AN: Solas leaves Skyhold with a only a few precious treasures and his memories
Rated: K, the only thing here is feelings. Lots and Lots of feelings.
Despite his threadbare appearance, he is a meticulous man both by habit and necessity. He keeps a precise set of well-worn gear in his pack, fastidiously maintained. Everything has its purpose and its place. He only carries what he needs.
A wooden cup. A chipped bowl. A spoon. A second set of clothing. A faded cloak which also serves as a blanket. A leather pouch of various herbs and sundries. A few precious lyrium potions. A frayed pair of gloves. A knife with an antler haft, creamy white and worn smooth with use.
He is as practical and efficient as the tools he carries, and has never had much use for things which are not useful. There is no point in getting sentimental over objects he has no reason to hold on to.
It should not have been so difficult to pack his belongings before he left.
The Dalish dowry tradition was senseless both for where they were, and for the positions they both held in the Inquisition. It would have caused quite a stir if the Herald of Andraste had walked into the Great Hall of Skyhold with a dead deer slung across her narrow shoulders, even more so when she dropped it at the feet of a ragged-looking apostate as a declaration of her love. But Inquisitor Lavellan was nothing if not generous with her affections, and she was persistent in her desire to follow the customs of her people in whatever manner she was able.
Small simple treasures began making their way into his study almost immediately after he had kissed her on her balcony.
A spiraled seashell gleaming with a faint opalescent light. A sleek red feather the length of his palm. A menagerie of various lacey wildflowers in every hue imaginable. A smooth round stone the exact color of his eyes.
Countless others found their way onto his desk over the course of their ill-fated romance, each a humble testament to her unwavering devotion. Every one was inexplicably precious to him.
The night he had returned from Crestwood broken and suddenly without his heart, he had readied his scant possessions for a hasty flight. He was not certain whether Coryphues' resurgence with his stolen orb or the Inquisitor herself would send him away from Skyhold, but he knew it could not be long in coming.
He had simply meant to reclaim one of his journals from the desk in his study, but he found himself opening the drawer where he stored all of her gifts to him.
One by one he took them out, counting them like stars. He laid them carefully on the floor around him, forming constellations, solar systems, an entire galaxy made of tiny fragments of their love.
He touched them reverently, these ephemeral shards of a life he could have had. If only things had been different. If only he had been different.
And then he put them away.
The flowers carefully pressed into a book of poems. The seashell and the feather tucked into the back of the drawer along with various other offerings she had given him. The little notes she had left occasionally folded neatly and placed out of sight.
They were all for Solas. And he was gone.
Alone in the wilderness, he opened his pack to make his meager camp for the evening.
Of all the things she gave him, he walked away with only four. A lumpy woolen hat, handmade, warm and hideous. The blue stone, smooth and heavy in his palm. A leather-bound sketchbook embossed with twining branches. And...a tiny wooden pendant, carved in the shape of a howling wolf.
'To keep you safe,' she'd told him in carefully lettered Elvhen. Despite the ridiculousness of protecting him from himself, he wore it under his tunic, close to his heart.
He pulled out the sketchbook as he laid down to sleep and opened it to the first page.
It was a charcoal drawing of Aili laughing. She was leaning forward as the wind blew tendrils of her white-blonde hair back from her face. Her eyes were alight with an eager kind of mirth, ready to be pleased, wanting to see something worth smiling for. She looked fiercely optimistic and indomitably happy.
Ten thousand years of existence and this was all he had to call his own.
He laid the open book beside him, briefly tracing the shape of her smile, remembering the sound of her laughter.
"Good night, Vhenan."