His name is Solas. His name is Fen Harel. I call him friend and mentor. He calls me Cole.
I watch him, his self unknown to our companions. His hand outstretched towards Inquisitor Lavellan, his long fingers searching hers; soft against his chest, teasing, tasting, tormenting. He helps her up the hill, green gabled glade glowing with candlelight dancing along the walls of her Skyhold chambers.
He lifts, pulls, drags her against him, bodies aflame; slick and writhing sheets cast aside.
Silent prayers. Moonlight in her eyes. Screams of needs. Eyes cast down in union, grass under their feet cold and consuming.
She is, as always, innocent and ignorant, inescapable within his reach: while he is detested, demonized; defeated by her gaze. He smiles with a tilt to his traitorous lips.
He is wise, woeful, wondrous. She is broken, beaten, blue. She smiles as though he is the mirror in her chambers, every morning a lie on her lips as she laughs about their almost love.
A tear, a tremble, a touch. Solas turns away, again; as always.
His steps echo on the forest floor not as they did in Skyhold over her rug under the shimmering stars beyond the stone walls, but as they did in Crestwood after his confession killed them both.
His name is Dread Wolf. His name is Betrayer. She calls him friend. She calls me intruder, when she notices my presence meandering in her mind.
I call them lovers and liars.