Rook is not here to say, and Kion has earned no spite from me. [From his own Solas, perhaps, but that was another world, another life, another Wolf. Solas shakes his head slightly, a moot point acknowledged] But it has been made clear that the welfare of the world is no longer our responsibility to shoulder. We will outlive her, and her Veilguard. That, I think, is reward enough.
[Yes, and what if Rook's grandchildren wish to reverse what their ancestor had fought to secure? Solas wonders. But it would take a great toll to divide the Veil from him now, spirit, blood, and flesh... And still, he is not sure it is wise to try. But there is time.]
If even a sliver of her yet remains, I cannot permit it to hold any power over you. Morrigan is fortunate that she retains memory alone, and no part of that conscious mind, else she would present a threat. Though she is your friend, she is ruthless, and I—
[He reaches across the small distance between them, and with one arm still around Felassan, still touching her own from wrist to elbow where it's wound around them both, Solas gently cups her cheek, letting his thumb brush there where ink once lay. He remembers them, those pale green whorls, the smoky hearth of Sylais' house artistically rendered, marking Beleth with proprietary force. He had grown used to it, and loved her face even then, but to see her made free... He is grateful.]
I knew what it was, once, to be held by that power. Nothing is worth the risk to you. Not for me.
[ Beleth begins to scheme, and Felassan begins to smile, settling his arm around her shoulders. What a lovely thing, to have an ally against Solas's defeatism. More than an ally. She could and would see to it on her own, he thinks. Indomitable. And it calms the tense clench in his chest to know that the future where Solas is finally and fully unbound lies ahead of them, as fixed as any future can be, even if Felassan isn't there to see it.
And here, the other side of the coin: a more-than-ally against Beleth's minimization of herself. Felassan doesn't begin to stir to argue with her himself. His eyebrows quirk the second before Solas begins to speak in an expectant sort of expression, like someone waiting for the twist in a story they already know, which shift into something almost smug, like see there, when the expected lines arrive on schedule. This, too, is fixed.
Though the mention of what Solas knows of being bound by Mythal does shrink his smile down to a whisper of itself and tighten his fingers on Solas's shoulder for a moment. Whatever is left of her, Felassan would like to kill himself. For both of their sakes. Perhaps even a little for his own.
But like all things, it will have to be done in whatever way it can be done, not whatever way one might dream. ]
Edited (making it less bad) 2025-12-31 17:15 (UTC)
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[Yes, and what if Rook's grandchildren wish to reverse what their ancestor had fought to secure? Solas wonders. But it would take a great toll to divide the Veil from him now, spirit, blood, and flesh... And still, he is not sure it is wise to try. But there is time.]
If even a sliver of her yet remains, I cannot permit it to hold any power over you. Morrigan is fortunate that she retains memory alone, and no part of that conscious mind, else she would present a threat. Though she is your friend, she is ruthless, and I—
[He reaches across the small distance between them, and with one arm still around Felassan, still touching her own from wrist to elbow where it's wound around them both, Solas gently cups her cheek, letting his thumb brush there where ink once lay. He remembers them, those pale green whorls, the smoky hearth of Sylais' house artistically rendered, marking Beleth with proprietary force. He had grown used to it, and loved her face even then, but to see her made free... He is grateful.]
I knew what it was, once, to be held by that power. Nothing is worth the risk to you. Not for me.
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And here, the other side of the coin: a more-than-ally against Beleth's minimization of herself. Felassan doesn't begin to stir to argue with her himself. His eyebrows quirk the second before Solas begins to speak in an expectant sort of expression, like someone waiting for the twist in a story they already know, which shift into something almost smug, like see there, when the expected lines arrive on schedule. This, too, is fixed.
Though the mention of what Solas knows of being bound by Mythal does shrink his smile down to a whisper of itself and tighten his fingers on Solas's shoulder for a moment. Whatever is left of her, Felassan would like to kill himself. For both of their sakes. Perhaps even a little for his own.
But like all things, it will have to be done in whatever way it can be done, not whatever way one might dream. ]