"Hurtled into the Chaos, you fight. And the world will shake before you." -Flemeth
A/N: Sahlin means "now, in this moment, present" in elvish. Thought that might clarify the chapter title a bit. (I'm assuming we all know Solas means "pride" … )
Not much to say about this one: Finally getting into some real (semi-naked! *le gasp*) character interaction in this chapter, so I'll let you get to it. Don't get your hopes up, though. We're still in rated T territory… for the moment.
Chapter Four: Pride and Present
"Solas released a breath he had not realized he was holding and fell back against the ground beside the Dalish elf. He had been careless, venturing off to dream and leaving the mark unattended. Leaving her unattended. Determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing—he forced the thought from his mind. There is no turning back, no running, he repeated inwardly. Not this time."
-/-
"But he wanted to hold on to her essence for a while longer yet, to wonder at her nature and to consider what it would mean if she were any representation at all of the Dalish."
Solas
Solas stretched his legs wide with each step to loosen the knots that had formed in his muscles. It felt good, familiar, the lethargy that tugged at his eyelids, the ache that throbbed in his arms and legs. Of course, none of it was real. His body was well rested, perhaps more so than it had been since before they'd left the camp at Haven. But the mind is a powerful thing and as far as his thoughts were concerned, he had not slept a minute, let alone an entire night. While his body slumbered, his dreams had roamed the Fade, remembering. Always remembering, reflecting on a time when the world had been right, when it had brimmed with potential and possibility. It was soothing to be able to dream again after having been lost so long in the present. Their travels had not left him much opportunity for the respite of his Fade-walking. And the absence of those excursions, that escape, had left him unsettled, an anachronism mired in the present of a world gone wrong. Solas chastised himself for the thought, for the selfishness of it and for the longing he could not permit. Still, though, it was pointless to deny what his heart desired, what it feared. If he could run away now, if he could return to his long sleep again, he would do so without the slightest hesitation. But this was the path that time had forged, the road that he created. And there was no turning back, no running. Not this time. He had spent long enough wandering through memories that were not his own—never his own. It was time to wake up.
And yet, even the briefest opportunities to walk among the spirits again, to feel their innocent curiosity, the purity of their fascination, had left him with a renewed sense of purpose; it was the restoration his soul so desperately needed. Thus it was with a rejuvenated step that he returned to the Inquisition camp this morning. The campsite itself was a small affair, but he had felt well-enough assured of its defenses to leave the Dalish elf and her stolen mark tucked away under the ever-watchful eye of the Seeker. It was only for one night, Solas had reasoned with himself, and the camp was well guarded, by men and landscape alike. The Inquisition tents were pitched under the cliff side overlooking a village too obsolete to warrant a name and the tree cover was dense enough that the glow of even a moderately sized fire would not have been seen unless one were right on top of the camp. And anyone who managed to get that close would have an arrow through the eye before he ever saw the tents. Leliana had chosen her scouts well.
Solas pushed aside a branch and ducked his way through the last of the foliage obscuring the camp from sight. The scouts would have already marked his approach. He had seen a few of them on his way up the hillside, though he was not entirely certain he would have noticed them at all had he not already known to look. Yes, the spymaster had chosen well.
"Solas!" the Seeker's hard Nevarran accent grated against his ears. No doubt she had already been warned of his approach; he was still a few steps off yet, there was no way the woman had actually seen him. "Thank the Maker!"
That last part caught his attention, though, and Solas sped his step to reach the little plateau that served as an outcropping for their camp. If Cassandra Pentaghast was thanking the Maker for his return, he was either still in the Fade and trapped in some demon's poor excuse for a joke, or something had gone terribly wrong.
As soon as he reached the top of the hill, he knew it was the latter. There were only a few scouts actually at the camp itself and they were all scurrying from one tent to another, some of them carrying potions, others clean cloths or flagons of water. Cassandra met him almost immediately, her hard features bent in an unflattering look of concern.
"Solas," she repeated. "It seems your … services are required again."
Solas nodded, mind already racing. Wasting no time, the Seeker turned on her heel and he hastened to follow. They crossed the small camp in a matter of minutes, stopping just outside one of the nearer tents. Even before the Seeker had drawn back the flap, the scent of blood and sweat had filled his nostrils. Entering the tent, he saw the dwarf first. Varric was sprawled out, arms and legs akimbo, bleeding openly from a gash in his leg and from another wound somewhere near his chest, judging from the blood pooled on his jerkin. But Solas's attention left Varric almost the moment he saw him. If the dwarf's injuries were that severe …
His eyes found Lavellan. She was half-sitting, half-lying against one of the corner tent posts. A scout had knelt down beside her but the Dalish smacked away his hands as she pulled the end of a bandage with her teeth, tightening it around her own arm.
"It's nothing," the elf protested through the bandage. "Have you brought the potions yet? Varric won't last long without—"
Her gaze found Solas and whatever she had been about to say died on her tongue, the bandage dropping from between her teeth.
"Where have you been?" she demanded, her voice hard and wavering at the same time. The Dalish moved to stand up, her dark eyes alight with fury, but the scout pressed a soft hand against the girl's shoulder that sent her falling back against the pole with a grunt. Worse than she looks, then, if a single touch was able to subdue her. That made up his mind and Solas moved toward the other elf.
But Lavellan recoiled at his approached. "Don't you dare," she threatened. "Not before Varric." Her words were breathless, and it was apparent she was using energy she didn't have to level her demands at him. The scout moved away as Solas neared, making room, but that only agitated her more. "I mean it, Solas," she panted. "See to Varric. He won't last long. I'm tired is all, and a little scratched up. Please."
"She dragged him most of the way here," the Seeker added. Cassandra had moved to kneel beside Varric, and was peeling back his jerkin to reveal a laceration that looked dangerously close to the heart. Solas gave the Dalish one last look; she nodded, the plea in her eyes apparent; and then he turned to where Varric lay stretched out on the ground.
Solas's hands were on the dwarf even before his knees hit the ground. It was not the way a Circle mage would have done it, of that he was certain. He was more efficient than the mages of new, feeling for the dwarf's life force rather than the wounds, reaching for the energy that made him him. It was weak, a pale warmth against the cold, sticky death threatening to snuff it out. Solas poured his own energy into the warmth, stoking the fire back into life, willing the dwarf to fight again. Slowly, he could feel the warmth beginning to grow as bones righted themselves and skin knitted its way back together, the energy growing into a hot fire that was alive and obstinate, cynical and lonely, sensitive and devout—everything that made Varric who he was.
Solas pulled his hands away and Varric came up with them, coughing, spitting blood. Alive. Lavellan was right. The dwarf had been dangerously close to death. Solas suppressed the feeling that was Varric from his thoughts. No, it was not the way a Circle mage would have done it; Solas doubted they were even aware of the practice any longer. But to heal in the way that he did meant touching the essence of that person. It was a necessary invasion and he tried not to permit himself to see or feel more of his patient than absolutely required.
"What in the—" Varric's eyes flew open and swung around the tent, taking in Solas and the Seeker almost simultaneously. He shot up as the memories returned to him. "Lavellan! Seeker, we have to—"
"I'm here, Varric," the Dalish's voice was weaker than it had been even a few moments ago. But her eyes were still open, watching them.
"Andraste's flaming ass, Snowflake," the dwarf huffed, falling back to the ground. "I thought we were demon toast for sure."
Solas was already up and moving towards the elf in the corner. She nodded absently at Varric, her eyes falling shut as her head dropped back against the pole. Solas pressed a hand against her shoulder, feeling for her energy the same way he had felt for Varric's. But this time, there was no warmth to be found.
His eyes shot open and he took in her form, assessing. Nothing looked wrong, but there had to be something he was missing for her essence to be so weak. Then he saw it. A flash of white where there should have been only the greens and browns of her coat and tunic. Solas pushed back the coat and heard the Seeker's gasp from behind him. A yellow-white claw jutted out of the girl's abdomen, just under the ribs.
"Maker, no," the Seeker whispered. "But you can heal her, Solas?" she demanded, more than asked.
Even Varric was scrambling to his feet behind him, breathing hard with the effort of it. "Blighted terror," he panted. "I didn't even see—"
"Get out," Solas roared. He needed to think. "Get out, all of you! Now. If you want the Herald to live, I need to be able to focus. Leave the potions and the cloths, and get out."
There was a moment's hesitation before anyone did anything.
"Do as he says," the Seeker half-ordered, half-whispered. "Now."
He could hear the others scrambling to obey, but his thoughts were no longer with them. He pressed his hands beneath Lavellan, guiding her body to lie flat against the ground. He half expected her to protest, but the elf was now fully unconscious. Solas allowed himself to hesitate for the briefest moment. It would have to be quick. There was a drought of lyrium left among the healing potions and herbs that the scouts had left behind. He pulled the cork from the vial and tilted it to his lips, swallowing it all.
Then, without wasting another second, he wrapped his fingers around the claw and pulled it out in one swift motion. Dark black-red blood came out with it, growing like spilled ink on parchment across the green tunic. Solas pressed his hands against the wound, feeling the blood, hot and sticky under his hands. This time his thoughts reached only for the wound; he felt for it, for the severed veins and ruptured organs. Grasping hold, he willed each vein back together, he felt the tissue growing, reaching, trying to be whole again as he fit the broken pieces back together. Then it was there, finally, a dull warmth fighting to stave off the cold. But he dared not give himself over to hope, not yet. He felt his own mana flowing towards the warmth, cradling it, coaxing it back into existence. It had been easier with Varric. He had not exhausted so much of himself on unnaturally forcing broken pieces together. It was much more natural to help the body to heal itself. But slowly, eventually, her life flickered back into existence. Then, almost without warning, it was burning again, alive all at once, stubborn and bright and full of passion, determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing, curious and skeptical and honest, and—
Solas jerked his hands away, embarrassed. His eyes shot to the elf still sprawled out on the ground. Her chest rose and fell in even breaths. Alive. But her eyes remained closed. She would be asleep for a while longer yet. She had not seen anything, had not felt his intrusion.
Solas released a breath he had not realized he was holding and fell back against the ground beside the Dalish elf. He had been careless, venturing off to dream and leaving the mark unattended. Leaving her unattended. Determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing—he forced the thought from his mind. There is no turning back, no running, he repeated inwardly. Not this time.
Solas was surprised by how long it had taken for Cassandra and Varric to stick their heads back into the tent. He was certain they were just outside waiting for some word, any word, from within. When the pair finally did reappear, they looked to Solas only long enough to see him beckon them in, and then their eyes were on her, their Herald of Andraste, laid prostrate at the rear of the tent.
"She is asleep," Solas said, answering the question they dared not ask. "When she wakens, there is still more to be healed but at the moment, it is better for her to rest."
The Seeker nodded, but Solas could see her shoulders sag with relief and Varric audibly exhaled the breath he had been holding. Their concern was apparent and it was not just for the Herald, Solas realized, but for Lavellan herself. The realization played on his mind, tugging at thoughts he dared not entertain and yet—
"I gotta hand it to you, Chuckles." Varric said, interrupting thoughts better left forgotten. "I feel better than new. You do good work."
"If Solas had not arrived when he did, Varric," the Seeker barked from across the tent, "you and the Herald would both be dead. What were you thinking letting her go off on her own?"
Varric leveled an irritated glare at the Seeker, but Cassandra hardly seemed to notice. She was still inspecting the Dalish's bandages, assuring they were clean enough, tied well enough. Solas did not bother to explain that they would just have to be undone when the girl awoke again. Let her have her concern, he thought. It was so rare a thing for the Seeker, it was almost endearing to witness.
"Last I checked, Seeker," Varric retorted, "the Herald isn't a child. If she wants to go off on her own, she can. Besides, she didn't actually go anywhere alone."
Cassandra harrumphed, making it apparent that, as far as she was concerned, going off with the dwarf was just as bad as going it alone. Solas listened to their bickering in silence, still curious himself as to what exactly had transpired since he had left camp the night before.
"And to go hunting no less!" the Seeker continued her tirade, moving away from Lavellan to direct her glare more effectively at the dwarf. "I suppose it never occurred to you that a rift could appear anywhere? That there might be creatures worse than wild rams roaming the hills!"
The dwarf, to his credit, did not so much as flinch under her glower. "It was her idea, Seeker, and she was going with or without me. Or would you rather I'd let her go alone? Besides, what did you expect? You heard Vale: people are starving. You didn't think that would get her attention after everything she's done so far? The Chantry might as well eat their words now, while they're ahead. If that kid isn't a gift from the Maker, you can sign me up for whatever god sent her!"
Cassandra rolled her eyes and threw her hands up, exasperated. "That's what we have scouts for, Varric! She could have died."
Solas grit his teeth, irritated. The dwarf was correct: they should have expected this, he and the Seeker both. Corporal Vale mentioned last night that supplies were running low in the villages. It was an offhand remark, nothing intended to inspire a pre-dawn hunting excursion. But he had travelled alongside the Dalish long enough now that he should have anticipated her actions. There were no hunters among the villagers; they relied on trade to get by. But with the war between the templars and rebel mages spilling out across the plains of the Hinterlands, fewer and fewer merchants were making it into the villages each day. The people were going hungry. She would not have let that go. Determined and compassionate. He should have known better.
"Look," Varric snapped, his patience with the Seeker's berating obviously expired, "I learned my lesson alright? In the future, we bring Chuckles. Happy now?"
Cassandra's mouth opened to argue when a voice from across the room silenced her.
"Helping others isn't really Solas's thing, Varric," Lavellan rasped from where she lay, her eyes just barely open, watching them.
Cassandra and Varric were upon her almost immediately. They had not heard what she said, had not cared. They only knew that their Herald was awake again and speaking. Lavellan moved to lift herself but drew in a sharp breath at the effort, dropping back against the ground almost immediately.
Solas bit back his frown. Cassandra and Varric made room for him as he neared his patient, but just barely; neither wanted to move too far from Lavellan's side. "You shouldn't move," he warned, kneeling beside the girl once more. "Not yet at least."
"Weren't sure you were going to make it, Snowflake," Varric cut in, interrupting any further instructions Solas intended to give. To his right, the Seeker added, "Thank the Maker you're alright."
Lavellan's weak smile took in the dwarf and Cassandra both, but her eyes looked past Solas. "I'm glad to see you're alright, Varric," she rasped. The strain on her voice alone made it apparent that she still had many wounds in need of tending.
"I suppose I have Chuckles to thank for that," the dwarf laughed, "and you too, I hear. You could have died, you know, making the man work on me first. And if you croaked, Snowflake, let me tell you: the Seeker really would have killed me then. So thanks for that, I guess. For future reference, I think I'll take death by demons over death by Cassandra. No offense, Seeker." Varric winked at the Seeker, and the contorted expression she returned might even have been considered a smile. Lavellan attempted to laugh as well, but the effort brought tears to her eyes and a coughing fit that ended in spat up blood.
"Easy there, Snowflake." Varric's voice was softer than usual. "Don't go breaking a rib at my expense."
"She needs more rest," Solas said, his attention on the Seeker and the dwarf, not caring to see what Lavellan's eyes held for him. Helping others isn't really Solas's thing, Varric. "But she should be strong enough now for one last healing. After that, she may sleep."
Cassandra and Varric nodded, almost in unison. "Then we will leave you to it," the Seeker replied curtly. She gave the Dalish one last glance as Varric wished the girl luck, and then both of them were on their feet and walking back towards the front of the tent. Solas watched them disappear behind the flap before returning his gaze to the bandaged elf stretched out before him.
Despite their weeks of travelling together, they had barely exchanged a handful of words since leaving Haven. What little had been said between them was never more than necessary, a direction in the midst of a skirmish, a curt request to pass the kettle from the fire, never anything of consequence. She was still bitter over their argument at Haven, he knew. A more pliable man might have offered an apology, if only to make matters easier between them. But he was not a pliable man, and he had no intention of apologizing for his temper when it had been well warranted and she too much a child to understand. Still, it surprised him that her own frustration had not dissipated after so long, and he could not decide whether he thought that a hallmark of her childishness or an indication of something more promising. Such were his contemplations as they roamed the plains of the Hinterlands in stiff silence.
Looking back at her now, Solas could already see the stubborn set of her jaw and the resolve in her eyes, staring intently up at the tent above her. Stubborn and bright and full of passion. He ignored the intrusion, pressing the feeling—the feeling of her—from his thoughts.
"It was foolish of you, concealing the claw," he said at last. Conversations were not easy for him, not in the way that they had been, not with the world changed as it was. Scolding, at least, was still familiar.
But Lavellan merely shrugged, unaffected, still staring up at the tent. "It was my fault Varric was even out there."
"He would have followed you whether you asked him or not, da'len." Solas spoke softly, as if to a child. That was what she was, after all. Among her own people, she might have been considered an adult. She had seen over twenty winters, of that he was certain. Though he doubted she had seen as many as thirty. A child, still. Curious and skeptical and honest. "Any of us would have." The words slipped past his lips without his permission, a thought never intended to be spoken aloud.
At that, her dark eyes leapt to his, holding him there, questioning. But Solas did not intend to explain himself. So he returned her stare, his own gaze tracing the familiar lines of the blood writing that marred her forehead. An aberration of the original mark, but so close she might have been—
"I am not the Herald of Andraste, Solas." Even dry and cracked as it was, there was a strength in her voice that did not match her marked face.
"No," he answered evenly, "no, da'len, you are not."
Her brows drew closer together, confused. Any of us would have. He should not have said it, should not have even thought it. Let her wonder, he told himself. This conversation of theirs had run its course; it had gone on too far already.
"Here," Solas moved to press a hand beneath her back. "Can you sit? It will make this easier."
Lavellen eyed him a moment longer. He could see the unspoken questions lingering behind her dark eyes, but she was too proud to give him the satisfaction of asking. He could see that as well. So instead the Dalish gave him a quick nod and grit her teeth as he pressed his hands beneath her, easing her into a seated position. Her eyes were glassy with unshed tears when he finished, but she had not cried out once. Stubborn. She clenched her jaw even tighter as he directed his attention to the bandages, unwinding them from where they were wrapped about her middle, and he knew it was not pain but frustration that set her teeth on edge. She was not fond of being under his care.
With the bandages finally removed and discarded in a bloodstained, mottled heap on the ground beside her, Solas set his attention on the worst of her injuries, the gash just beneath her ribcage. Even through the coat and the tunic, it was apparent the wound had not yet been fully healed. The bleeding had stopped, as far as he could tell, but her garments were so blood-soaked, it was impossible to be sure. He reached a hand to remove her coat, but Lavellan recoiled.
"I can manage," she told him in a voice he was sure was weaker than she intended.
Solas heaved an irritated breath, but he did not stop her as she grit her teeth and twisted back and forth until she finally managed to shrug the soiled coat from her narrow shoulders. But even with the coat deposited behind her and her face contorted in pain at the effort it had taken, there was little more to be seen of her injury than there had been with the garment still on. Solas pressed a gentle finger against the torn material of her tunic, peeling back what he could, trying to get a better view.
"By the Dread Wolf," Lavellan huffed, swatting his hands away impatiently. "Here, help me unbutton this. You can't see anything like that and neither can I."
Despite himself, Solas withdrew his hands at her swatting, taken aback by the curse. It had been quite some time since he'd heard the phrase spoken aloud and he did not bother to suppress the frown that creased his lips at the sound of it. But Lavellan had already taken his withdrawal as an opportunity to begin unclasping the lowest of her tunic's buttons. She would not be able to reach most of them; her wound would not permit her to lift her arms that far.
"If you like, I can call for Cassandra," he offered.
"Oh please, Solas," she scoffed, "I think we both know that's not necessary."
There would need to be feelings between them—other than an irritable dislike—to make this awkward, she meant. And of those such feelings, there were none. Determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing. Solas swallowed the thought. Her fingers had already struggled to release as many of the buttons as she could manage and her dark eyes found his once more, lifting a brow expectantly.
Solas gave her an indifferent shrug and moved forward so that his knees pressed against her thighs, giving him a better angle. A part of him, old and almost forgotten, lurched. His fingers found the remaining buttons and slipped them deftly from their slits one at a time. This, too, was familiar, easy even. Conversation, people, kingdoms, entire races might change over the course of a hundred or even a thousand years. But this…this would always be the same. As his hands slid across her chest to release the last of the buttons, Lavellan attempted to withdraw, intending to shrug her way out of the tunic as she had the coat, to retain that little bit of control. But his fingers had already found the corners of her collar and he held her there. Familiar. Easy. Her dark eyes locked onto his, suddenly uncertain. Slowly, intentionally, Solas eased the garment from her shoulders, leaving her bare before him, naked from the waist up, save for the thin band wrapped around her breasts. He could hear her breath catch, but she did not protest. Her gaze held onto his, unwavering. Stubborn and bright and full of passion.
Her pale skin was already prickling against the cool air and as soon as Solas let the tunic drop from her shoulders, Lavellan had her arms up, drawing them protectively across her chest. Whether it was the cold or her own modesty that compelled her, Solas did not know or care; something else had caught his eye as she brought her arms up, a discoloration on her wrists, all too familiar to him, and too old to have occurred just this morning.
"What is this?" he demanded, his tone somewhat harsher than intended.
Solas reached for her wrist, grasping at it, indifferent to her attempts to withdraw from him. But Lavellan fell still almost the moment his fingers had closed around her skin. She did not fight him as he drew her arm forward, inspecting the grey-green splotches that spread out beneath thick almost bark-like scabs. Too late, he recalled their first encounter in the Chantry prison, where she lay shackled to the stone floor. Too late, he remembered the way she had writhed under the pain of the mark on her hand expanding; too late he recalled the manacles biting into her wrists, tearing across the skin, leaving her flesh bloodied and raw. Too late.
For once, Lavellan's eyes fell, not meeting his. Ashamed. She knew as well as he that the wounds would scar. There was nothing he could do for an injury this far along. Solas stared at the elf before him: sitting there, half-naked, the blood writing scarred across her visage, eyes downturned, with her once-manacled wrists held between his fingers. She was a ghost, an image left over from the memories even he dared not wander. The shock of it jarred him and he released his hold on her wrist.
"Why didn't you tell me at Haven?" he breathed, "I could have—"
At that, her dark eyes shot up, glaring and accusing, and his words died on his tongue; he knew why. Helping others isn't really Solas's thing, Varric. The image of the ghost before him shattered, broken by the defiance that shone in her bright eyes. This elf was something else entirely, a creature who could wear the scars on her face and her wrists proudly, who could make him feel the inferior in their presence.
"Pass me the water and the cloths," she said, after a time.
There was no judgment in her words, no censure for his ignorance, for his selfishness. It was a simple request, made in a weary voice. She had made her peace with the scars already; she must have known, even in Haven, that they would leave their mark upon her, and she had deemed that preferable to asking for his help. And he had been too ignorant, too frustrated, to offer any. Solas handed her the flagon of water in silence and pulled the basket of clean linens towards them so that the cloths would be within her reach. He might have given her anything she wanted at that moment, so thorough was his shame. Helping others isn't really Solas's thing, Varric.
Determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing.
Solas averted his eyes as she bathed herself, washing away the dried clots of blood where the terror claw had been lodged in her abdomen only hours earlier. When she had finished, he returned his attention to her middle only, avoiding her eyes. Her skin was a kaleidoscope of blacks and purples and reds. Some bruises were larger than others; some came with cuts and others with angry whelps. But it was the mangled skin beneath her ribcage that held his attention. This, too, was familiar, easy. It was a task he had performed a thousand times; the routine of it comforted him and quieted his roiling thoughts.
"This may hurt," he said, his own voice a near-whisper. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her nod, bracing herself.
Solas pressed his hands against her abdomen. Lavellan drew in a pained breath, but she remained still beneath his fingers. The mana flowed through him and into her, searching for the warm glow that was Sahlin Lavellan. This time, he was able to find her light easily enough; it burned brightly, already battling against the various injuries that beset her. He channeled his energy into hers, stoking the warmth into hot, vibrant flames, directing its efforts, mending the worst of her wounds first and then turning its attention to the more minor scrapes and scratches. He could feel her body rejuvenating, becoming whole again: stubborn and bright and full of passion, determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing, curious and skeptical and honest, forgiving and decisive, uncertain and—
Solas forced himself to sever the connection, and his ears burned with the embarrassment of how great an effort it had been to pull himself away. Forgiving and decisive and certain—he wanted to know more. He should have thrust the feeling of her from his mind. That would have been the appropriate thing to do. But he wanted to hold on to her essence for a while longer yet, to wonder at her nature and to consider what it would mean if she were any representation at all of the Dalish. Stubborn and bright and full of passion, determined and compassionate, smiling and laughing, curious and skeptical and honest, forgiving and decisive, uncertain.
"Ma serranas."
Her voice was so soft, Solas thought he might have imagined it. But when he looked up, he found her gaze already on him, watching, brows knit over eyes heavy with exhaustion.
"Hamin, da'len," he replied. Rest. It was easier than trying to explain that he was not worthy of her thanks. But her eyes held onto his, not letting him go.
"The Dalish would hear you, hahren." Her voice was barely above a whisper. Sleep threatened to overcome her at any moment. "We are not all children." Lavellan's eyelids flickered as she fought to stay awake. Solas watched as her eyes fluttered shut one last time, finally giving over to the exhaustion. A weak smile played on his lips.
"No, lethallan," he whispered, "no, I do not believe you are."
But she was already asleep, lost to her own dreams. Solas slipped the coat from his shoulders and tucked it in around her.
For perhaps the first time in his life, the Fade-walker felt content to remain awake, to exist here and now with her, Sahlin, in this moment.