For the first half of that silence Felassan watches Solas. For the second half he is merciful enough to avert his gaze back to the waiting canvas before them, but not merciful enough to change the subject and withdraw the expectation that Solas muster up an answer.

He begins to arrange things in his thoughts, the flow of people from need to need, efficiency weighed against balance. To carry swords and arrowheads from the smithy to the armory, they should pass through a garden, or stained glass, or the twenty trees those two buildings allow him. They have been running and hiding and whispering for so long; now that they will have somewhere to stand in the open, the view should not be so much worse than the one from slavery. The people will need reminders that the cost of freedom will not be their joy, in the end, and the life that's waiting for them on the other side of this struggle will have its beauties, too. They'll need —

"Ten instruments for every building," he answers without hesitation when Solas's answer interrupts, only half hyperbole and entirely pleased. Felassan has long accepted the shadows that cross his old friend's face as a necessary cost. To try to free him from the burden of being the strongest among them, the cleverest, the first to say enough, the name that sparks any confidence at all — there would be no way forward.

But Felassan still believes in an end, and so he still believes in cupping his hands around sputtering flames to make sure they last that long.

"If we recruit enough musicians, you can have an orchestra."