "When my own foolishness backfired, and the Breach was made, I joined the refugees at Haven, and offered my services as an apostate volunteer, who had learned much from the Fade, and who knew the Veil's nature better than most."

All of which was true, of course. And all he ever need do afterward was tell easy lies, mostly of omission, and they handily imagined that which might plausibly fill the gap. Why, and how, could anyone have ever guessed the truth, after all? It would be insanity itself to imagine, and nearly blasphemy to express. And so, Solas had been safe, for a small time.

"They did not learn who I truly was until years later, when I had left them, left her, and... Not unjustifiably, they resented the betrayal. Whatever friendships I had, whatever joy I had won during that journey together, I spoilt. It was not all a lie, but it was enough of one— even to myself. So I was not truly myself, for any of it. And the rest was... misery," He hesitates, nearly says something about the Revenants, and then shakes his head again. No, it was humiliation enough, and Solas sighs, bending slightly forward to sway against Felassan and borrow his balance, and some measure of warmth, or comfort, or simple assurance of his nearness, "...And yet, for a time, when I lived as a lie, I was happy. So there is no satisfactory answer to your question."

Answering Solas's searching sway with an arm about his waist is a reflex, first, that Felassan only takes note of after he's done it — then, taking note, tightens his grip. How far they are from that last long stretch of terrible days before the Veil, full of grief and silence, when Solas wouldn't speak to him and Felassan wouldn't reach out and grab hold of him. Not even like this. If he couldn't and shouldn't have kissed him, under the circumstances, he still could have held onto him like this.

"I never told Briala who I was or what I working toward," he says. "I left her believing I was returning to my clan somewhere. It was still me, though, truly, when I was telling her what she could have and teaching her to fight for it."

A lie doesn't spoil everything — but Felassan has always been the better liar, hasn't he? Or no. Not better. The so-called God of Lies can fool even Felassan when he decides it's necessary. Felassan can't say the same. But he's always been more willing, more prolific, and more inventive than Solas, with his reluctant, careful omissions and double meanings.

It makes sense. The part of him that will always want to see people choose wisely and to help them do it can never be compatible with pulling wool over their eyes.

Felassan reaches up to his face, thumb to his cheekbone.

"Beleth doesn't resent you."

"Not anymore," He agrees, quietly, "You were not there, when I broke her heart."

Solas opens his mouth to continue, and then cannot imagine what else there is to say. Of course Beleth's heart had mended, for the most part, and she had forgiven him all of it and more. Of course her resentment had died young, and all was now well between them, or as well as it could yet be. She does not resent him. But she had.

And the others, save perhaps Cole, would not be nearly so understanding; of that much, he was very sure.

"Perhaps the moment you ask for is yet to come, then. And you shall yourself be part of it. Is that not enough?"

Perhaps Solas can see it all on his face. The urge to dig his heels in and keep challenging it, softened by something close to longing — of course he'd like to be part of it, to help, to matter to the happiness of someone who matters so much to his own — and both restrained beneath a measuring look, trying to gauge by Solas's expression how lost the cause is.

He decides: "If it's enough for you."

For now.

His eyes and his hand drop away from Solas's face, but he stays close. Solas asks him for so little, anymore, and asks so carefully when he does. That sway was a request of a kind, so Felassan will be here until Solas shifts away. One arm around him. The other finds by memory the place where, beneath his clothes, there's a likely candidate for Dalish-inflicted scar.

It is enough, at least in this moment, not to have to argue. He doesn't want to be such a wretched thing, forever wracked with guilt and sorrow; Solas would prefer to think of himself as something worthy of admiration, a straight-backed figure, righteous and strong and...

...and so frequently his attempts to be just that have been the path to cruelty and ruination itself, and Felassan so often the witness. But Felassan allows the silence between them, and allows Solas to find some sense of balance and ease in the strength of his arms, the near weight of breath and the still-warm afterglow of pleasure that had been pulled from him. It cannot last, of course, Beleth is waiting for them and that pleasure too is a living flame in his breast, but Solas is content to wait, just a moment or two more. And then to sigh a little breathy scoff of recognition, when he feels Felassan's idly questing hands.

"I am learning," he says at last, "To be content with less. And to ask for less with which to content myself."

A man who once dreamed he might save the world could do worse than to learn humility. But there is mourning in that too: for all the pain he might have spared, the lives prolonged, the grief forestalled. But it is folly, and would only lead to worse ruin, if he continued to try and better the world, except in the smaller ways that are still permitted to him.

In some ways that is a greater freedom than Solas has ever known, to be shackled out-of-reach from his dreamed-of futures. In others, to be chained thus is agony. As usual, he can blame no-one but himself for the strange duality of it all. But at least he is not alone.

"Do you have one last question, then? Vhenan will be calling us to breakfast, any moment."

One last question.

What hurt worse, the Dalish arrow or the rejection? How long was he alone? What was it like, to wake again after so long? What was the first thing he saw when he emerged? What was the first thing that made him smile? Was it difficult to learn to eat again? Did the air taste different? So many things changed so slowly that Felassan could only notice in hindsight that the entire biome was shifting. How much can the world change and still be where they’re from? What does it make them if it isn’t anymore? What did Solas think the first time he saw Beleth awake, with her bright keen eyes and steady-handed courage, wielding his magic? When did he truly understand what she was? When did he understand the unfamiliar world was still alive? How long did he stay angry with Felassan? Is he still, even a little? Would he ever have told her about him? If Solas and Beleth return to Thedas without him and Beleth remembers this as a dream or not at all will he please tell her— Which of the legends they tell now was the hardest to hear? Does their history still belong to them or do they owe it to their descendants to cede it to their interpretation? Does the truth matter for its own sake or only for its effect? Is it better to have all their cruel and bloody wars reduced to pretty metaphors? Does Solas understand how beautiful he is? If Felassan had tried to touch him before, when Mythal was alive, when Mythal was newly dead, would he really have wanted it? Would it have helped or only been a new broken layer to a broken thing? Is that what it is now? Is it mending? Does it matter? Does he like his own freckles? Is it really less, to learn to be content with this life?

— they have time. Felassan kisses his shoulder as he shakes his head, feeling some small pang of guilt for getting so carried away with Beleth just across the garden. She might have enjoyed joining the game. Next time, perhaps. In the meantime they should go.

But ah, there’s one.

“If we hurry,” he says, “do you think she’ll tolerate us messing up her makeup a little?”

Solas laughs, and this time it's genuine; a low, pleased chuckle into the hair just behind Felassan's ear. He can practically hear the gears grinding inside your skull, and that is what that strange machinery spits out? But of course. Of course.

He too is so often preoccupied by the same: Beleth, and her many moods, each one its own form of delight.

"I believe so," He says, "But let us go, and find out."

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