𝔣𝔢𝔫'𝔥𝔞𝔯𝔢𝔩

Heal and be healed.

   “The demon itself isn’t the problem, it’s me. I can’t control how I feel and faking that I’m okay will only make things worse. So what do I do? Stay depressed and stressed? The only thing that would help his not being Inquisitor, but I can’t do that.” Eon ran a hand through his loose hair. His wrist rubbed up against his horn, making Eon take a moment to step back from the situation. He traced his nail along the groove in the center of his horn. They were his pride. One of the few things he liked about himself. Doing this helped him calm himself.

   Eon sat forward once again, looking at the fire for a brief moment before he looked back to Solas. “There is one other option I was considering. I have doubts everyone would allow me to go through with it though.” There was little logical reason for others to be against his idea. The logical part was the reason people hated it. Eon would no longer be Eon afterwards– the only defining parts of him that remain would be his body and his past.

   “One demon has already attempted to possess me in the past. As a mage, I run more of risk to getting possessed than others. As Inquisitor, the risk is heightened still. Since I suffer from depression, it makes this particular demon more of a threat to me. Even you could only help me so much.” Eon knew he shouldn’t even mention it to Solas, figuring the other might be angry at it. But it was still only one of his options. None of the options were optimal. At least this one had the best chance for his survival.

   Eon worked up the courage internally just to say it. After shaking his head and rubbing his head together, he let out a sigh and hoped the words would roll off his tongue.

   “I’m debating on going through with the Rite of Tranquility.”

    It was that tingle of discomfort at the base of his spine that ALERTED him to what words may follow; an atmosphere that had moments prior seemed to be LIFTING only thickened to stifle them both, like an inescapable humidity stealing away breath. Hardly the anxious type, but Solas found himself subtly FIDGETING while heeding his inquisitor’s admissions, and it was a sharp focus on the crackling flames that kept him ROOTED. He knew, without having to hear but a MURMUR, a statement upon that horizon would be the very LAST thing he desired to hear.

    And it was.

    He did not SHOUT. No EXCLAMATION despite the minute JOLT beneath his ribs otherwise urging a sound up his throat. In fact, void of proper ATTENTION, it would almost appear as though the apostate hadn’t a single reaction at all. The barely recognizable crinkle of his brows was visible only by the numerous shadows a campfire weaved across every stitch of his face, and even then, how SLIGHT it was. It was in long-suffering SILENCE he speculated how to REACT--not necessarily what instinct commanded, but what would best AID his friend in need.

    Likely SCOLDING him before that final breath even left his lips was rather the WORST option.

    So, calm, STOIC as he persistently PAINTED himself to be, he spoke in a lower timbre, twitching fingers closing around a knee he had propped up. “I understand you are AFRAID, Inquisitor--and for reasons only a FOOL would not be--but time has granted evidence of your rationality in situations which BEG for it; the head you carry on your shoulders is more secure than many I’ve encountered, and most of which are burdened with significantly less than you. Debate as you will, I advise you not to act RASHLY, lest you fall deeper into a hole from which you cannot ESCAPE. You are far from exhausting all OTHER options.”

his cloak is full of secrets

There was a sharpness to the younger elf’s laughter that did not pass Ameridan unnoticed.   It reminded him uncomfortably of the laughter one might hear,  hidden behind a fan or a mask at a ball among the ciriane peoples  —  the kind of laughter that followed a misstep that played in one’s favour,  or an insult cleverly disguised as wit.

If there was an insult in Solas’ words,  Ameridan was not sure.   They had clearly been spoken more to Solas himself than to anyone else,  and Ameridan did not know the other elf well enough  —  nor did he know the Dalish of this time well enough  —  to be certain he understood their meaning  —  and he didn’t want to assume there was anything malicious about them before he knew for sure.   No,  he was certain Solas had not meant what it sounded like he meant.

But neither could he let it go.

    Perhaps, in a way of his subconscious maneuvers, it had been somewhat EXPECTED, for no flinch of one being CAUGHT answered. But he did look at him, calm and quiet, and absorbed his curiosity almost hungrily; how often did one genuinely WANT to know these things? To be told they were WRONG? He almost smiled. Rather, the tickle at the corner of his mouth begged him until he OBLIGED in the smallest of affirmations.

    “Lethallen.” Respectfully, Solas corrected himself, further EMPHASIZED by a nod. “That you show interest is a COMPLIMENT in itself. You may be one of the first; most would care little to hear of one’s ventures into the Fade, more so when the portrait of their past goes so AGAINST the beliefs to which they CLING.