The Elder One. That's what he called himself.

It was ironic perhaps that she was who she was, and he was what he was. Elven slave; Tevinter Magister. It pleased her into the depths of her soul when she thwarted him and not only because it was the right thing to do. She finally beat one of those smug bastards.

She did find it odd that she didn't count Dorian among them even though he was actually there while she was still someone's property instead of being what she was now. And sometimes he seemed to forget that she was an elf; that Solas was. He'd say something immensely stupid and realize it too late.

Maybe it was different because he was trying. He didn't want to be that. Corypheus wanted to be a god, whatever that meant.

Solas told her something cryptic about "a true god never needing to prove himself" but she wasn't sure she understood it. All she truly understood was that despite her standing tall and being strong, she was so tired and she just wanted the past to disappear.

The only time she felt like the world made sense was when she listened to Solas's stories about the Fade. They were old memories, or so he said, the powerful ones that stuck through the centuries, held dear by spirits dreaming of being mortal. If only they understood how dirty and broken mortality was, perhaps they wouldn't want it so much.

"Why do spirits want to enter the living world?" she asked him once, talking late into the night when candles burned low. He'd told her a sweet, romantic tale about a spirit who directed young lovers into each other's arms as her head lolled back against the wall, legs curled up under her on the couch in the rotunda. Solas sat beside her, his fingers still stained with paint and plaster.

"Because spirits are the embodiment of mortal emotions. Without mortals, they would not be. And there is no desire more ingrained into the living than the desire to keep doing so." He cocked his head at her. "Have you never wondered why the ancient elves chose to sleep when the worries of the world overwhelmed them, instead of choosing to die? Survival and continuance is the most powerful urge of the living. Spirits reflect this."

"Isn't death better sometimes?" she asked, remembering all those times that the desire to survive was almost overcome by the desire to be free, no matter what that meant.

"I don't know," he said, his voice taking on a strange, far away sound. "I've never tried it."

Varania rolled her eyes at him. "I didn't think you had. And despite what the rumors say, I didn't die and come back either." She shrugged. "They say when you die, your soul goes to the Maker through the Fade. Have you never seen the spirit of a living being in all your journeys there?"

"Perhaps," he said, "But I don't know that I would have known such a spirit from any other others. I don't have any special wisdom when it comes to death. All I know is the pain of loss." He looked so forlorn, so lost when he said those words. It took everything Varania had to resist holding him.

But he'd asked her to give him time. He was hesitant after what happened between them in the Fade. She understood, and she herself was hesitating still telling him who she was.

For the good of the Inquisition, we feel it is best that this knowledge stay only with your closest companions, should you choose to tell them. The soldiers, the agents, they may not understand. It is not so much that you were a slave, but that you are from Tevinter. Look at the difficulty Dorian has faced, even with your support. We fear there will be dissent.

And that was that. No one was to know and she would keep living the lie unless she chose to stop. It terrified her to tell Solas who she was. She'd come to have such feelings for him...would he only turn away when he knew the truth of who she really was? Would she even be able to blame him?

"You look tired, Lethallan," he said, interrupting her musing. "Are you well or have I talked too long?"

Varania shook her head. "No, I...haven't slept since we returned from Crestwood." She couldn't even tell him why.

Hawke is my brother's lover and all I can think about is how I wronged him and how he's alone without his love because she's here risking her life to help me! And that heartbroken Grey Warden with the cold blue eyes and all those horrible tales of blood magic. Varania knew of the price of blood magic and Maker.

She wrapped her pain around herself tightly.

"Let me help you," Solas said, one warm hand on her arm. "I know...," he grinned. "Much about sleeping. I can help you find your way. You need rest, da'len."

"Ma serannas Solas," she said quickly, realizing the for the first time the phrases of elven were working their way into her speech without forcing them, in a way they never had among the Dalish. "But I don't know that I could."

"You can." His confidence was clearly greater than hers. "Come with me." He offered his hand. She couldn't resist taking it. His fingers entwined with hers. He lead her into the hall, only a few souls still awake at this hour and none bothering to note their passage.

"Are you going to tuck me in, hahren?"

Solas laughed. "Yes."