In another world, vhenan...

  A slow-burn Solavellan story of secrets, ancient rituals, dangerous devotion, and the Fade’s cruel sense of humor.

(...) The elf standing in the shadows of the chantry wall had not spoken a word. He wore robes no sensible man would choose for a Ferelden winter and held himself with the kind of stillness that made Faron instinctively distrust him.

He dreamed of a silver pool, as still and cold as a sheet of glass. Falherna stood at the water's edge, robed in a light that felt like the memory of a sun. The wind pulled at her hair, turning the strands into fine grey smoke. He called to her. She did not turn, but he was close enough to smell the wild herbs and the sharp tang of ink that always followed her. He reached out, his hand trembling. His fingers brushed the silk of her hair, and the ache in his chest was sharper than any blade. “Fal,” he whispered. She turned just a fraction, the line of her jaw familiar and heartbreaking. But her voice did not come from her lips. It came from the wind itself—hollow, resigned, and heavy with the scent of a funeral. “You are too late, Faron.” The world shattered. The silver pool broke like ice under a hammer. He lunged for her, his boots splashing through the mirrored water, but she slipped through his fingers like mist. The light collapsed. The cold rushed in.

Hi, sweetie :) Thank you so much. I must ask which screenshot of Solas you have on mind? Cause there are few of them :)