Nearly a fortnight after Adamant, as they trudge through the vast, empty spaces of the Hissing Wastes in search of the Venatori, Solas considers another facet of the Grey Wardens and glances at Varric. Blackwall is there, and Leas too, but both care so deeply for the Wardens that Solas knows they will not be reliable sources. Varric, far more realistic, will have more to offer in this scenario.
"The Grey Wardens allow elves and dwarves into their ranks?" he asks. It is a foolish question, admittedly: he has heard of Garahel and Elior Tabris, and in a cave in the Western Approach, they found a list of dwarves who were Wardens, 'Paragons among Wardens'. Still, while Elior Tabris was a mere eleven years ago, things could well have changed since that time. There might have been backlash enough against elven heroes for the Wardens to bar them from their ranks. It is not so implausible.
"Qunari too, I imagine," Varric says. "They don't care about titles or blood, just stopping the Blight."
Confirmation of what Solas had suspected, though he can imagine a Qunari brute being a Warden even less than he can imagine a dwarf or an elf being one. Then again, being one of them would surely befit the savagery of the Qunari, would it not? Not that having Qunari in the ranks would improve the Wardens any—worsen them, actually. "A pity they do it so badly, then," he says, and he sniffs.
On the other side of Varric, Blackwall stiffens. "Would you care to repeat that?" he almost growls.
Typical. Blackwall is a decent man, but the Wardens always become so defensive when criticised. In that sense, they are as predictable as the tides. "Argue if you like," Solas tells him. "Your fight against the darkspawn is noble, but what progress have you made?"
"Progress—" Leas begins to say, but Varric interrupts.
"Give them some credit," he says. "It's not like you can study the Blight safely. I may not like everything they've done, but without the Wardens, we'd all be tainted by now."
That much is true, though Solas can't help but wonder if this world would be any better or worse if it were tainted. It is all a shadow of what it once was, regardless. "They've bought us some time, I will grant them that," he concedes stiffly. Blackwall does not, however, seem appeased by this, and in the front, Leas comes to a halt.
He turns back, and under the cowl, Solas can see the look of incredulity on his face. He sighs and braces himself. "Bought us some time? Is that all the credit you will give them?" Leas asks.
"Yes, for that is all they deserve, and I am being mildly generous," Solas says.
"You do them a disservice," is Leas' immediate response, while Blackwall nods and glares at Solas. "They are heroes. They deserve far more praise than this."
Solas shakes his head. Perhaps it is the cold and the emptiness of the Wastes, but something makes him less inclined than usual to argue. "Your admiration of the Wardens blinds you to their faults, arani. The same is true for you as well, Blackwall," he says.
Leas rests his hand on his hip and leans into it. When he talks, his voice is firm. "I am no longer so blind. What the Wardens did at Adamant was terrible, yes. But they suffered the consequences and are now rebuilding. Those who survived proved quite amenable to the concept of change. Is that not to their credit?"
"Not when the problems with the Order go to its very foundations. What does it matter if they are no longer so reckless after this, if they set rules for themselves and how they deal with the Blight? Their methods of handling it will still be crude, primitive, ignorant. They will still be fools, groping about in the dark, tampering with forces beyond their ken, beyond what they will understand."
"Is that all you have to say for us saving the world five times?" Blackwall snaps, while Leas himself also stiffens. "Your gratitude warms the very cockles of my heart."
Solas glares back at him. "You have hardly saved it beyond buying it more time. That can no more be classed as 'salvation' than briefly extending the life of a sick patient who is still doomed to die. In truth, it may be worse. Killing the Old Gods could cause more problems than you can imagine. Greater problems, indeed, than even the Blight."
"You keep saying that, Solas," Leas says, and his voice is uncharacteristically hard. "But you never provide any evidence for your claims. The Wardens are always searching for new information about the Blight and the darkspawn. I do not doubt they would welcome whatever you could tell them, provided you possess the evidence to back it up."
"Would they?" Solas remarks bitterly. "Or would they react the same way most Dalish would: ignoring everything that does not agree with their preconceptions, shutting down those who offer new ideas, because they feel safe in their foolishness and cannot imagine that their way is not the right way?"
Even from here, Solas can see Leas' jaw clenching, and his golden armour glints as he folds his arms. "Oh, here we go…" Varric mutters, burying his face in his hands.
Leas steps closer to Solas. This time, when he speaks, his voice is low, but far from soothing, far from friendly. "You judge too quickly, Solas," he says. "You assume their reactions for them, refuse to even try because you cannot imagine they would react any other way than the way you would dictate for them. That goes for both the Wardens and the Dalish. Have we not already discussed this matter, Solas? Did you yourself not admit that you expected more of us than we can achieve?"
Solas lets out another sigh. "You are… correct on this count, I suppose, at least for the Dalish. But what I would expect of the Wardens, they are perfectly capable of achieving."
"So tell them what they're doing wrong—"
"They will not listen," he says, well aware he's starting to talk around in circles. "I was wrong to tar the Dalish all with the same brush. But an organisation is a different thing from a people. The Wardens have a proven history of foolish behaviour, of going to extremes even when it was unnecessary. Adamant may be the most recent episode, but it is not the only one, and while the Orlesian Wardens may be open to change, I doubt the same will be true of the others. Do you understand why I do not trust them?"
In the relative dark, Leas' glowing blue eyes flash with the beginnings of anger. "You haven't even given them the chance!"
"I have! Several times! They fell short on each occasion!"
Leas shakes his head, baring his teeth slightly. "So you will not even tell them what they are doing wrong because you believe they will not listen. All right, then, tell me. I will listen!"
"You will not," Solas says firmly. "You are too blinded by your idolisation of the Wardens, as they are by their certainty, to comprehend that there may be another way."
For a long moment, Leas stares at him flatly. "So that's it," he says eventually. "You won't tell them or me because you think we're blind… but you'll continue to look down on them for their blindness and me for my well-justified admiration."
"It would not take much for them to see the truth if they could be bothered to put in the effort," Solas says. "And how well-justified is your admiration, exactly? For fools whose only solution to the Blight is savage violence meeting savage violence? They have done very little in the grand scheme of things, Leas, except buy us some time, and as I said before, that is not much at all. If you were more open-minded, I would be happy to share my knowledge with you, but—"
"Enough, Solas!" Leas shouts, and Solas jumps and stares at him. Coming from Leas, those words, and the volume in which he speaks them, are entirely unexpected. Before he can respond, Leas strides up to him and all but jabs a finger in his chest, fury kindled in his eyes and every plane of his face. This, too, is so uncharacteristic of Leas that Solas is compelled to remain still. "I will not take this from you! Criticise the Wardens all you like, yes—they are not beyond criticism! No one is! But you have no right to judge the people who have sacrificed life, limb, and more to save us all from the Blights for their method of ending the Blights and then not even bother to say why their method is so poor! It is absurd! Hypocritical, and absurd!"
"I have opened my mind to more than you," Solas says exasperatedly. "I see what you refuse to. I have every right—"
"To criticise, yes. Not to be so smug! You have never even lived the Blight, Solas!"
"I have seen it in the Fade—"
"No! Don't you dare pretend that that is the same! That it is anywhere near the same!" Leas snarls, positively snarls—there really is no better word for it. There is such force in his words that Solas takes a step back. His eyes widen, and when he looks into Leas', he sees an echo of what he saw the first time he caught him in a nightmare of Redcliffe Castle and the Blight: remembered trauma and horror beyond description.
Leas stares up at him, gaze fierce and wrathful—words Solas had never thought could apply to him. "You were safe in the Fade, Solas," he says. "Safe, at least, from the darkspawn. You have never been me: fourteen years old, separated from my clan in a foreign country, forced to spend two months running for my life from the only beings in the world whose sole goal is destruction and desecration, forced to take shelter in chantries and hide myself from angry humans and paranoid templars as if I did not have enough to worry about, forced to fight and kill before I was ready! You have never been in—not seen, been in—the mass slaughter of whole villages! You have never stepped over the corpses, waded through the blood, trudged over the poisoned ground as it rotted beneath your feet, or thrown up from the stench, which was so much to bear that even the crows got sick of it! You have never known the terror the Blight brought, the despair! You have never lived every day as I have: not so much fearing as believing it would be my last, so consumed with the terror of both the waking hours and the Fade—thanks to all the demons who were attracted to a newly awoken somniari—that sometimes only necessity could move me! And you have never seen the Wardens as I have: swooping in like heroes from out of old stories, saving my life and the lives of dozens of others, at least, delivering salvation and succour from both the Blight and the crimes of others! You saw it in the Fade, perhaps, but only as a distant observer: you never really experienced it, and as someone who's survived the Blight, I can assure you, that makes all the difference! You have seen the Blight, Solas, but you do not know it as I do!"
Leas pauses for a moment, cheeks flushed almost as red as his hair, breathing heavily, all but spitting with rage, and Solas is so stunned that he does not even seize the opportunity to speak. He is dimly aware of Blackwall nodding his deep approval off to the side and Varric standing with his mouth agape. "Yet you would dare turn your nose up at them and look down on them for doing such a poor job at ending the Blights while at the same time lording your knowledge over them and refusing to share it with them because you think you know your minds better than they do and believe you have the right to assume their reactions for them! That is, of course, assuming you possess any such knowledge and are not merely looking down on them because surely no one in Thedas who you dislike can be as smart as you! You allow me intelligence and open-mindedness because you like me, but the Wardens—and the Dalish? No, how could they know something you do not? How could they be right?" There, he stops, still breathing heavily, and he glares up at Solas.
Solas collects his nerve now. "That reaction is precisely why I say nothing," he says.
"Fenedhis, you haven't even been listening!" Leas snaps, running his hand over his face. "I would be quite open to receiving your knowledge, Solas, and so, I imagine, would the Wardens. If you can back up your accusations with evidence, we would all like to hear it. What I object to is that you refuse to enlighten them even though you possess the means to do so—apparently—and then dare to turn your nose up at them. It is like having the opportunity to teach a child how to read, failing to do so, and then judging them for their illiteracy! I will not stand for it!"
He might, perhaps, not be entirely wrong. But Solas only stiffens. "You would have to if you wish to learn," he says coolly.
Leas shakes his head and stalks off, throwing a hand up in the air. "Din'el," he growls. "If this arrogance is all you can offer, I will not hear anymore of it. You may broach the subject again when you are prepared to explain yourself." Then he walks away, and they stand in silence for a full five seconds before continuing on after him.
"Well," Blackwall says. "Someone finally pissed him off. I didn't even know that was possible."
Solas simply sighs and shakes his head. Much like Leas, he has nothing more to say, not to people who will not learn.
A shame. He had expected more of Leas.
The next night, before they turn in for the evening, Solas stands outside his tent and observes Leas near the campfire. The man's anger has faded already, though they maintain a silence somewhere between awkward and respectful that they only break when needed. To one only barely acquainted with him, he now looks the same as ever: placid, with a small smile on his face, hair immaculately groomed and armour polished to a perfect shine despite the dreadful environment. (Fenedhis, how he hates being around three such impossibly vain mages.) But Solas fancies he can see a hint of something darker in his eyes, and he frowns as Leas puts the herbs in his mouth and chews on them.
That is the seventh time in as many days, and the thirteenth time overall since Adamant. Months ago, Solas had warned Leas against using the herbs too often, and thus far, Leas has heeded his advice. Now, however, he seems to be slipping into abusing them. No, that is paranoia, he thinks. What happened in the Fade must have been difficult. It is understandable if he is tired of it. All the same, he cannot face his problems by running away from them.
With that thought—and the thought they will need to break this silence eventually—in mind, Solas strides over to Leas and stands next to him as if nothing has happened between them at all. "It has been many nights since I last saw you in the Fade, arani," he says, exaggerating for effect. "When are you next planning to enter?"
Leas swallows the herbs, and a grimace crosses his face. "Tel'eolasan," he says. "I'm aware these herbs can be addictive, but what happened at Adamant… I saw rather too much of the Fade. Experienced it in ways I would prefer not to have. I need a break, both from it… and from the nightmares."
"I understand. But you cannot run away from it forever," Solas says, gently.
"I know," Leas concedes, shoulders sagging. "I only wish for a break. Time to process things, unimpeded by nightmares and demons. To answer your question, I suppose I shall be there in a few nights, or whenever we stumble across a Venatori camp, and I've the chance to slay their commanders in their dreams. Not before then."
Solas nods, and for a few moments, they stare into the fire together. Then he glances at Leas out of the corner of his eye and asks, "Was it really so terrible? From what I understand, you recovered your memories while in the Fade. That you survived at all is… probably miraculous."
Leas chuckles weakly. "Probably?" he murmurs, and Solas concedes the point with a nod. "But it's true. I was very, very lucky: as I ever am, it seems. First the Blight, then falling through time, then walking in the Fade… Trust me, Solas, I'm well aware of the silver linings here."
"But?"
Another pause, then Leas sighs. "It was simply… being there in itself was excruciating. The more demons we faced, the worse it got. In front of the Nightmare, it was… you can't even imagine. I'm amazed I didn't scream, that I could even walk. I could barely think, I was in that much pain. And… the confusion of being there, wondering if we would ever get out, everything I discovered… the loss of Stroud…" His voice trembles. "In many ways, it reminded me of the Blight. It was a horror in every sense. Some… some strange part of me felt a connection to the Fade, as if my being physically there was natural—" Solas starts at these words, but Leas does not seem to notice—"but I'll be glad if I never go through anything like that again."
After he has finished speaking, Solas considers his words. For once, he does not need to wrestle with himself over whether or not he should enlighten Leas on that sensation. He will not, cannot—it would be too much for Leas to take, and it would give the game away. Best to offer him no reassurance on that count. "Ir abelas, lethal'lin," he says softly. "I would have liked to have been there, but you should not have had to endure that." He refrains from pointing out that it was the Warden-Commander who got him into that situation in the first place.
"'Ma serannas," Leas says. He closes his eyes for a long moment and blows out a breath, then looks at Solas. "I will be all right, hahren. I simply need time to think things through."
"Fair enough. If you need to talk…"
Leas nods and offers Solas a smile, small but genuine. It seems their argument is water under the bridge. "So long as neither of us mentions the Wardens, I guess. But thank you. I know you'll understand, perhaps even more than those who were with me."
Solas chuckles faintly. "I will endeavour to do so," he says, perhaps the only apology that he can offer for what came before. "But I assume that for the moment you wish for some time alone?"
"Yes."
"Then I will see you in the morning. On nydha. Son era, lethal'lin," he says, with a polite bow of his head.
Leas smiles at him. "Na tas. Nydha, hahren," he says, and the hint of darkness that Solas had seen in his eyes before seems to vanish. That is, however, the way of things with Leas: he is always so quick to pull himself together after great shocks and traumas, or, more likely, he is better than most at hiding his grief. If it has served him well, Solas cannot say.
He gives him a small smile of his own then returns to his tent, and shortly after, he is back in the realm that should seem as natural and normal to Leas as it is to him.
Translations
"Din'el.": "No more."
"Tel'eolasan.": "I do not know."
"On nydha. Son era, lethal'lin.": "Good night. Sleep well, friend."
"Na tas. Nydha, hahren.": "You too. Night, elder."
All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.