Author's Note: Translations at the end. Also, this is my first time writing from Solas' perspective, so let me know how well I do his character!
The moment the last shade falls, Solas approaches the newcomer, the Dalish elf to whom he so inadvertently anchored the Fade. As he does so, he looks him over for any signs of injury. Throughout the preceding fight, the man's youthful features had been twisted into an expression of great pain, and Solas could see no obvious reason for it. He still cannot now, but it could well be the proximity of the Anchor to the mark.
Before the Dalish elf can say a word, Solas grabs his wrist. "Quickly! Before more come through!" is all the explanation he bothers to give, and with that, he holds the man's hand up to the rift.
At once, sparks fly from the Anchor, and the tightness in Solas' chest eases somewhat as the green beam of light forms between it and the rift. This, at least, he was correct about, and that is some small comfort. Already, the rift is closing, but Solas has hardly a second to bask in his relief before a tortured scream of agony pierces his ears, and he stumbles as the Dalish elf falls to his knees.
Solas whips his head around, and he sees the man recoiling from the rift, face twisted with even greater pain than before; the scream rising from his throat reminds him of the slaves in Arlathan who the nobles branded with the vallaslin. For a moment, he stares, flummoxed—he knew the Anchor would cause pain, but he was not expecting agony of this degree. What has gone wrong that the man sounds like he might die at any second?
More tests, he thinks. A simple anaesthetic may help—But before he can get any further in that idea, the rift closes, and the furious sparking in the Anchor stops as quickly as it began. Solas drops the man's arm, and he buries his face in his hands, groaning deeply, while Solas watches. His chest is now even tighter than it was just moments ago, and he wonders what he can do to amend this error.
The dwarf approaches, eyes wide, and looks at the Dalish elf. "Holy shit," he mutters. "Are you all right?"
The man looks at him, face gradually smoothing out into a normal, if highly alarmed, expression. The fright is plain in his eyes, which are as blue as the sky—the sort of eyes they would write songs about in Arlathan. "I'm fine," he says, shaking his head. "But thank you." He looks up at Solas, then. "What was—what did you do?!"
Solas shakes his head, defensive though he ought not to be. "I did nothing," he says. "The credit is yours."
The Dalish elf looks down at his hand. "You mean this," he says.
Explanations are offered then, introductions made; the young man seems to be the gregarious sort and casts Solas no suspicious glances. Indeed, when Varric admits that he kept the Anchor from killing him, he smiles a broad and charming smile, the sort that stretches across his face and brings a spark into those brilliant blue eyes. Then he bows, arm stretched across his chest and all, while holding Solas' gaze, like a man who's spent his life at court and not in some forest somewhere. Interesting—Solas had not thought any Dalish would be so polite to a bare-faced 'flat-ear' such as himself, and in this case, he's not sure he deserves the courtesy. "'Ma serannas," he says, with a hint of what Solas believes is the eastern dialect: a Dalish of the Free Marches, then.
"Thank me if we manage to close the Breach without killing you in the process," he says as the man rises out of his bow. The barest hint of a grimace crosses his face, and he looks down at his hand again; the pang of guilt twists Solas' insides, and he turns to speak to Cassandra.
As they get on their way afterwards, Solas glances at the young man again, passes his eyes briefly over Dirthamen's vallaslin. "I am sorry. I do not believe I caught your name?" he says, and the man offers him another smile, every bit as genuine and charming as the last, while he brushes a strand of red hair out of his face.
"Ame Uvunleas Rahnmyathis or'Lethal Lavellan," he says. "But, please, it's just Leas. Everyone calls me that."
Solas bows his head as they head towards the bank. "An'daran atish'an," he says, and the man's smile only widens.
"I'm not sure it's peaceful or safe," he says with a chuckle, and the briefest of smirks crosses Solas' face. That is true enough. "Y mar enaste lan em lath'in'iseth."
They continue down the bank, Leas falling into step at the head of their little band as though it were as easy and instinctual as breathing. Solas watches him, and as they approach the river again—as the pain flares up inside him that tells him demons are ahead—he sees his shoulders suddenly hunch. It is only for a moment, but the movement is there, and that makes him curious. When the fight has broken out, and he has cast a barrier over the group, he comes to stand at his side, and he observes Leas out of the corner of his eye. His face is again twisted with great pain, in precisely the same way that it was before, but the firm set of his jaw and the intensity of his gaze marks him as one who does not intend to make a production out of it.
He is not injured. Is it the demons? Could he be… But Solas shakes that idea before it can get away from him. This is no time for such speculation, and the talent is practically extinct in this Age.
Once the fight is over and the pair of them have made their way down the bank to join Cassandra and Varric on the river, Cassandra takes a step towards the other side. At this moment, however, Leas holds up a hand. "Wait, please," he says, and Cassandra narrows her eyes at him.
"You are not in any position to even be making requests, you know," she says.
"I know," Leas says, "but I can sense something at the other end of the river. On my left. More demons, I think. We should take care of them."
Cassandra's brow furrows. For a moment, she looks on the verge of objecting again, but the pain in Solas' gut, like someone is trying to bisect him starting from the left, is enough to convince him of the truth of Leas' words. To distract himself from the first seedlings of excitement and alarm that have been sown and are now growing within him, he looks at the Seeker. "I believe he is correct," he says. "There are more demons at the other end of the river."
Cassandra looks between the two of them, then slowly nods. "As you say," she says, and she beckons for Leas to lead the way down the river. Unfortunately, that leaves Solas with nothing to distract him from the possibility looming in front of him.
The demons at the other end of the river, up the stairs, are three in number, and they loom over the corpse of some unfortunate. Solas observes Leas' face as they get closer, and there it is again—the slight grimace and the twitch of the eye and the way he sets his jaw that all indicate blooming pain. The expression remains fixed in place throughout the fight, and though he knows it could all be a coincidence, still, he cannot decide whether the feeling growing within him is tentative excitement or complete dread.
But he need not feel such things until later, he reasons, whatever this man is. He must have another distraction. As they head back down the steps afterwards, he addresses Leas, speaks of the Dalish and how they rejected him. He does not expect Leas to be any different, so when he chances another look at him and sees that his eyes have gone wide and shining like a puppy's, and that his mouth has twisted into a small frown, he almost stops dead. Compassion? Pity? For a complete stranger, a bare-faced flat-ear? Surely it cannot be…
"Ir abelas," he says, and though Solas expects mockery or sarcasm, he hears none. "They should have been more accommodating."
Varric seems equally displeased. "Can't you elves just play nice for once?" he grumbles, and Leas chuckles and shakes his head.
"I wish," he says. "The Dalish are often judged too harshly, often on the basis of lies and rumours, but… I don't have to ask where the accusations of haughtiness come from. If you heard the way some people in my clan speak of the city elves, Creators!" Another grimace crosses his face, and he shakes his head. "It's not helping our situation any. But that's an argument for another day. Point being, I regret the other clans were so harsh to you, Solas. I hope you see we are not all like that."
Solas is quiet for a long moment, unsure what to make of all this, unable to work up an adequate response. Finally, he settles for a bland, "Thank you. It is pleasing to know some of you think that way."
"Elven parents are the only things needed to be an elf, as far as I'm concerned. You don't need vallaslin or the culture or anything like that. But try telling that to some of the snobs…" He rolls his eyes, and again, Solas can detect no trace of mockery. It almost makes him want to hope—perhaps the man's words are true, and Solas only had bad luck in his encounters with the Dalish. But he knows better than to hope blindly by this point.
Cassandra, quiet until now, looks at Leas. "What about the elf-blooded—" she begins to say, but as they reach the next set of steps, the Anchor flares up again, angry sparks flying out of it as it did when Leas closed the rift. Leas lets out a pained cry, and once again, Solas' insides twist with the guilt. This was not meant for him…
"We must hurry," Solas says, "before the mark consumes him."
Moments later, the sparks die down, and Leas shakes his head. He offers them a pained yet, alarmingly, genuine smile. "I'm all right," he says. "Let's keep going."
A long while later, as they're heading up to the mountain path, Varric pipes up again. "I've never heard of mages being able to sense demons like that. Not from so far off, anyway," he says. "Even Blondie and Daisy couldn't. How can you…?"
"I know much of the Fade," Solas informs him, though he's uncertain whether it was he or Leas who was being asked. "Far more than any Circle mage. That sort of knowledge gives one… abilities."
"And yet knowledge may not be required," Leas says, looking back at them. "I know no more of the Fade than the average Dalish mage, but I also have… abilities. For a start, I can sense demons—their presence causes me pain. It's not helped me much before, not in the waking world, but I daresay it could be useful now, given the situation!" His eyes light up and he smiles again as he says this, but Solas almost freezes in his tracks.
Varric frowns. "So he has the knowledge, and that gives him abilities, and you have the abilities, but no knowledge," he says. "What is this, a chicken-and-egg situation?"
Leas laughs. "I've not the hubris to question the talents of a mage who I've only just met and whose work saved my life," he says, and the words are like a soothing balm on the rising panic in Solas' chest. Thank goodness, he is not looking too closely (yet)—but that was a near-miss if ever there was one. "Nor do I find it hard to believe that intimacy with the Fade could grant him the same talents I was born with. If they help fix this, then does it matter?"
Varric hums in agreement, and Solas shakes his head, mouth opening and closing as he struggles to think of what to say. He hasn't named it for what it is, nor has he specified what else he can do, but from this alone, it is clear—the man is almost certainly a dreamer.
One to whom Solas has just anchored the Fade.
Fenedhis.
Translations
"Ame Uvunleas… or'Lethal Lavellan.": "I am Uvunleas… of Clan Lavellan."
"Y mar enaste lan em lath'in'iseth.": "But your grace warms my heart."
All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.