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"Ahn abelas, vhenan?"[1]
Solas walks as if he were Dalish, Lasena thinks, not for the first time.
It was her Keeper that had first taught her to bend grass leaves so lightly they did not break, to move across dirt so softly the motes swirled as if by the wind. "Heed the Vir Tanadhal, da'len, and Her forest will always protect you," Keeper Deshanna had told her, once upon a time.
Who had taught Solas to tread so lightly, Lasena did not know. Solas has only ever shared the vaguest details of his youth, and even Leliana had been unable to discover anything more. But he must've learned early, as all elven children did in this world where they had no home.
Perhaps this too he had taught himself, because he had feared the shemlin as she had. Perhaps dread had prowled after him as he'd traveled through ruins, like it had prowled after her clan's ever-moving aravels. Perhaps that dread had consumed even his own people, and that was why he scorns them all and looks ever backwards instead, at the days when they were allowed to leave footsteps behind.
She understands the appeal of the past a little more now, she thinks.
“Telir i’tel’gon’erala telema,”[2] Lasena says, continuing to stare out at the still waters of Cloudcap Lake.
She feels him settling beside her, his body radiating twice the warmth of the mage-fire she had conjured.
"You are thinking of Inquisitor Ameridan," he clarifies.
Lasena closes her eyes. If Inquisitor Ameridan had survived—would they have been spared the Exalted March? Would the Emerald Knights have ridden behind the Imperial army and the Grey Wardens, united against the darkspawn hoards? Would her clan have had a home in the Dales, one they would have had no cause to leave, certainly not for Wycome—
Solas cups the side of her face, and turns her gaze.
She must look so young to him. She feels so young. So utterly useless and helpless, despite the Anchor in the palm of her hand.
"I know, Solas," Lasena whispers, and her voice does not tremble. "You don't need to say it. I know it's long past, I know even if Ameridan had lived the powers of an Inquisitor has its limits—"
Solas hushes her.
"Do you think I come here to scold you, vhenan?"
He smooths a thumb across her cheek. It comes away wet. "You are you. Of course you grieve for your people. Ma revast numa.[3] "
There is far too much understanding behind his gaze, a boundless grief that echoes her own.
She grasps onto that permission, onto that broad torso that does not bend, no matter how tightly she holds him, and lets herself shake apart in his arms.
I won't let them erase me, Lasena thinks, watching the morning light filter through the tent canvas and softly play on Solas’s face.
She would let—had let—the Chantry use her in many ways, in service of stopping the threat that loomed over them all. But she would never give the Chantry the chance to tuck away her staff of magic, to dock her ears and to paint over the vallaslin she wears with pride.
They had done so with Inquisitor Ameridan. But they would not with her.
Solas’s forehead creases. An unpleasant interaction in the Fade, perhaps. She trails a finger over his skin and across his scar, until his expression eases, and thinks, I won’t let them erase you either.
Telana—she who had called Inquisitor Ameridan vhenan, she who had been a Dreamer like Solas—had died to save two nations, and yet had languished forgotten for 800 years.
Solas would be remembered. She would use all the tools of the Inquisition to make history remember that an apostate elf had first unlocked the secret to sealing the Breach, and had stood by her side through it all.
The Winter Palace court had introduced him as her “elven serving man”. At the time, she'd laugh, and shared an eyeroll with Solas. Now, there is nothing funny about it.
He stirs. His brown eyes open, slowly, Fade-dazed still, but shot through with warmth as he registers her attention on him.
It would be another hour before anyone would expect Lasena and Solas.
She’d go bid farewell to Professor Kenric then, tell him that the Inquisition would recommend tenureship for him at the University of Orlais in the strongest of terms and would fund his research for as long as he wanted an academic career. She’d send a pigeon to Josephine directing for copies of Cassandra’s overly-earnest reports to be preserved within each nation of Thedas. Another pigeon to Leliana asking if she knew of any talented bard who wanted a new commission. She’d start writing a little herself, perhaps, probably commiserate with Cassandra about how much she hated blathering on paper if she fails to charm out of Varric a promise to help.
But that would be in an hour.
Now, she pushes up and settles over Solas. As she rocks her hips and feels the sleep drop from his body, she smiles.
“Lasena,” he says. His hands still her hips. Beneath her, he is all taut self-denial—she smiles wider, moves one of his hands to where she wants him instead, and watches that self-control break, as always.
The Veil is so thin, in the Frostback. She wonders if any desire demons now press against it, watching them.
With each other at least, they never need to tread lightly.
Later. Later, she will think wistfully of her decision to make him part of her story—to make sure he left footprints behind—but will be unable to bring herself to regret the choice.
Tomorrow, she will ride into the Exalted Council. Many of those who see her will have heard the tavern song, the one carried on the wings of Leliana’s agents: an elf who had risen from the ever-enduring Dales to banish ancient evil from the world, aided by brave, colorful companions - including a mysterious elven apostate, who had been her trusted guide and closest comfort.
The song concludes at her triumph at the Temple of Sacred Ashes.
But songs end. History does not. It continues—and repeats.
Vhenan, Lasena think, as she closes her eyes that night, as she had on many other. She does not have command of the Fade as he does, but still she hopes some impression of thought lingers there for spirits to find and carry to him. Please, let me see you just one more time.