#solasfic

Adaia half-turned to watch him go, solemn golden eyes thoughtful.  Her expressions were much like her mother’s, pensive in rest.  But behind the small frown was a six-year-old child possessed of a near-bottomless well of questions, as curious as her younger siblings were in their own unique ways.  Solas folded his hands together, watching as she clutched the worn book in her arms to her chest, tucking her chin atop it.

“Are there many words you don’t know in your book today, da’len?”

She pivoted to face him, hugging the book a bit tighter.  “Yes.  It’s not a learning book, Hahren.”

“There are no books in this world, da’len, that do not have something to teach.  What is it about?”

“Poems,” she said without pronouncing the ‘e’, approaching him with one last glance over her shoulder.  Her Dalish dress of brightly patterned, hand-woven cloth was rather dusty; she’d been digging through the depths of the shelves again.  “Is Dor’an mad?”

“No, da’len, he enjoys being exasperated.  That means frustrated.”

She shot him a look so dubiously suspicious that Solas had to stifle a laugh.  Adaia shook her head at him soberly, chin-length brown hair swinging.  Her voice was dictating but patient, as if he’d said something foolish.  “People don’t like being mad.”

“Everyone is different.  In this case, though, I believe he likes to pretend to be mad.  Do you like the poems?”  He took the book as she handed it to him, examining it with curiosity.  Verses of Nature; he knew instantly why she’d chosen it.  Ada had a particular fascination with insects and plants.  The little one leaned against the arm of his chair, arms barely able to reach to fold atop it.  

Adaia rested her chin in the hollow between her arms and chest, staring up at him with a penetrating air.  “No,” she admitted with a charming frankness.  “I like books about bones and mushrooms but there arn’t anymore. The poemtry don’t make sense.  D’you like poems?”

“Poetry,” he corrected out of habit, but didn’t correct her grammar.  Solas carefully opened the aged book, holding it so both he and the small child could look at it together.  It seemed to be a collection of nature poetry.  “Well, it may not be about bones, but butterflies and waterfalls.  Those are interesting things as well, da’len.”

“Where are the butterflies?”

“In the poem it says they are on the flowers, do you see?”  Solas asked, pointing to the stanza.  

“No.”  Frustration touched her voice and expression, and the little one gave a small huff, lips pursing mulishly.  “Not no seeing.  I see it.  The butterflies are dancing on the– the…”

“Roseate,” Solas supplied.  He took a moment to consider his audience, and then chose his explanation.  “Which means pink.  Pink like the dawn.  Do you understand what I mean by that?”

“Yes,” she dismissed.  Still, she repeated the word as if imprinting it on her memory.  Which, knowing Adaia, she was.  “Rosey-ate blooms.  Blooms means flowers.  Pink flowers.  It don’t say where.”

“You wish to know where the butterflies can be found?” he asked, understanding dawning.  When she nodded ferociously, he smiled.  “This is a poetry book, da’len.  It is for learning about feelings, not learning where to find butterflies.”

Owlish amber eyes stared at him with a gaze as penetrating as a dagger.  “Why?”

Once again faced with the eternal question, Solas sympathized with Dorian’s hasty retreat.  He knew the Tevinter mage was exceedingly fond of the serious, inquisitive girl, so she must have been at it for quite some time.  “Do you remember when your siblings were babies, da’len?  Did they often cry?”

“Mamae says babies are learning the world. It’s scary an’ new.  That’s why they cry.”

“What an excellent way to put it!” he agreed, not surprised that Inquisitor Mahariel had so concisely explained things to her daughter.  He had watched the way she spoke to her children, and it was much the same way she spoke to adults– simple, concise, and to the point.  “As we grow older, we learn there are many, many more things in the world than we ever knew.  There will always be new things to learn.”

Ada shot him a dubious look.  “Even Hahren?”

“Even Hahren,” he reassured her, finding that more true by the day.  “When you learn something new, do you like to share it with people?” He asked, already knowing the answer that her sturdy nod affirmed.  “When people feel things, they also like to share them.  That is what poems are for.”

“An’ babies?”

“When a baby is born, it only knows to cry when it is feeling new things, yes?”

“Yes,” Adaia said with a tinge of disgust.  She shook her head with a roll of her eyes, in a rather impressive mimicry of her father Darian.  “One time, one time Tamlen fell, but he wan’t hurt, an’ he cried anyways.  Cried an’ cried.”

“What did your parent do?” he inquired, rather than drawing her away from that tangent.

“Papa,” she corrected him firmly.  “He picked up Tamlen an’ he threw him in the air.”

It wasn’t the point he had been intending to make, but the da’len was, after all, only six years old, and there were limitations to a child’s comprehension.  “By throwing him in the air it made him happy.  Does looking at butterflies make you happy?”

Adaia’s lips pursed into a line as she seriously considered his question.  Her hands reached out, and she took the book from him again.  Solas relinquished it in silence, the pages rustling as Ada flipped through them.  He could practically see her putting together thoughts in her head, fitting together the pieces of their discussion into a wholly new conclusion.  It was a fascinating thing.

Granted, often the conclusion she came to…

“Poems are for reading when you crying,” she decided.

…was vastly different from the one he would expect.

“At times,” he agreed, fighting back the urge to try and explain the nuance to her.

“An’ you cry because things are un’aspected,” she finished.

Well.

That was a more insightful statement than he was anticipating.  “Yes.  When you feel new things, writing or reading a poem can help you learn about those feelings.  Do you understand?”

“I already know butterflies,” she decided, closing the book emphatically.  “It’s not un’aspected.”

“But do you know how to say how you feel when you see a butterfly?  Could you write a poem to tell me how you feel about butterflies?”

“Happy,” she said, closing the book emphatically.  “There!”

“Hmm?”

“There I said it,” Adaia declared, standing on her tip-toes to drop the book on his desk.  She dusted off her hands, and then thumped her fists on her hips.  “It’s easy, Hahren.”

Solas chuckled, amused.  “But could you say it in a poem, da’len?”

Ada stared at him, and then abruptly turned and bolted out of the rotunda, bare feet slapping across the floor.  In confusion, he watched the colorful little blur disappear.  Well.  Perhaps she’d tired of the conversation.  It had never happened before, but he supposed there was a first time for everything.

With a glance at the book of poetry, he went back to his own reading, shaking his head lightly.

He could not help but feel he’d done a poor job of explaining himself.

Solas had thought that was the end of the conversation, but after dinner a messy, wrinkled piece of paper had been left on his desk.  It appeared to have been written in charcoal, and a great many words had been smudged by a small hand.  Still, it was legible enough, and all the words were spelled correctly– likely someone had helped her.

It read:

There are butterflies in Amaranthine

They are white and some are blue

Daddy and Papa took me up up up the mountain

The butterflies are not here

The sky is blue

The clouds are white

I am only a little sad because

I can see the butterfly colors in the sky

There are no fireflies in the mountain

At night there are stars

So I will not cry

Solas read it over several times.  Strange, the sudden uneasiness he felt from the child’s simple, bare words.  It was an echo of the pain of many a long and sleepless night, thinking of what must be done, and what was to come for him, for this world...  

And for the shadows that remained.

A child’s innocent verse about missing butterflies should not rouse such emotion within him.  Unwilling to examine his own feelings, he put it away.  Still, it haunted him, and he went outside to clear his head in the night air, he stared at the stars that flickered in the darkness and thought of the shadows.  The echoes.

He felt things he was unwilling to feel.

Unexpected things.

I observed his profile with measured confidence and asked again, “Who am I trying to fool? The god who knows everything?” I reluctantly lowered the jar of honey to rest on a nearby shelf, the last thing I would want to happen is to drop my father’s labors, lest a confrontation erupts.

Solas released the amulet, glanced at his hand, specifically the constellation he had embedded into it, and flexed it.

“This act you parade. It is unbecoming of the one who gave my wolf shape.” He grabbed my right hand and pushed his marked palm into mine. He searched my eyes, “A curious finger trespassed into crimson paint. One which did not belong to me.” He withdrew his palm methodically, his long digits lingering on the fold of my index finger. “I did not know you had an affinity for murals as well.”

“No,” I affirmed. “I don’t know.” I had nothing left to lose. Lying felt easier than cowering to the truth. I wouldn’t allow him one more win. Even if the biggest lie was made to that of myself, I would throw it back in his face and rub it in for good measure.

As he pulled away, I dug my nails into his wrist and held it aloft. “I thought you said the Vallaslin is the mark of a slave? To which god do you worship in this graveyard of stars?” I sneered, shaking his arm for emphasis.

"I am bound to no one.” He growled, yanking his arm back.

“You are a slave to your purpose, to your pride, to your wolf you keep shrouded in the Fade. Am I the one pretending? Or is it you ?”

“You didn’t fool me with the sex, Moon’Hwa, nor with your false concern. Tell me, when you failed to kill me with the scissors, was that merely cowardice or did you drown in your own facade? I am not the fool here.”

All rebuttals fled from the vengeance of my mind, and any words left behind clotted in my throat, instead I was left with a stewing pot of rage with nowhere to direct it. I could only offer him my quaking closed fists.  

Solas waited, expectation pulling at his stony frown. He wrapped the excess of the blindfold around his arm and held the other end with his left. “There are…concepts that should remain unknown to you. For your own sake, and for mine .” The last word framed with a fragilely constructed sigh.

“What is left out there to maim my opinion of you?” I murmured, biting my cheek to suppress anything else born out of my rage.

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Anyways having them read lines from my story brings forth the absolute joy. I am so grateful to the both of them for amusing my little dreams. These two have no idea but they are my guiding light out of this prevailing dark tunnel. I never knew grief could be so overwhelming. But these little lines remind me of what I could be again. That there is still joy to be found in all this ruin and darkness.