Author's Note: Because why should a romanced Lavellan get all the fun with the vallaslin?

Translations at the end.

"Which of the vallaslin do you think you shall want, Adhlean?" Solas hears Leas asking his son as they walk through the library up above, one evening when Dorian is elsewhere, and the place is mostly empty. By instinct, his back stiffens, and his muscles go tight, and though he tries to focus on the notes in front of him, he cannot help but listen in on the conversation above him.

"Aren't I a bit young to be thinking about that, Babae?" Adhlean says. "I know I used to get painted with mock vallaslin, but I never really thought about…"

"I'm aware," Leas says. "But it never hurts to ponder. Mar'ba'isa'ma'lin i'ar ely elithem i'melana den uan."

"Elvyr sul'na," Adhlean protests. "Everyone expected you to get Falon'Din and Dirthamen's."

Leas chuckles faintly, while Solas shakes his head and wonders what would happen if he said that Falon'Din and Dirthamen were, in fact, not twins at all. Not even brothers. Oh, the Dalish's collective heads would explode, wouldn't they? Perhaps not Leas', but the rest of his kind…

"True enough, but even so. Well, who do you think you don't want? Is that an easier question?"

A momentary pause. Then Adhlean says, "Not Elgar'nan's, I guess. I don't like that whole 'revenge' shtick… thing he has. Er, no offence to Elgar'nan, Elgar'nan'enaste," he adds hastily, and Solas rubs his temple to fight off the oncoming headache. "And not Andruil's or June's. I'm not a hunter or a crafter. Not Falon'Din's, being a 'friend to the dead' isn't for me—"

His father laughs a little louder. "You're taking this rather too literally, 'ma'hallain."

"But vallaslin honour the gods, right?" Adhlean says. "And we gotta choose who we want to honour the most. So, I mean, they're all important, but it's… not for me. Yeah?"

"Yes, of course. Go on." Solas' muscles get more rigid with every word that he hears, but—perhaps because he enjoys torturing himself—he remains in his seat and keeps listening.

Adhlean continues with his musing. "Mythal's could work, but I don't see myself as a protector, really… I mean, I could be one day, depending…" Another pause. "But I don't really want to be. Sylaise and Ghilan'nain's, maybe, but Sylaise's looks weird—no offence, Sylaise'enaste—and I'm never gonna be a halla keeper. So maybe Dirthamen's, like yours, Babae. I know I like learning."

"We could do with more of his vallaslin in the family, it's true," Leas says with another laugh. "Apart from me, only, what, your great-uncle-by-marriage on your mamaela's side, bears it. Most others are content with Elgar'nan, Mythal, Andruil, and Falon'Din, as you're aware."

"Vin. But I don't like the idea of having to sit still for so long, Babae. It's supposed to be painful. Why can't you scream? There's nothing wrong with a bit of screaming."

A third, more pregnant pause, and Solas clenches his jaw so hard his teeth might shatter. No surprise that they can't scream. The slaves in Arlathan weren't allowed to scream, either. There's a certain irony in the fact that the Dalish got this part right. "It's just tradition, Adhlean, though I agree it's silly," Leas eventually says. "Only reason I didn't scream when I got mine was because I'd already been through so much worse. Your uncle, meanwhile, had his pride to protect. I could ask Deshanna if she'll let me do yours when the time comes… She might not agree, but if she did, would it make it easier to bear?"

"I… guess so," Adhlean says, uncertainly. "But it's so far off, Babae."

"Just you wait," Leas tells him, fondness in his voice. "Melava juiroth i. Nea ishan i'vyn tuemah mar'elithast i've eolasas ra."

"I'm happy to wait," Adhlean mutters, and Leas chuckles again. The sound of footsteps follows shortly after, and Solas looks up just as they step onto the landing, Adhlean clutching a book to his chest. Somehow, he schools his face into a calm, polite, not at all thunderous expression as they pass by. Adhlean nods and Leas offers him a smile.

"We're heading out for the Cradle tomorrow," he says. "Are you ready?"

"Of course, lethal'lin," Solas says. "I will see you in the morning."

Leas smiles a little wider, and they bid each other good evening, then the man and his son head out into the main hall. In the meantime, Solas sits back and keeps rubbing his temple, his insides seizing up and convulsing, rage mastering him. At last, in one instant, he decides that he cannot stand for this. Leas must learn the truth, regardless of how he feels about it. Perhaps it is too late for him, but if Solas can spare someone from the slave markings…

He nods to himself, once, sharply. Yes. That is what he'll do. He'll be doing poor Adhlean a favour, and if he's lucky, his father might react to the news with interest and acceptance rather than rejecting it out of hand. Painful, but he ought to give Leas some kind of truth. The man deserves that much.

Or perhaps he deserves it all, some part of him accuses, and his gut clenches.

By the time Solas goes to bed that night, the tension has not disappeared.

A few nights out of Skyhold, with the Cradle still nearly two weeks away, Solas finally gets his chance to speak to Leas about the matter. (Or, perhaps, plucks up his nerve enough to make an attempt.) While Cole and Blackwall retreat to their tents, Leas remains by the fire, reading one of the books of elven history Solas had procured for him some time ago. Solas observes him for a moment, then inhales deeply and sits down next to him. "Lethal'lin," he says.

Leas looks up, smiling politely. His smile slips a little as he watches Solas. "Ea son, Solas?" he asks. "You look pale."

"Vin," Solas blurts, and it's not a total lie (though how much of a lie it is, he doesn't care to ponder). "There is simply something that I wish to discuss with you. Would you be amenable to speaking about it now?"

"Yes, of course," Leas responds, and he folds the book shut and lays it aside. "What is it?"

Solas does not immediately answer. Instead, he considers his words and how he can best break the news, so to speak. Finally, he sighs. "I overheard your conversation with Adhlean in the library, the evening before we left for the Cradle," he says. "You were discussing the vallaslin with him." Leas nods slowly, a fond smile coming over his face. Solas braces himself.

"But there is something about the vallaslin I have recently discovered, during my travels in the Fade," he continues, and the lie comes easily from his mouth. "I found out what they mean. I thought you might wish to know. As far off as his decision is, I would hate for your son to make a choice about his vallaslin without knowing all the implications."

Leas' brow furrows, and then he digs into his pack and pulls out a sheet of parchment, his quill, and an inkpot. This is his habit when confronted with things he wishes to note down, so Solas waits patiently, uncertain if this is a good sign. Leas opens the pot and dips the quill in the ink, and then he looks up. "You said implications? I'm not entirely sure I follow. The vallaslin are the symbols of our gods, and they honour them…" He hesitates. "But they are an ancient tradition. Did they mean something different in days gone by?"

"Precisely," Solas says, relieved that Leas seems more curious than anything else. Still, he swallows. "In fact, I am not even certain they mean what you think they mean today. They are slave markings, or at least, they were in the time of ancient Arlathan." A pause. "They are symbols, yes. But in Arlathan, a noble would mark his slaves to honour the god he worshipped. After Arlathan fell, the Dalish forgot."

Leas stares at him for a long moment, eyes widening a little and glinting in the dark. Then he looks down and frantically scribbles onto his parchment. "Slave markings? Truly? Arlathan had slaves?"

"That is correct," Solas says. "I wish I could provide you with more evidence than my word, but so much was lost… As it is, from what I have seen, Elvhenan had a very rigid class structure, much like modern Tevinter and Orlais. There were nobles, there were commoners, and there was a significant underclass of slaves, used for tasks most deemed beneath their rank and dignity." As he speaks, he cannot stop the bitterness from leaking into his voice. Old memories flicker through his mind.

Leas continues to scribble, his face betraying nothing of whatever he might be feeling. Solas can't decide whether that's better or worse than what he was expecting. "That…" he finally begins. "If that is true… that is fascinating. And scandalous! Our fabled Elvhenan, a land of slavers! Creators!" Then, to Solas' astonishment, he laughs. Loudly.

"Do you not believe me, lethal'lin?" he asks, furrowing his brow.

"I'm not sure if I do yet, but I don't find it hard to believe, if that makes any sense," Leas says once he has stopped laughing. "I always thought Arlathan sounded a bit too good to be true. Even the name—'this place of love'—it's a bit on the nose, isn't it? But that's beside the point. If it had slavers and abusive nobles who committed great crimes in the names of their gods… well, I never thought we were so different from the humans. This just proves it. Well then." Leas shakes his head and smiles, seeming surprised but far from stunned.

After a moment, he looks up at Solas. "Wait. You said you witnessed this in the Fade. But you've also told me before that the Fade offers many perspectives on the same events, depending on how the spirits and dreamers perceive it. How can I be sure you are not giving me a biased perspective?"

Solas' heart clenches. Leas strikes nearer to the truth than he could ever dream. "As I said, I wish I could offer you more proof," he says. "I know I often make claims without evidence, and this is only the latest. I can only offer you my word that I consulted many spirits on the matter and watched as many memories relating to the vallaslin as I could. They all painted a rather uniform picture." That, too, is far from a total lie.

Leas nods understandingly. "Fair enough," he says, taking Solas at his word as he always does. Solas' chest constricts a little further. "So… Arlathan had slavers, and the vallaslin were slave markings. Were they always this way? Were they designed for this purpose, or were they… corrupted over time?"

"That, I do not know," Solas says quickly. "Perhaps they had a happier past, but… I witnessed nothing of it in my travels. It is even longer-buried than Arlathan itself, if it exists."

"Interesting," Leas murmurs, and he scribbles some more. "So you tell me this because you do not want Adhlean to brand himself with slave markings, yes?"

"Yes."

"I don't think he would be," Leas says, and Solas sighs. There comes the catch, at last, if later than expected. "We are free, Solas. Ele Dirthavhen: amelanen or'laim'eolas, virevhen or'u'vir. Ele fel'alathe or'Elvhenan, i tel'sal juvaslasir." He murmurs the Oath of the Dales almost to himself, then speaks again, more loudly. "Whatever the vallaslin were before, the Dalish have reclaimed them. They mark us out from the humans, and they honour our gods."

"I know," Solas concedes. "For everything I have said about the Dalish, I admire that indomitable spirit." He hesitates.

Leas smiles, but continues to muse, saying, "We must get them to become adults, yes… but we choose the patterns freely. Adhlean will hardly submit to slavery by taking them, any more than I have. You realise this, yes?"

Solas looks away for a moment. "I do. But how can I treat them as anything other than what they were when it is the Dalish who cling on so stubbornly to Arlathan? You say they are different now, but you cannot pick and choose which parts of that society you wish to keep."

Again to his surprise, Leas chuckles. He lays aside his parchment and quill as Solas returns his gaze to him. "A very fine point. And I have often wondered where so many of our traditions came from, and whether they did not indeed have an origin in something that we would prefer to forget or chose to forget to make Arlathan seem better. It has not made me popular, I can assure you, questioning the truth of everything we hold sacred. But I say they have changed, along with everything else about us—by necessity. We went from an empire to slavery, from slavery to a kingdom, from a kingdom to forced wandering: that is change. And it is no surprise that our traditions changed with these transitions and that we got things muddled up in our attempts to rediscover the past. But we have a present as much as we have a past, and in our present, the vallaslin are ours. Do you understand?"

Solas lets out another sigh. "You make a fine point," he admits reluctantly. Part of him wonders if he would have accepted that argument from Iselen, or from any other Dalish who has not done the same level of thinking and questioning that Leas has. (And indeed, hearing of said thinking and questioning is enough to warm him to the man even more than events already have over the past year.) "But I, personally, cannot see the vallaslin as anything other than the brands they were, nor the Dalish culture as anything less than a remnant."

"It is in large part a remnant, if only because we hold so tightly to the past, to the exclusion of our present and future," Leas agrees. Solas relaxes slightly. "But we have the right to the past, after all else was taken from us. And we possess a living, breathing culture outside of that remnant. We have so many new traditions of our own, new positions, new everything. I would be happy to share them with you or to take you to my clan after this is over and let you observe it for yourself. As obsessed as we are, there is more to us than our history," he continues, eyes gleaming as he defends his people. "I promise you. Please, Solas, do not let your encounters with other Dalish colour your image of all of us. Like the humans and the ancient elves, we are more complicated than that."

Another excellent argument, one to which Solas has little rebuttal. "I suppose that is true," he says. "If I dislike how the Dalish whitewash and romanticise the elves of Arlathan, then I myself cannot reduce the Dalish to their focus on the past. You are correct. I only wished to tell you this so your son might have some idea of what he will be bearing. That you might have some idea."

Leas nods, smiling more broadly. "And I thank you for it, truly. This was enlightening. But you understand that Adhlean must take the path that is best for him in the present, that holds true to what we value right now."

Again reluctantly, Solas nods. "Of course. I do not mean to presume to tell his own father what the best course is for him. But I must thank you, too. I assumed you would reject this out of hand."

The young man shoots Solas a look of mock offence. "Solas! You wound me," he chides, grinning. "Did you somehow miss how open I am to hearing about our history? How willing I am to accept even the unpleasant surprises? Aren't you aware that I'm aware that our ancestors were not perfect and in many ways no different from the humans?"

It is Solas' turn to chuckle. "Ir abelas," he says, offering Leas a small smile of his own. "You are right. You have shown a willingness to learn that has often surprised me. Most people—human or Dalish—refuse to hear of anything that does not fit their preconceptions, but you, lethal'lin, will question even the vallaslin. It is refreshing. If I forgot, it is perhaps because I have spent too much time around Iselen."

Leas throws his head back and lets out another laugh. "Then you're forgiven," he says with a grin. "My brother is quite a personality, I know. Such a stereotype. But we're not all like him!"

"No, of course not. I suppose I thought even you would have your limits and would not wish to hear such truths about your vallaslin."

Leas shakes his head and stares into the fire, still beaming. "Not to reiterate the point, but the historical truth differs from what they are now," he says, and Solas refrains from arguing again. No need to go around in circles. "And, honestly, anything that helps fill in the gaps is fine in my book, even if it's not what I was expecting to hear. And I suspect seeing the looks on Deshanna and everyone's faces when I tell them this will be worth the surprise!" He cracks up again, and Solas stares at him disbelievingly and wonders, for a moment, if the man has a death wish. Or if he's insane. Or both.

"I'm surprised you find this so amusing. Doesn't it bother you that the ancient elves had slaves?"

Leas sobers, and there is silence for a time as he considers. Then he says, slowly, "Not especially. It's unfortunate, but we can't change the past. And why should it surprise me that our ancestors had some atrocities to their name? Everyone does, sad though I am to say it."

A refreshingly sensible attitude. "Very true," Solas says. "I wish others perceived things as clearly as you did."

"Perhaps they will, in time. You never know."

"Perhaps," Solas says, and he hopes that that is true even as he knows that it is not. Let him be wrong, let him be wrong…

"In any case," Leas says, putting his things back into his pack and standing up, "I think it's time we went to bed. It's a long journey ahead tomorrow." He extinguishes the last of the fire with a wave of his hand, and Solas stands as well. In the dark, their eyes glint, and Solas can just make out Leas smiling at him, as if he hasn't just been delivered a major revelation about such an important part of his existence.

Fenedhis. He might call this man lethal'lin, but he will never truly understand him.

"I look forward to seeing what lies at the end," Solas tells him, and that is also no lie.

Leas' smile widens into a grin. "Me too. I wonder if there'll be any more earth-shattering revelations there. I hope there are… Poor Iselen, I fear his head might explode. In any event… on nydha, hahren," he says, and he gives Solas an affectionate, even thankful, pat on the shoulder.

"Son era, lethal'lin," Solas says, returning the smile. He turns and heads into his tent, and as he strips and lies down for the night, he hopes that there are other Dalish out there who will react as well as Leas has. More than that, he hopes that when this information is disseminated among them, it might spur some of them to carve out a future rather than continuing to cling onto the past. They do possess an indomitable spirit: surely they could succeed at anything they put their minds to that is within the bounds of reason, as carving a future is. And it would be better than the alternative.

Let me be wrong, he thinks, as he has so often done lately, though he still sees no option other than the one he has always had. It had not filled him with dread before, but now…

Now he wonders, and the wondering carries him into sleep and beyond.

Translations

"Mar'ba'isa'ma'lin i'ar ely elithem i'melana den uan.": "Your uncle and I had chosen by the time we were nine."

"Elvyr sul'na.": "Easy for you."

"Melava juiroth i. Nea ishan i'vyn tuemah mar'elithast i've eolasas ra.": "Time will rush by. You'll be a man and making your choice before you know it."

"Ea son?": "Are you well?"

"Vin.": "Yes."

"Ele Dirthavhen… i tel'sal juvaslasir.": The Oath of the Dales in elven.

"On nydha.": "Good night."

"Son era.": "Sleep well."

All translations taken from FenxShiral's Project Elvhen.