Note: Solas ponders his relationship with the Inquisitor and whether he should tell her the truth about his past and his intentions.
I know I normally pair my Eleri Lavellan with Cullen but sometimes I like to write about her and Solas - I think both relationships have a lot of interesting story-telling potential and I just can't decide which pair I prefer
Eleri's hands never stop moving. They wave and shake when she talks, swing languorously when she walks. She speaks a silent language with every gesture, a fist curled in anger or a gentle pat for comfort, a squeeze of the shoulder for consolation.
Solas is fascinated by her hands.
Fascinated by the firm pinch of her fingertips around a needle when she stitches together a flesh wound, pulling the skin into a neat line with quick, sure movements. Fascinated by the curl of her knuckle when she notches an arrow, pulling her bow string back until the feathered fletching brushes against her sunburnt cheek. He's fascinated by her slender fingers curling over soft palms when she dances, languid movements that coil and curve through the dense, warm air of the Herald's Rest.
When she bursts through the door of the rotunda she has that all too familiar smile on her face, broad and crooked, a touch wicked, and though he pretends to be engrossed in his book, he can't help it when his own smile tugs at the corners of his lips.
He pointedly ignores her as she strides across the room toward him and it's not until she's perched on the edge of his desk, her hips knocking a precariously stacked pile of books, that he raises his head to peer at her with a sharply arched brow. Her eyes are bright, her cheeks flush and he can tell from the way her bottom lip quivers that she has news she desperately wishes to impart.
But instead she waits, her words locked tight behind her grinning lips, and watches his face for some indication that he's ready for her to speak. Solas likes his solitude, likes to lose himself between the pages of his books, between the strokes of his paintbrush, and though Eleri is usually impatient, all swiftness and barely contained energy, she never interrupts him without first seeking his permission. He feels something tighten in his chest as she calmly waits for him, unexpectedly touched by such a simple consideration.
"Anything I can do for you?" he asks after a considerable pause, taking perverse enjoyment in watching her squirm. But there's more enjoyment to be had in watching her speak, her eyes alert and her whole body thrumming with exuberance. He's barely listening to what she's saying, some story about a stash of medical encyclopedias found in a long-forgotten loft, but he can't help but watch her closely as she rambles, his gaze drawn to her eyes, her lips, and of course her hands.
Her left hand cuts the air in wild gesticulations, punctuating her story with sharp gestures, while her right, her right hand plays idly with a piece of silver plucked from his desk, twisting the coin between her fingers, making it dance across her knuckles in an impressive display of dexterity. Suddenly she flicks the coin with her thumb and there are flashes of white as the coin spins, catching a shaft of sunlight that falls from the library above, until it drops into her waiting palm. He finds the movement oddly mesmerising and he can't seem to pull his eyes away as she flips the coin again and again.
Guilt slowly weaves its way into the pit of his stomach as she talks, her excitement palpable as words tumble fast and thick into the space between them. She talks with such ease, such sincerity, and it pains him that he cannot reciprocate in kind. He has come to treasure these moments, when it's just the two of them, talking and laughing, arguing perhaps about differing interpretations of Dalish folk stories, or whether Orlesian pastry is just too sweet. And as much as Eleri likes to talk, she is also an excellent listener and she listens to his stories with rapt attention, tucking them away like a child hoarding her favourite sweets. But every story he tells her is merely a half-truth, and it is troubling to think that she treasures these deceits.
She is so open, open with her thoughts and honest with her feelings. She has never felt the need for deception and he wonders whether she could ever forgive him for his. He never thought it would be this difficult to mislead her, never thought that he would find someone in this harsh and limited world whose good opinion would matter so much to him.
And she matters; she matters a great deal.
He makes a deal with himself; if the next coin-toss comes up heads, he'll tell her everything. He'll tell her of Fen'harel and the Enavuris, of betrayal and necessity. He will unburden himself of the truth, and in doing so expose himself to her censure. The part of him that remembers what it is to be young, to be hopeful, thinks that perhaps she might understand, might not react as unfavourably as he expects. She is smart, after all, and practical, and she understands that sometimes the right course of action isn't always the kindest.
If it's tails, well, he has been lying to her for so long that the falsehoods drip from his tongue with a practiced ease that sometimes unnerves him; maintaining the falsehood will surely make little difference now.
Her next flip goes a little high, the coin arching in the space between them, and she lets out a surprised 'oh' as the coin slips between her fingers and thuds onto the wooden tabletop.
He looks down and he cannot hold back the soft chuckle that escapes from between smiling lips. He'd thought he would let fate decide his future, let the luck of the toss determine the course of their relationship. He isn't surprised when he sees the outcome; he has always found fate a cruel mistress.
The coin stands upright upon his desk.
