No. Not for her alone. And not without her, either. I...
[Solas' hesitation now is no thinking pause, no gap where consideration lies. He genuinely loses the thread of conversation for a moment, has to bow his head and try to find calm.]
For all those we have lost. Who died because of my— Because of me. And how many I killed, to keep to the plan? To heal the wound that I had made in the world. How could I turn away from them all, from all that had been done? I might as well have stayed in Mythal's service from the beginning, if I could turn so easily from my own sense of right and wrong.
[And true too: he could never really escape her shadow, even then, even ten thousand years later. But to hear her acknowledge that she had hurt him, and release him from the obligation to her memory...]
Even so, I could not have let go, without her there to remind me. What matters most.
[ Felassan is quiet for a long moment, in turn. He killed his share, before he came to that overdue and sudden stop. Kept a spy's distance and hardened heart, better and longer than Solas was ever suited for. Cut throats. Demolished friendships. Tolerated as much dissent as he expected Solas to tolerate from him. Obliterated anything in the way of a larger goal because it would only be a matter of minutes, it seemed, before time obliterated them anyway. Anyone was expendable. He was expendable. Anyone but Solas — then Briala.
So he does think he understands. ]
And what is that, hahren?
[ The lightest pinch of teasing, to push against the weight of all those pauses. ]
What is the point of slaughtering our descendants, only to restore a glory whose time is long gone? Let Arlathan rest, lethallin, for it could only have ever been built on a foundation of blood and servitude. Let tomorrow be built by those who come after.
Of course, there is the small detail that these children have leashed me to the sole artifact that maintains their much-cherished mortality. But perhaps one day I shall die, and then whoever remains shall see if they can do better in reality, rather than mere optimism.
In any case, I am at last free of the duty to care, as I am of the one who placed that duty upon me. The veil's weight will not break me, if that could not.
[ Solas may be ashamed if he likes. Felassan is only pleased and relieved to hear they are somewhat more closely aligned on this fundamental question than they had been, only a few short months ago, when Felassan posited that the flood had become the sea and was no longer theirs to change.
The rest he is happier to scuffle over. For example: ]
If you plan to accept that chain as permanent, my friend, you might want to leave me here after all.
[ He says it lightly. The threat is only that he will be annoying — so nothing Solas has not already proven a thousand times over that he can endure. ]
I fail to see that there is any more choice in the matter.
[Solas... doesn't know how he feels about it. It's true that he put the shackle upon his own wrist, and locked it tight. It's true also that he might never have done so without Beleth there to beg him to stop, without Morrigan's ardent plea for mortal wills, without Rook's guileless trust, or the final cruelty of Mythal's last fragment, refusing to grant him death, and at last taking from his heart that final tether.
What then, if he had been clear-eyed, and unpained, if they had not surrounded him with pleading and put the knife into his hand? He cannot know. Only, here and now, he both does and does not regret it, feeling both the freedom and the servitude in the act as an impossible dichotomy. His opinion changes by the day, sometimes by the hour.
But it is worth enduring, if only for the joy of getting to rest, finally. Of having Beleth in his life again. Of hearing Felassan's voice. An incomprehensible, illogical truth.]
But perhaps you would be willing to offer an alternative that I cannot understand. It is my wish to compel you to live, as I once did the opposite. If you are willing.
[ This is also lightly said. A natural thing, for elvhen to eventually decide they've seen enough — although he hasn't. He wasn't tired of the stars or the trees or the taste of roasted rabbit. He's certainly not tired of crawling onto Beleth and Solas in the early hours of the morning and helping himself to handfuls of skin and the warmth they've created beneath their blankets. That isn't the problem. ]
I've wondered what it makes me, to decide a hundred years is plenty for them and thousands are not enough for me. Of course, [ bright as well as light, now, because Solas has enough to worry about already, ] I will go anyway, if I can, and if you notice me becoming a monster you can write me a stern letter.
[ He'd even read it. He'd even listen. ]
I don't have an alternative for the Veil yet, but I will.
[ All confidence. It's not confidence in his own ability to think of something Solas can't — not here in the realm of intricate, world-altering rituals and careful calculations. But he's brimming with confidence he can be obnoxious enough to spur Solas into thinking new thoughts of his own, with time, or else he'll go find some ancient spirits of Creativity and Innovation, or he and Beleth can assemble a team of scrappy mortals with both practical and ethical concerns about the stability of their world resting wholly on the shoulders of one sad man. ]
[It produces a terrible pang in Solas to hear him say that. It would be terribly unfair for it to be true; Felassan come to the end of his long, slow delight in the world, just as Solas is at last beginning to live in truth. But of course, it is a joke.
Only a joke, and he calms himself while Felassan waxes poetic and foolish and optimistic, as is his way.]
...I...
[None are truly free until all are. Once, he would have championed that, and has for long centuries made it a cornerstone of his moral code. That it must be freedom for all, or the work is not complete... But. But, how to square that with what had become of him, in the end?]
I want to be free, I... feel the weight of it, that I am not. [Illusory as it is, he sometimes wakes in the night and feels it like a wet, cloying weight, heavy and breathless upon him. The Veil, his greatest mistake, his most terrible regret. So many dead, so many more yet to die, born to lives so brutally short...] But just the same, there is no one who truly wishes me to be free. I believe I know right and wrong, and I try all I can to act accordingly...
...But every monster believes himself to be in the right. When I am free to act, with only my own conscience to guide me, the entire world becomes my enemy, and even those I love most stand against me.
Perhaps it is better to accept the circumstances in which I find myself, than to struggle pointlessly any longer. Although, if I think about it for too long... Ir abelas, Falon, that I disappoint you.
[ It was not entirely a joke. Felassan does wonder. He does worry. Dying had been a clean solution to the dilemma of how to live in this new world that did not belong to them rather than only waiting in the wings to unmake it, the question of what to do with his hands and endless time, the impossible task of shedding some calluses without bleeding everywhere, and now —
It's set aside to wonder and worry about this instead. To ache for Solas, who has been caught between impossible choices for all the time Felassan has known him. Longer. From the day he was first asked to change the core of what he was to follow a friend. And to ache for his own part in it, even if he wouldn't take it back, and for the simpler days of wrestling with Solas about the details and particulars of achieving the dreams they shared but never doubting he could and would follow where he went.
He says, ]
You do not disappoint me,
[ and he says it in their own language, soft and rhythmic. The common tongue is second nature, now, but this is still first. ]
You know I have always loved to argue with you. You give me a gift.
Are we only free if we can do whatever we see fit with all the power that we have?
[Solas replies in kind, Elvhen flowing out of him almost as a relief. It is still rare and lovely to be able to speak thus, in his native tongue.]
How not? You joined with me as a revolutionary, one who would use his strength as a rallying-point, and a force against the strong, in defense of the weak.
[It was, in fact, something like your idea, Felassan. Do you remember that?]
Is that not the definition of freedom? To do as you will, according to what you see as right. To be stopped only by your choice to stop, by the physical realities, or by the actions of others.
If the Veil is to stand, it must have a living anchor, someone sufficiently powerful to withstand it. With the Evanuris dead at last, and the titans long-destroyed, I am the only one who could do so.
It is not entirely unjust: having once broken the world, who else should be the one to rightly bear this burden? It is the will of The People.
[It is the word for elves that he uses, Elvhenan, but the meaning could so clearly apply to all peoples. It was, after all, not only elves that met to bring down Elgar'nan, nor only elves that lived and died and grew up under Solas' Veil. They had sent their armies, their generals, and their warriors to the battle; Antivan Crows, Rivaini fire-breathers, the Dalish Veil-Jumpers, the Wardens and even the Dwarves. And Beleth. In the end, he had bowed to inevitability, and turned aside from the quest.
The last faithful moment, now ended. So it goes.]
Let it be, Slow Arrow. You are my friend, and I love you. You will always wish I could have had a better ending to my story, as I would wish for a better to yours. But we have seen what I am when I am free. I destroyed the world.
You intend to do more than wish. [ Even in the measured cadence of their language that comes out like a bite. As he breathes, though, I love you curls warmly through this ribs — dirty fighting, but effective. Gentler: ] You have already done more than wish.
[ If this were the end. If this is the end, despite the best efforts of his favorite persuasive false prophet and brilliant not-quite-god. If it is then it's an end where he has said more of what he should have said, seen proof those he cares for will be fine, fallen asleep with his face pressed to Beleth's sweet neck, and laughed with his mouth latched so tightly to Solas's that both their cheeks puffed out. So it's much better.
He breathes. He thinks. He chooses one of a half-dozen points he might argue, because one has to be first. ]
It is their future to build. I believe they can do it. That you endure this for a while, to give them time, maybe that is fair to ask. But not forever. It is one thing to ask a man to hold a beam in place while you search for a nail and another to make him part of the architecture. If their world is built on your back, there will always be a rot at the heart of it, as there was at the heart of Arlathan.
[ Which means Felassan will be entitled to burn it down.
Not really.
... Maybe, though. ]
I am not certain I have ever seen you free, my friend. [ A pause, and a sheepish, warm addition, like he's pleased to remember he can. ] My love. But when I have seen you close to it, you've protected the innocent and you've painted.
Their world has always been built on the back of unwilling captives. It is only the number and names which have changed; I did not sleep in uthenera by choice.
[Did the Evanuris deserve it? In Solas' opinion, there was no punishment too lengthy, too cruel, or too severe for what they had done in their time as the unassailable rulers of Thedas. But if all it was was a tally of sins, a list of names of those they had wronged, whose was the longer list? He suspects that there are worse things than Elgar'nan, by some measurements.
And like them, he would have been in the Fade for many years hence, if not for the clever ideas of one solitary, stupid Wolf.]
...But you have a point. [And then Felassan corrects himself, such as that Solas must close his eyes. Felassan, Felassan, late does the arrow fall and unerring is its aim. He wishes you had stuck his heart sooner, if only that he might have more of this.] I— Thank you. For your faith in me, if nothing else.
And so does Solas. That's why Felassan enjoys the arguing. The asking. Chasing and evading a swift and wily creature in a deep wood until he finds himself somewhere unexpected, be it lovely or alarming. Felassan hums in answer and tugs at the loose threads in his own thoughts. When Solas told him what lay in store he said throw Elgar'nan back in, and he'd meant it. To think of Elgar'nan as deserving of anything like mercy —
But they were something like brothers once, Solas and Elgar'nan, weren't they. Cousins. Distant cousins. People who might have said our and us, in any case, before they found that breaking point. ]
They did not know, then. No one knew who did not mean to unmake it.
[ Easier, while he wrestles unhappily with the thought he may perhaps need to give the Evanuris any pity. ]
I do not believe there is a choice, in their minds. There is only the world as it has always been, and the way someone with great power is choosing to alter it. If I tell them I would merely be putting it back as it originally was, it means nothing to them. They are too young to remember anything as it was before, after all.
[They will always be too young to remember it, now, as they have been for many millennia. Give them a chance, Felassan had asked him once— well, when does that stop? When Briala is dead, there will already be a new generation who considers the world to be their own, younger still and fresher-faced.
And Solas will always be too old, and too broken, to understand why they want it. But he doesn't need to understand in order to please them; he merely needs to serve his purpose, as he has been bid.]
It is a lack of a choice, a maintenance of what is and has always been, for me to uphold the veil. But do you know what truly lurks in my nightmares? [He pauses, wondering if Felassan has realized, or if he knew.] The Grey Wardens.
Edited (cadence was off, needed fixing.) 2025-12-04 03:04 (UTC)
[ He is about to joke. It is fairly clear. But even so, it's a subdued sort of joke, mindful of the fact that something that truly lurks in Solas's nightmares is unlikely to actually be funny. ]
The archdemons they kill are not merely named for the old gods of Tevinter, nor for the Evanuris that precede them. They are those very selfsame dragons, who once had been bound to the Evanuris themselves. With every Blight, with every Archdemon killed, an Evanuris became no longer immune to death.
And once they could be killed, they were, if not by the act itself, then by their fellows— what better source of power, after all, than a god? [The irony in his voice keeps the term a mockery, but he's grim enough that it's a near thing.] By the time I was able to see it, there were only two left alive; Ghilan'nain, and Elgar'nan.
What would have happened, if I had lost faith? If I had simply stopped trying to save them, and let the world go on however it pleased? One by one, the Evanuris fell to desperation and sought a way to breach their prison. It nearly worked, once, why not again? And yet, one by one, they failed, and the Wardens sent them to their deaths.
And when Elgar'nan's Blight died with Lusacan, the Veil would have fallen on its own, anchorless and void of power.
You were right. It would have been much the wiser to simply allow the mortals their chance. But instead... this. So much for the Wisdom of the Dread Wolf.
[ Some of this is news. Some of it is not. All of it is dramatic, and whenever Solas speaks with this kind of gravitas Felassan has always had two competing impulses: to shiver, and to mock. And he's pretty good at multitasking. He makes a sound somewhere between a snort and laugh, a single syllable puff, but it isn't unaffected. Something shaky around the edges of it. Like laughing at a ghost story but also keeping a lantern lit. ]
We live and we learn.
[ Trite. Dry. Typically he cherishes any rare occasion when Solas tells him he was right about something; this time, not so much.
Felassan had never entirely decided that the Veil shouldn't fall. He'd decided he wouldn't take the eluvians from Briala; he'd decided she deserved a chance to fight for her people. Their people. He'd decided they weren't weak, diseased things who should be glad to see their miserable era end, even if it ended in blood and chaos, but people who could and should be allowed to choose their own way.
He tries to imagine it now. Just waiting, after all, probably no more than another thousand years. Watching the Veil fray and dissolve, as destructive as a wildfire and as little anyone's fault — save Elgar'nan's, perhaps, if his death could only come by choice in the end, alone in the Black City with no one left to command. Would he have been sorry? Sorrier than he is now, every time he looks at Beleth and Solas in what should be the blackest dark and sees their sleeping faces cast green by the glow of that damned anchor?
Hard to say. ]
We might have warned them it was coming and given them time to prepare. We still could, if we find a way. If there is nothing but you it could be tied to.
From their understanding, to bring down the Veil is to [What was Varric's colorful turn of phrase? Ah, yes:] 'drown the world in demons'. I cannot deny that there will inevitably be casualties, though perhaps more than only Vhenan would take such a warning seriously, this time.
Who is to say? I have never been Elgar'nan's equal for sheer power.
[No one has. That was the benefit of being the first and the most ruthless; so much of what he became was fueled by blood and death and the willingness to take whatever course of action he needed, in order to dominate those around him. Elgar'nan had no mother, but if such a woman had ever been, he would have eaten her.]
Perhaps one Elvhen life alone cannot hold up the veil at all, not for long. I will endeavor to give you the opportunity to find out... [He did not miss the lack of an answer, Felassan. He will not chain you to his side, if you wish to go. But he will mourn afresh.] ...If you are willing to be dragged back into Thedas on my behalf, as I have said.
You will not be dragging me anywhere, wolfling, [ is cheerful in its challenge; equally cheerful is, ] but offered the choice I wouldn't leave you again, or Beleth. If that makes me a beast and a hypocrite... I am elvhen. It's to be expected.
[ Cheerful, but still something real beneath it. There was a time he wanted to be better than that. A ship that sailed long before now, really. The best anyone can hope is that it might someday be called back to port. ]
Would it have drowned the world in demons?
[ Perhaps Solas is tired of answering the question. But Felassan asks it with as much concern for the demons — the spirits — as for the mortals, at least. He doesn't need to tell Solas: it is a difficult and startling thing, for the metaphysics of the world you inhabit to be suddenly changed. It was no different in reverse, when the Veil fell. A great expanse. A trembling terror. This new void in us that ceases the spirit and makes us suddenly meat. ]
Were the Veil to fall, there would be a time of chaos and confusion, which would eventually settle into stability as the world once again went along its more natural paths, and people began to live fuller lives, and longer spans. But in the moment of its fall...
Banal Nadas. In Minrathous, certainly, and other such places, so steeped and founded upon misery the loss of the veil would bring many spirits of pride, rage, and despair which already press upon the veil. But I believe most places, and most people, would survive.
The effects would be most profound at the ritual site itself. Erecting the Veil took enormous energy, more than I had even anticipated, and therfore logically, taking it back down again would shed much of that energy. It is likely that the resulting—
[He stops, abruptly, recognizing that he has gone a step too far, so engrossed in imagining the technicalities of it, the fine-tuned intermingling of tone-layers and self-reinforced balances, all cascading away from one another, melting down and out to vent away the hated veil and its stubborn division. Solas had forgotten that the implications... Ah, but he's already paused too long. It is too late to hide the truth.]
...The resulting explosion would have a significant radius.
[ Even before Solas falls abruptly silent, Felassan has already lost his half-smile — something he could hide but rarely does, whenever Solas or Beleth alike treat him to a lengthy explanation, their interest radiating. Even if the topic is so serious as this. He's smiling to himself, on his end of their little birds. Then Solas says therefore, logically, and Felassan, so practiced at following him, skips easily ahead along his trajectory. And he stops smiling. ]
Of course.
[ It makes sense. There was no small amount of damage at the site of the Veil's creation. Felassan became quite intimately familiar with the rubble, searching it as he did for any sign, any scrap. ]
And you planned to survive that by...?
[ He doesn't need to hear the answer. No answer would also be an answer. There's a rustling sound, on his end of their connection. The brittle leaves beneath him as he shifts out of his comfortable recline against a tree for the first time since this conversation began. ]
[He does not respond at first. And then, abruptly, as if it must be forced out.]
I did not.
[The pause now is less significant.]
Of course I had... ideas. Contingencies. Inventions. Like so much of Arlathan, I am a holdover from a time long-dead. I have no wish to die alone, but—
[The orb would originally have served as a buffer, a way to absorb many of the energies, and offer Solas a greater chance at survival, but the orb was in shattered bits in a box in the Lighthouse, unless Rook had thrown it out for the worthless junk it appeared to be... And the dagger had no such capabilities, by comparison.]
The reality was that nothing I could build in so little time would be able to withstand a tenth of the potential force.
[ The flash of anger he feels might have carried someone with less experience in holding their tongue into saying something cruel. Anything cruel, however misdirected, just to give it somewhere to go. Something like: it would be just like Solas to remake the world and leave everyone else to learn how to live in it without him.
But Felassan is Felassan, so the impulse instead manifests as only a brief, foreboding pause before he says, with perfect calm, ]
[Solas knew it was a mistake the moment he said it. He had considered lying, of course, but— strangely, he had wanted to tell someone. To tell Felassan. Now, in the wake of such a confession, Solas wonders that he even has the capacity for such naivety any longer. What had he expected? For Felassan to understand? For Felassan not to be upset? For it to be alright? Too late now, for anything but regrets.]
[ The affirmative sound Felassan makes is nearly all the response Solas receives. But by the time Felassan is on his feet, just short of tucking the bird away, he adds, ]
Stay there.
[ He has not forgotten the last terrible months of the rebellion, when Solas evaded Felassan’s every attempt to talk about a different dangerous plan.
This one, at least, Solas has already been talked out of. There’s little reason to hurry, but he does. And there’s little reason to be angry — it didn’t happen, it won’t happen, and who is Felassan to be cross with anyone else for walking open-eyed into an avoidable death? Little reason, but he is anyway, the whole time he’s flying, and when he drops to land and folds outward into elf in the same motion so he hardly has to stop moving, and when he crosses the threshold and sees Solas standing at the window and strides over with high, cold winter air still hanging around him, turning Solas by the shoulders so they face one another with the sort of grip that suggests a prelude to a dressing-down.
It isn’t the fight that goes out of him then, exactly, seeing Solas’s face up close. But the words do. He’s still for a moment, and then his firm, fierce hold on Solas’s shoulders moves to a firm, fierce grip on either side of his face, to pull him down —
Not to kiss. An older instinct than that, pressing forehead to forehead and nose to nose, urgently, and then just as urgently winding his arms around to pull Solas’s face into his neck. ]
[What is coming, Solas does not know, except that whatever form of retribution Felassan chooses to take, it will be one he deserves. There is a moment, fierce and gripping, when anything might happen; he might strike him, or shake him, or simply turn on his heel and be gone again. Solas stares back at him, wordless, searching for speech, for the right thing to say—
The violence in Felassan's love is irrefutable; that it is love, no less so.]
Ir abelas. [His voice is quiet, muffled against Felassan's shoulder.] Ir abelas.
[And perhaps that is his great failing: that he is a coward at heart, and knows it, and can do nothing more than to beg forgiveness and cling like a child.]
I could not let her die, when I might save her. I could not kill her too, and save myself instead.
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[Solas' hesitation now is no thinking pause, no gap where consideration lies. He genuinely loses the thread of conversation for a moment, has to bow his head and try to find calm.]
For all those we have lost. Who died because of my— Because of me. And how many I killed, to keep to the plan? To heal the wound that I had made in the world. How could I turn away from them all, from all that had been done? I might as well have stayed in Mythal's service from the beginning, if I could turn so easily from my own sense of right and wrong.
[And true too: he could never really escape her shadow, even then, even ten thousand years later. But to hear her acknowledge that she had hurt him, and release him from the obligation to her memory...]
Even so, I could not have let go, without her there to remind me. What matters most.
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So he does think he understands. ]
And what is that, hahren?
[ The lightest pinch of teasing, to push against the weight of all those pauses. ]
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[He says it almost as if he is ashamed.]
What is the point of slaughtering our descendants, only to restore a glory whose time is long gone? Let Arlathan rest, lethallin, for it could only have ever been built on a foundation of blood and servitude. Let tomorrow be built by those who come after.
Of course, there is the small detail that these children have leashed me to the sole artifact that maintains their much-cherished mortality. But perhaps one day I shall die, and then whoever remains shall see if they can do better in reality, rather than mere optimism.
In any case, I am at last free of the duty to care, as I am of the one who placed that duty upon me. The veil's weight will not break me, if that could not.
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The rest he is happier to scuffle over. For example: ]
If you plan to accept that chain as permanent, my friend, you might want to leave me here after all.
[ He says it lightly. The threat is only that he will be annoying — so nothing Solas has not already proven a thousand times over that he can endure. ]
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[Solas... doesn't know how he feels about it. It's true that he put the shackle upon his own wrist, and locked it tight. It's true also that he might never have done so without Beleth there to beg him to stop, without Morrigan's ardent plea for mortal wills, without Rook's guileless trust, or the final cruelty of Mythal's last fragment, refusing to grant him death, and at last taking from his heart that final tether.
What then, if he had been clear-eyed, and unpained, if they had not surrounded him with pleading and put the knife into his hand? He cannot know. Only, here and now, he both does and does not regret it, feeling both the freedom and the servitude in the act as an impossible dichotomy. His opinion changes by the day, sometimes by the hour.
But it is worth enduring, if only for the joy of getting to rest, finally. Of having Beleth in his life again. Of hearing Felassan's voice. An incomprehensible, illogical truth.]
But perhaps you would be willing to offer an alternative that I cannot understand. It is my wish to compel you to live, as I once did the opposite. If you are willing.
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[ This is also lightly said. A natural thing, for elvhen to eventually decide they've seen enough — although he hasn't. He wasn't tired of the stars or the trees or the taste of roasted rabbit. He's certainly not tired of crawling onto Beleth and Solas in the early hours of the morning and helping himself to handfuls of skin and the warmth they've created beneath their blankets. That isn't the problem. ]
I've wondered what it makes me, to decide a hundred years is plenty for them and thousands are not enough for me. Of course, [ bright as well as light, now, because Solas has enough to worry about already, ] I will go anyway, if I can, and if you notice me becoming a monster you can write me a stern letter.
[ He'd even read it. He'd even listen. ]
I don't have an alternative for the Veil yet, but I will.
[ All confidence. It's not confidence in his own ability to think of something Solas can't — not here in the realm of intricate, world-altering rituals and careful calculations. But he's brimming with confidence he can be obnoxious enough to spur Solas into thinking new thoughts of his own, with time, or else he'll go find some ancient spirits of Creativity and Innovation, or he and Beleth can assemble a team of scrappy mortals with both practical and ethical concerns about the stability of their world resting wholly on the shoulders of one sad man. ]
We're not free until we're all free, right?
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Only a joke, and he calms himself while Felassan waxes poetic and foolish and optimistic, as is his way.]
...I...
[None are truly free until all are. Once, he would have championed that, and has for long centuries made it a cornerstone of his moral code. That it must be freedom for all, or the work is not complete... But. But, how to square that with what had become of him, in the end?]
I want to be free, I... feel the weight of it, that I am not. [Illusory as it is, he sometimes wakes in the night and feels it like a wet, cloying weight, heavy and breathless upon him. The Veil, his greatest mistake, his most terrible regret. So many dead, so many more yet to die, born to lives so brutally short...] But just the same, there is no one who truly wishes me to be free. I believe I know right and wrong, and I try all I can to act accordingly...
...But every monster believes himself to be in the right. When I am free to act, with only my own conscience to guide me, the entire world becomes my enemy, and even those I love most stand against me.
Perhaps it is better to accept the circumstances in which I find myself, than to struggle pointlessly any longer. Although, if I think about it for too long... Ir abelas, Falon, that I disappoint you.
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It's set aside to wonder and worry about this instead. To ache for Solas, who has been caught between impossible choices for all the time Felassan has known him. Longer. From the day he was first asked to change the core of what he was to follow a friend. And to ache for his own part in it, even if he wouldn't take it back, and for the simpler days of wrestling with Solas about the details and particulars of achieving the dreams they shared but never doubting he could and would follow where he went.
He says, ]
You do not disappoint me,
[ and he says it in their own language, soft and rhythmic. The common tongue is second nature, now, but this is still first. ]
You know I have always loved to argue with you. You give me a gift.
Are we only free if we can do whatever we see fit with all the power that we have?
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How not? You joined with me as a revolutionary, one who would use his strength as a rallying-point, and a force against the strong, in defense of the weak.
[It was, in fact, something like your idea, Felassan. Do you remember that?]
Is that not the definition of freedom? To do as you will, according to what you see as right. To be stopped only by your choice to stop, by the physical realities, or by the actions of others.
If the Veil is to stand, it must have a living anchor, someone sufficiently powerful to withstand it. With the Evanuris dead at last, and the titans long-destroyed, I am the only one who could do so.
It is not entirely unjust: having once broken the world, who else should be the one to rightly bear this burden? It is the will of The People.
[It is the word for elves that he uses, Elvhenan, but the meaning could so clearly apply to all peoples. It was, after all, not only elves that met to bring down Elgar'nan, nor only elves that lived and died and grew up under Solas' Veil. They had sent their armies, their generals, and their warriors to the battle; Antivan Crows, Rivaini fire-breathers, the Dalish Veil-Jumpers, the Wardens and even the Dwarves. And Beleth. In the end, he had bowed to inevitability, and turned aside from the quest.
The last faithful moment, now ended. So it goes.]
Let it be, Slow Arrow. You are my friend, and I love you. You will always wish I could have had a better ending to my story, as I would wish for a better to yours. But we have seen what I am when I am free. I destroyed the world.
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[ If this were the end. If this is the end, despite the best efforts of his favorite persuasive false prophet and brilliant not-quite-god. If it is then it's an end where he has said more of what he should have said, seen proof those he cares for will be fine, fallen asleep with his face pressed to Beleth's sweet neck, and laughed with his mouth latched so tightly to Solas's that both their cheeks puffed out. So it's much better.
He breathes. He thinks. He chooses one of a half-dozen points he might argue, because one has to be first. ]
It is their future to build. I believe they can do it. That you endure this for a while, to give them time, maybe that is fair to ask. But not forever. It is one thing to ask a man to hold a beam in place while you search for a nail and another to make him part of the architecture. If their world is built on your back, there will always be a rot at the heart of it, as there was at the heart of Arlathan.
[ Which means Felassan will be entitled to burn it down.
Not really.
... Maybe, though. ]
I am not certain I have ever seen you free, my friend. [ A pause, and a sheepish, warm addition, like he's pleased to remember he can. ] My love. But when I have seen you close to it, you've protected the innocent and you've painted.
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[Did the Evanuris deserve it? In Solas' opinion, there was no punishment too lengthy, too cruel, or too severe for what they had done in their time as the unassailable rulers of Thedas. But if all it was was a tally of sins, a list of names of those they had wronged, whose was the longer list? He suspects that there are worse things than Elgar'nan, by some measurements.
And like them, he would have been in the Fade for many years hence, if not for the clever ideas of one solitary, stupid Wolf.]
...But you have a point. [And then Felassan corrects himself, such as that Solas must close his eyes. Felassan, Felassan, late does the arrow fall and unerring is its aim. He wishes you had stuck his heart sooner, if only that he might have more of this.] I— Thank you. For your faith in me, if nothing else.
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And so does Solas. That's why Felassan enjoys the arguing. The asking. Chasing and evading a swift and wily creature in a deep wood until he finds himself somewhere unexpected, be it lovely or alarming. Felassan hums in answer and tugs at the loose threads in his own thoughts. When Solas told him what lay in store he said throw Elgar'nan back in, and he'd meant it. To think of Elgar'nan as deserving of anything like mercy —
But they were something like brothers once, Solas and Elgar'nan, weren't they. Cousins. Distant cousins. People who might have said our and us, in any case, before they found that breaking point. ]
They did not know, then. No one knew who did not mean to unmake it.
[ Easier, while he wrestles unhappily with the thought he may perhaps need to give the Evanuris any pity. ]
It would be different to choose it.
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[They will always be too young to remember it, now, as they have been for many millennia. Give them a chance, Felassan had asked him once— well, when does that stop? When Briala is dead, there will already be a new generation who considers the world to be their own, younger still and fresher-faced.
And Solas will always be too old, and too broken, to understand why they want it. But he doesn't need to understand in order to please them; he merely needs to serve his purpose, as he has been bid.]
It is a lack of a choice, a maintenance of what is and has always been, for me to uphold the veil. But do you know what truly lurks in my nightmares? [He pauses, wondering if Felassan has realized, or if he knew.] The Grey Wardens.
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[ He is about to joke. It is fairly clear. But even so, it's a subdued sort of joke, mindful of the fact that something that truly lurks in Solas's nightmares is unlikely to actually be funny. ]
They are doing their bests.
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The archdemons they kill are not merely named for the old gods of Tevinter, nor for the Evanuris that precede them. They are those very selfsame dragons, who once had been bound to the Evanuris themselves. With every Blight, with every Archdemon killed, an Evanuris became no longer immune to death.
And once they could be killed, they were, if not by the act itself, then by their fellows— what better source of power, after all, than a god? [The irony in his voice keeps the term a mockery, but he's grim enough that it's a near thing.] By the time I was able to see it, there were only two left alive; Ghilan'nain, and Elgar'nan.
What would have happened, if I had lost faith? If I had simply stopped trying to save them, and let the world go on however it pleased? One by one, the Evanuris fell to desperation and sought a way to breach their prison. It nearly worked, once, why not again? And yet, one by one, they failed, and the Wardens sent them to their deaths.
And when Elgar'nan's Blight died with Lusacan, the Veil would have fallen on its own, anchorless and void of power.
You were right. It would have been much the wiser to simply allow the mortals their chance. But instead... this. So much for the Wisdom of the Dread Wolf.
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We live and we learn.
[ Trite. Dry. Typically he cherishes any rare occasion when Solas tells him he was right about something; this time, not so much.
Felassan had never entirely decided that the Veil shouldn't fall. He'd decided he wouldn't take the eluvians from Briala; he'd decided she deserved a chance to fight for her people. Their people. He'd decided they weren't weak, diseased things who should be glad to see their miserable era end, even if it ended in blood and chaos, but people who could and should be allowed to choose their own way.
He tries to imagine it now. Just waiting, after all, probably no more than another thousand years. Watching the Veil fray and dissolve, as destructive as a wildfire and as little anyone's fault — save Elgar'nan's, perhaps, if his death could only come by choice in the end, alone in the Black City with no one left to command. Would he have been sorry? Sorrier than he is now, every time he looks at Beleth and Solas in what should be the blackest dark and sees their sleeping faces cast green by the glow of that damned anchor?
Hard to say. ]
We might have warned them it was coming and given them time to prepare. We still could, if we find a way. If there is nothing but you it could be tied to.
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Who is to say? I have never been Elgar'nan's equal for sheer power.
[No one has. That was the benefit of being the first and the most ruthless; so much of what he became was fueled by blood and death and the willingness to take whatever course of action he needed, in order to dominate those around him. Elgar'nan had no mother, but if such a woman had ever been, he would have eaten her.]
Perhaps one Elvhen life alone cannot hold up the veil at all, not for long. I will endeavor to give you the opportunity to find out... [He did not miss the lack of an answer, Felassan. He will not chain you to his side, if you wish to go. But he will mourn afresh.] ...If you are willing to be dragged back into Thedas on my behalf, as I have said.
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[ Cheerful, but still something real beneath it. There was a time he wanted to be better than that. A ship that sailed long before now, really. The best anyone can hope is that it might someday be called back to port. ]
Would it have drowned the world in demons?
[ Perhaps Solas is tired of answering the question. But Felassan asks it with as much concern for the demons — the spirits — as for the mortals, at least. He doesn't need to tell Solas: it is a difficult and startling thing, for the metaphysics of the world you inhabit to be suddenly changed. It was no different in reverse, when the Veil fell. A great expanse. A trembling terror. This new void in us that ceases the spirit and makes us suddenly meat. ]
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Banal Nadas. In Minrathous, certainly, and other such places, so steeped and founded upon misery the loss of the veil would bring many spirits of pride, rage, and despair which already press upon the veil. But I believe most places, and most people, would survive.
The effects would be most profound at the ritual site itself. Erecting the Veil took enormous energy, more than I had even anticipated, and therfore logically, taking it back down again would shed much of that energy. It is likely that the resulting—
[He stops, abruptly, recognizing that he has gone a step too far, so engrossed in imagining the technicalities of it, the fine-tuned intermingling of tone-layers and self-reinforced balances, all cascading away from one another, melting down and out to vent away the hated veil and its stubborn division. Solas had forgotten that the implications... Ah, but he's already paused too long. It is too late to hide the truth.]
...The resulting explosion would have a significant radius.
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Of course.
[ It makes sense. There was no small amount of damage at the site of the Veil's creation. Felassan became quite intimately familiar with the rubble, searching it as he did for any sign, any scrap. ]
And you planned to survive that by...?
[ He doesn't need to hear the answer. No answer would also be an answer. There's a rustling sound, on his end of their connection. The brittle leaves beneath him as he shifts out of his comfortable recline against a tree for the first time since this conversation began. ]
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I did not.
[The pause now is less significant.]
Of course I had... ideas. Contingencies. Inventions. Like so much of Arlathan, I am a holdover from a time long-dead. I have no wish to die alone, but—
[The orb would originally have served as a buffer, a way to absorb many of the energies, and offer Solas a greater chance at survival, but the orb was in shattered bits in a box in the Lighthouse, unless Rook had thrown it out for the worthless junk it appeared to be... And the dagger had no such capabilities, by comparison.]
The reality was that nothing I could build in so little time would be able to withstand a tenth of the potential force.
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But Felassan is Felassan, so the impulse instead manifests as only a brief, foreboding pause before he says, with perfect calm, ]
I see. Are you at home?
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I am in the library.
[He is in trouble.]
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Stay there.
[ He has not forgotten the last terrible months of the rebellion, when Solas evaded Felassan’s every attempt to talk about a different dangerous plan.
This one, at least, Solas has already been talked out of. There’s little reason to hurry, but he does. And there’s little reason to be angry — it didn’t happen, it won’t happen, and who is Felassan to be cross with anyone else for walking open-eyed into an avoidable death? Little reason, but he is anyway, the whole time he’s flying, and when he drops to land and folds outward into elf in the same motion so he hardly has to stop moving, and when he crosses the threshold and sees Solas standing at the window and strides over with high, cold winter air still hanging around him, turning Solas by the shoulders so they face one another with the sort of grip that suggests a prelude to a dressing-down.
It isn’t the fight that goes out of him then, exactly, seeing Solas’s face up close. But the words do. He’s still for a moment, and then his firm, fierce hold on Solas’s shoulders moves to a firm, fierce grip on either side of his face, to pull him down —
Not to kiss. An older instinct than that, pressing forehead to forehead and nose to nose, urgently, and then just as urgently winding his arms around to pull Solas’s face into his neck. ]
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The violence in Felassan's love is irrefutable; that it is love, no less so.]
Ir abelas. [His voice is quiet, muffled against Felassan's shoulder.] Ir abelas.
[And perhaps that is his great failing: that he is a coward at heart, and knows it, and can do nothing more than to beg forgiveness and cling like a child.]
I could not let her die, when I might save her. I could not kill her too, and save myself instead.
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