AN: I decided to continue this story.

Having seen Inquisitor left the room, Solas sank back into his chair. All the mirth, all the lightheadedness were abandoning him, no matter how much he wanted them to stay. A second ago he couldn't imagine his current moodiness. It was a feeling like when you stood near a great campfire at night, and you were so warm, that you did not remember the night's coolness. But let yourself wander just several steps away, and the warmness only lingered on your skin a couple of seconds.
Solas closed his eyes and let his thumb and forefinger rub over his eyelids, finally resting his fingers on the bridge of his nose. A small plaintive sigh escaped his lips. He had been right, absolutely right to refuse reading her letter. Two times he had refused her, and the third time he did not. Why? He could not provide a valid reason. That woman was always robbing him of his reasoning, twisting his expectations, and throwing him into situations he was not prepared for. Somehow, that wasn't all bad. Her constant tugging loosened his grip on himself, letting his true, guarded self get free, even if only for a fleeting moment. He couldn't say he did not enjoy it. But he couldn't say he was not frightened either.
Solas had to continue his work. He leaned onto his elbows, eyes roaming over his desk. Books, papers, brushes, pencils, a big ancient shard... he did not have the strength to recommence his study. His idle hand grabbed a pencil and began drawing on a blank list of paper, as if by its own will.
This was ridiculous. Why did he fret so much over that letter, a letter that looked more like a short note? It was not as if it was a well-written letter either. It surely did elven language no justice. The words were awkwardly put down together, and not once he was urged to correct her style. Yet he dared not to reveal his knowledge, fearing her inevitable questions.
Still, her words were flowing, vibrant with life, brushing his heart with memories of emotions. Her speech was not a memory, though; it was real and tangible compared to elven he was hearing in the Fade. Inquisitor used it, made it her own, bent it to her will, constructing new words with the ease of a native speaker. Arlathshemvhen. The Conclave. Solas could not keep a little smile away from his face. It was not the first time he learned new words from her. Resting the back of his head on the chair, Solas let his hand slide onto his lap, stopping the drawing for a while, and spent some time remembering one rather curious dialog he had had with the Inquisitor before.

He is sitting on a log in the Inquisition camp in Hinterlands. The evening is growing late, his legs are tired, his mind filled with thoughts and his belly with ram meat. This is the closest to the bliss he can allow himself. He feels whole, and real, and...
"Solas." Someone calls his name, the sound of it still unusual and awkward on their tongue, both syllables stressed. He feels someone sit down at his side. It is her, the Herald. Solas came to like this title. The Herald of what, he is not quite sure.
She finally finishes moving. "Do you believe in this... Eltu?" She asks thoughtfully.
He doesn't get her. "Excuse me?" Solas casts a glance at her; her back is hunched and she looks at her hands, mark glowing in the gaining darkness. He also returns his gaze to his knees.
"I mean, this Maker?" Herald explains, struggling for a moment to remember the name. Now, this is intriguing.
"Why do you translate Maker's name to elven?" Solas now stares at her, eyes slightly narrowed, piercing into her soul. He surely sounds more forceful than he intended.
She turns to him, surprised at his sudden reaction.
"Why?... I don't know. I just forgot the name in human language. I'm sorry." She does sound guilty, and he regrets his earlier sharpness.
"You did nothing to be sorry for." He assures her softly. "It is just... not what I'm used to."
"I didn't mean to offend you!" Herald pleads, her fingers interlacing each other nervously.
Does really she think she's offended his religious feelings? The irony of that almost brings a grin to his face.
"It is hardly in your power to offend me, Herald." Solas offers at last.
"No, I mean, I know it is wrong to translate names, I'm the first one against it!" She continues, emotions still tingling in her voice. Solas knows his curiosity won't let this conversation end now.
"What do you mean?" He teases her to go on. Well, isn't she a rare treat to the inquisitive mind.
"I mean I was always confused how they translate the names of elven gods to human language. You see, some names they translate, but they do not dare to call Elgar'nan 'the spirit of vengeance'. And it is right, he is not!" Herald casts a quick look at the sky as if scared of her own audacity.
Solas remains quiet and unmoved.
She goes on, her face becoming hot with agitation. "Some meanings are lost to the ages - Mythal, Sylaise, Andruil - and it is best that way. There is a god, and there is a name, and how self-righteous one must be to think he knows a god through the name!" There is obviously no stopping her. "Like they say Falon'din is a friend of the dead, but you can also translate it like 'not your friend'. Which is also true. Those meanings are lost in translation."
As they are in ages, Solas thinks.
"What do you think of Fen'harel's name?" Strangely, he can't hold himself back. You can't study someone if you don't ask right questions, Solas justifies his actions to himself.
She shrugs her shoulders. "The same. So quick to say that 'harel' is fearful, but the word is much more complex. Funny thing, there were times, I didn't get that Fen'harel and the Dread Wolf are the one. My mother used to tell me 'Ma tel'harel nadas, ma atisha'len nadas' when I was not behaving. So I thought that 'harel' was more like 'feisty, unruly'."
That is not what he's heard from the Dalish before. He takes some little pleasure in her carelessly expressed reasoning. What he would give to express himself that freely again. Solas is so involved in his thoughts that he feels her eyes on his face too late, when she is already staring. She watches him, taken aback with his keen interest. How long is it since she's stopped talking? Solas scolds himself mentally for losing his guard, turning his face away. Still, all this talk, is it the mark's influence, is it her own ideas, what on earth is it?! He can't find the solution.
"You didn't answer my original question." She remarks finally, her voice sounds slightly amused and moved by the unexpected intensity of their talk.
"Do I believe in the Maker? Why would you think I did?" Solas replies calmly. Inside, he struggles to calm himself.
"Well, you look like a hermit, they are the religious type." Herald explains her reasoning. But she does not sound sure of it anymore.
"Well, I guess, not in my case." He answers chuckling. A hermit, huh? But she does not leave, evidently not satisfied with his answer, waiting, demanding. She is strong, and not only physically, Solas muses.
"I believe in free will and open mind, and everything that is reasonable," he states carefully. Around her, he must be cautious, because even as a Dalish she knows much more than anyone in the Inquisition.
Surprisingly, she does not pry further, as he expected her to. She was not really waiting for him to confess his beliefs, she wanted to get the answers for herself, Solas guesses. It is not in his habit to tell people what they haven't even asked. Cautious, he must be cautious.
"Well, then I should ask someone else. I bet there is another way to see all this besides Cassandra's." Herald sighs. She sounds tired, and a bit disappointed. She has sought comfort in him, he realizes suddenly. That is a disturbing thought, but not an unpleasant one. "Guess this Maker is no better than our gods, never listening to those praying." She comments somewhat angrily, kicking some little stone with her leg. Then she gets up and leaves.

Even the memory of that talk stirred the questions in his head anew. Indeed, Inquisitor had made elven language her own, found new uses for it in the ever-changing world. As she did with the mark. Closing the rifts instead of opening them, cutting off the Veil instead of pulling on it. The Inquisitor and her mark. The nature of the relationship between them was a question that had been pestering his mind since he studied it in Haven's dungeons. Had the Inquisitor mastered her mark, or had the mark mastered her?
The problem seemed to have no solution. Solas had not known Lavellan before she had been marked, and the mark didn't even exist then. It was pointless to try solving the puzzle, just as a blind guess would be. Yet, he couldn't help trying.
Solas examined the drawing he had just finished. It depicted a tall slender female elf in a long, dark robe. Her eyes were cast down, her long fair braids fell to the earth both sides of her head, and her face only slightly resembled Ellana Lavellan. Her left hand was raised to her breast, the back of her hand turned to the beholder. A small shining circle was embedded in her palm, and a bigger, concentric one, representing her heart, was being filled with that shine.
Solas wondered if that was the answer he sought. He couldn't stop asking himself, what were the odds of a single Dalish elf that got the mark being not like other Dalish? Minor, faint, negligible. What were the odds of cardinal character changes under the influence of such old powerful magic? Significant. Minutes ago she'd told him she had not been eager to learn before the mark. And now she wanted, wanted to know everything, from human religion to Qunari customs.
Of course, it was the mark. It was simple, only he had been denying himself the obvious answer. It was not her he was attracted to, but a strange creature twisted by the mark, by magic, his magic.
Solas made a displeased grunt, his lips twitching in self-despise. His hands closed into fists involuntarily, his left hand crumpling the drawing. That sketch was certainly not going on the wall.
It was his Pride, all over again. He was being attracted to himself, in a strange, sick, narcissistic way. Just how selfish must he be to crush hearts and fates of the others for the love of himself?
Furious, helpless, weakened, Solas threw the spoilt piece of paper to the earthen plate where he kept his charcoal, and burnt it with the smallest fire spell. His ragged breath interrupted his deep sigh. He had his answer. No more puzzles, no more hopes, he had figured her out.
Or maybe not.
Either way, he had to stay away from her. For indeed she was a bright fire burning in the night. But he was not the traveler warming himself, he was the night itself, cold and unforgiving. And no matter how blazing she was, he would consume her, not even getting a bit warmer himself.

AN: Thank so much for reading! It would be nice to hear what you think.

Ma tel'harel nadas, ma atisha'len nadas - you must not be "harel", you must be a calm child.

P.S. I can't draw. But I imagine the sketch I described as something looking both like Solas' initial card and female elf card.