It’s harder to sleep when Solas is away, traveling with the Inquisitor. Ian never mentions it–he is fairly certain that Solas sleeps easier, those nights, and it is selfish of him to miss what comfort Solas gives–but he enters his own dreams with hesitation, shirking away from the rise of stone walls and the smells of crisp parchment and processed lyrium.
It is harder to sleep when Solas is away, and he had not looked for company within this dream. Had he been asked, he might have said he would prefer none; the type of company he tended to attract frightens him, darkening his dreams and washing him with cold terror.
This company, however, settles serenely in the memory of sunlight splashing over stone floors, and Ian recovers from a start to scramble into something resembling friendliness. “You–” Frightened me. “–hello.”
He approaches the spirit, wary in his curiosity. His mouth curves, amused at the metaphor. He gathers the threads of the spirit’s meaning, but deflects his point. “I am no soldier.” Ian notes, shrugging. “And I have no skill at war or battle.”
His troubles may burden him–wearing him weary ‘til he struggles to stand–but they are paltry and petty when held beside that suffering he has seen in others.
Surprise jerks the dream around them, a small fear that tugs at his form. Harmless, the kind of unrest he has learned how to smooth over.
“Greetings,” he hums, his even tone lilting, excitement evident. He had been waiting for this opportunity. When Love hears of this meeting he will have to recount every detail, though the affection in the young elf’s heart is harder for him to hear. What rings loudest is his desire for harmony.
Peace laughs at the refusal, a soft chuckle that brightens the sunbeam he rests within. “No, you are not, but there is no shame in that.” Still, the elf’s hands are bloodier than the most brutal of soldiers, stained with the blood of those he has sought to help. How many lives have been saved and lost by those hands? How much rest they must have delivered-- be it eternal, or temporary. Even in death, they heal, though each loss still lingers, unseen beneath scarred fingertips.
“You do not wage war with steel, but your battles are as real as those of your patients, and as deserving of a resolution.”