#weptlore

Emithas feels the despair he's carried (that has carried him) for so long begin to unravel. If he allows hope to take its place only for that to prove false, it would prove the end of him at long last. When the world rent in two did not, when he was torn from his home for a god's curiosity did not. "You were lost to me-"

Reunion, 941 Dragon / Emithas ( original character ) and Felassan ( @weptlore )

disco elysium // accepting // @weptlore

Solas glances up from the reports that he had been reading, up to Felassan who spoke with such surety Solas could almost make himself believe it to be reality. Perhaps in the music room of the Lighthouse, with enough time to weave such a thought into a story, Felassan out of everyone could perhaps make it reality. He seemed to have been rewoven into this space, not that of the Lighthouse, but of the waking world as it was.

His gift had always been that: to entrench himself into spaces that would not have welcomed him but could not help but eventually find the path to love and listen to him.

It was perhaps his greatest gift and also his greatest curse.

   “I presume that this should mean then that there is love for the future in this living organism?" he tries to keep the tone light but it comes with a far sharper bite. Solas doesn’t think about it for longer than a second, there is no anxiety that comes from the unintended tone - if such a topic needed to be bled, then perhaps it was wiser that they ripped it openly then "One of your particular design?"

For all his gifts, however, this one was Solas. Reality could be unmade and made again at the tune of Felassan but Solas saw no point if there was a better solution. It was not an easy solution and it poked and proded at the back of his own mind for all that he had missed and all that he had destroyed in that space. It was not nostalgia that spurred him on, that held his fog atop this living organism that dulled the colours and hope that Felassan could not avert his eyes from.

Solas had seen it too, seen it in a reflection of a large body of water and been so tempted by the possibility, the anxiety and the fear of something completely unknown and new, that he had nearly allowed himself to forget. And drown in it. To step away from the path that he had promised himself to walk.

Solas remains staring at his friend. His friend.

Solas’ brow break briefly, and a sigh is caught in the back of his throat as the missives are allowed to rest atop of research notes.

   “The present could have been afforded better chances, innumerable hits and misses alike, but significant less suffering were it not for my mistakes, Felassan.” he says simply, tone kept as measured as he could.

It felt wrong, they had had similar conversations in the past but Felassan had just awoken into the world as it was and Solas had remained still too weak to return. They had been different then, so different. Straightening his back, Solas pushes aside the thoughts and the hurt that there was no time to really acknowledge now. So instead he stands, offering Felassan another glance “I do not need to ask your thoughts of what the Elves of Orlais would have been able to achieve had they been better equipped.”

Had they not been stripped of magic. Of their longevity. Of their health and homes. Solas motions closer to Felassan, light eyes find his and then finding his own hands, considering them briefly.

   “It is not nostalgia that guides me,” that makes demands of their time and their lives. With a breath, his hand touches the side of Felassan’s arm, squeezing it softly “my friend.“

Should they not see this to its rightful conclusion? The world had been removed from the threat of the Evanuris only to be shrouded in a veil that had suffocated all that had survived their tyranny. Solas could not close his eyes and pretend to just be Solas no more than Felassan could paint a reality without the pain of the Orlesian elves. It would have been a fantasy, a welcomed fantasy, but a fantasy all the same.

   “I do not wish to return to how things were. But I cannot stay idle. How can I not try to fix it, not when all that I have taken from them stares back so starkly?” Solas’ eyes find Felassan’s once more and he is in earnest attempting to look for the answer. One that he can believe in earnest outside of the stories and woven realities alike.

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Silence endures in the wake of their audience's departure. The air hums with the thrill of adventure and simmers with faint frustration. Felassan's eyes slide over to him, piercing the shadow cast by his hood.

"You will have to use your words, lethallen. I am afraid I'm not fluent in your frowns."

Solas sighs as though he has been holding one hours, no. His gaze casts towards the fire, shadows dancing in the flame, reliving the practised memory. "I seem to recall the affair differently," he says. "You were there, to begin with."

"Was I?" Felassan squints as if in recollection. "I can't seem to remember seeing myself."

"What use are my words if you are determined to twist them?"

"Stories need twists, they're the one way to wring meaning from reality." He passes a warm cup into his hand, its contents swirling with the evening's meal: a meagre portion of soup with little more sustenance than the broth it was simmered in. "Besides that, they don't need me in my stories."

"They are as much your victories as mine," Solas protests.

"I mean, if they look for me in stories, they won't look for me here."

inbox nice things // always accepting // @weptlore

   “Student of Varric.” they almost snort at the words, but given the speaker the expression remains firmly in place. The book that they had grabbed from one of the shelves after examining the spine remains half pulled from the furniture. Brown eyes glance up to the older elf, a small, clipped smile offered as the assassin pushes the book back to the place that been just a few moments before “You make it sound so structured.”

As if it hadn’t just been another job gone sideways. What was the choice that had been allowed? Turn her head to the side and close her eyes? She had done that more times than she cared to, and now that the muzzle had been torn from her mouth and the blinkers had been ripped off? Perhaps it was short sighted but she found it impossible to not do something - immediately. There is a level of urgency that drowns breath and stills lungs - the sound ripped like a wind tunnel.

Each time she was put in those situation it was one step closer to being unable to be pulled from her vision going fully red. It was a dangerous place to be for an animal such as them.

A student of Varric, however, was an interesting way of putting it. Orla’s arms fall to the side of the assassin’s body, gloved hands resting against the neately tailored sleeve. Both hands coming to rest on the small of her own back. Upon realising what it reminded her of, she drops that too, turning to look up to Felassan.

There’s people dying. The longer we spend in this place, the worse things out there.

   “It will surprise you, I’m sure, but I’m not happy about this.” had there been a better alternative, Orla would have preferred it. To sleep in this space with so many of Solas’ allies still so close was an attempt on their life waiting to happen. Though, for now, Orla was far too useful to be killed - for now, while she had the key to a prison woven into to the lining of her stomach “or, as you would put it,” tearing through his things and home “teasing out more of this place's secrets.”

But it was foolish not to make use of the gifts thrown your way. And they were in a position where they could not afford decency. Or what people deserved or otherwise. Solas had left them no other choice.

   “I heard the Inquisitor describe how she saw this place” Orla’s eyes move from the elf up to the large ceiling. Dull and with dust hanging in the air, always a slight buzzing of static if Orla’s attention was to linger on a specific point for long enough. The shifting of colour like different layers of reality were being seen through a lense that was ill fitted for the job “and I just don’t see it.” a pause. Her eyes return to Felassan “It’s an elf thing, I think.”

It certainly didn’t look like what Bellara described, what Harding saw now that she had been touched by the lyrium dagger. As an elf blooded this place was not made for someone like her.

Or - maybe something was broken within the magekiller, or perhaps this was just for her. It was ok, this was not her home; she was not welcomed within it. Truthfully, Orla preferred it this way. This weird fade and the structure that a God had built once to house people exactly like her. Well, not exactly. Her edges were sharp - they had not looked for tools like knives except to use them against the opressors - protection was only offered to those whose soft edges remained so.

Orla could understand, she too sought to keep those that were soft to remain that way. Why break more people into sharp tools when she already existed?

   “Everyone deserves to have their space; a sanctum if you want to be fancy, and Solas seems the type to call it a sanctum.” Orla shrugs, giving a small quirked smile up to the elf “But, if you destroy people’s lives, even if they deserved it, this is what you should expect from the people hunting you.”

Your home torn for information. Bones broken to reveal marrow. Weaknesses drawn up in lists. Plans upon plans to account for circumstances. Names of cared for people. Asharen Lavellan. Varric Tethras. Felassan. Mythal. Which wounds existed, which wounds could be cut deeper with a knife and what could be done with a well placed letter. Where could she make them bleed the fastest - reduce risk.

Orla’s dark eyes focus on Felassan’s. It’s easy to be lulled into a light consciousness with the buzzing of static, the dull skies and the stuffy, dusty air. It might not be the beauty that others clamoured, but was comfortable - even if sharp.

Briala trusts Felassan. If nothing else in Thedas is true, that is. She does not understand world-shaking magic, but she will listen. She will hear what he has to say.

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there is a backlog, things he left in skyhold, things scattered to the wind - hoping to reach someone not willing to listen even if it costs everything. if one was to find those missives, those binders tucked neatly in a seedy bar of what is left of lowtown, what is left behind a locked door in the swan, or what the populace props up - is up for grabs. his will leaves no issue to the bulk of his works; some uncounted left to yellow in a vault.

cc: @weptlore

I hesitate to call it a position, as it is really a state of being, but the timing of today's discussion is too close to your question to pass up.

Dreaming, by the laws and customs of Elvhenan, was denied to him, held up as impossible, even. And for the sheer dedication and single-minded focus it generally took, it effectively was. Still, he learned.

In my head, what's described in Birds of Fancy goes beyond this, even. And while Ilriane slept, alone, half a continent away scouting out an abandoned temple, he came to Felassan in such a way. As the empire spiraled further into ruin, spelling an end (though neither knew what an end they faced), they let go the pretense holding them back. It was not an experience he'd had before, nor repeated since, a level of intimacy beyond what a body could offer, beyond anything he'd shared with anyone.