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They are silent as they peel themselves out of stained and burned armor. The demon ichor makes the buckles difficult yet it is the heavy mood settled over their shoulders that refuses to leave their limbs. She has suffered his scowls on the back of her neck and in the corner of her eye since she announced the wardens would remain and it’s making her skin crawl. She has suffered enough today.
With a sigh, Keela throws her last piece of leather into the sand. “Do you have something to say, Solas?”
“I believe it is a discussion best suited for another time,” he replies with his back turned as he picks pieces of broken potion bottles from his pack.
“No, we’re discussing it now.” She moves to stand in the middle of the tent, feet planted like she is readying for war. “You disagree with my decision about the wardens. I heard you plainly enough.”
“The order’s disregard for active thinking will only lead to more trouble. They should be banished to where they will cause no further harm with their fumbling.”
“I will not send away the only ones able to hunt darkspawn when there is a blighted dragon circling above. We might need their expertise.”
“The expertise of fools is worth little.” Solas faces her, nose scrunched in distaste. There’s been a pressure building behind the bridge of her own brow since they emerged from the rift and it is only growing worse with each passing moment.
“Are you saying you’re a better expert than the Grey Wardens? I’ve heard your discussions with Blackwall. Is there something about the Blights you would like to share?”
“I have no more knowledge besides what I have already offered,” he replies after a pause. “But if you would think-”
She takes a leap forward, finger pointed like a dagger at his heart. “Don’t you dare accuse me of not thinking. You counsel me to throw away the only force known to stop that terror and offer me no alternative in return. That’s not acceptable.”
“I-”
“Enough!” With a burst of fire in her fist and fury in her heart she storms back to her side of the tent, but it is not rage that makes her breathes grow short. She can still hear the Nightmare’s whispers in her mind, cannot stop replaying the memories she found scattered throughout the Fade. Cannot shake the doubts slithering up her spine now that the truth is known.
Solas watches her cross across the sand with frustration burning between his ribs at her stubbornness and at the knot his secrets have tied around his tongue. If she would only listen - but she is right. It is irrational for Keela to simply take him at his word.
When she bows her head and lets out a quivering breath, the anger inside rushes away. He moves to stand at her side to see her arms shaking and her eyes screwed tight.
“You are trembling.” He covers her hands with his own, concern now his only thought. He lets go of one hand and brings his fingers across her cheek, pushes the hair away from her neck and runs them down her arm to check for wounds. “Are you injured?”
“No.” Keela tries to pull out of his grip but he holds on.
“It is something.”
“If you did not think me foolish before, you will now.”
“If you do not wish to tell me, then I will not press.” He means it but cannot deny this desire for her to confide in him, to trust him with all that matters to her. He craves her companionship and the way she sees him like no one else has for centuries upon centuries even though he knows how her bright eyes blind him to his purpose.
“It was an accident,” she finally says with gaze drawn to her palm. “I will let Thedas believe what it will of me if it helps, but I know the truth. I am no one’s chosen. Not chosen by their god or any of ours either, in the end.”
“And this bothers you? You have never claimed any affinity towards religion before.”
“I know, but I was beginning to believe, in something.” She shakes her head. “As I said, foolish.”
He has been the fool. Not but an hour ago were they locked in the Fade chased by all manner of demons, haunted by their fears, and none more so than the Inquisitor. The Nightmare’s realm was made to hurt her the most and he forgets, far too often now, that she is still made of mortal things no matter how radiant they shine.
“All question their beliefs at some point, it is nothing to be ashamed of.” Solas returns his touch to her face, gentle thumb brushing across her vallaslin, and his veins tingle when she leans into his hand. “I know you wish to make your mark upon the world, but you do not need the blessing of absent gods to do so. I do not think the world will soon forget you as you are, Inquisitor.”
Keela looks up at him, mischief sparkling in her eyes, hands no longer shaking, and it is he that feels like breaking apart under the force of her fleeting, fathomless soul. “Are you suggesting I’m unforgettable?”
“That is not something up for debate,” he declares quietly. Even though he is sure of the words he is not sure of himself. Not anymore. She tangles everything into complicated patterns and more and more he finds he does not want to escape the trap laid. Keela glances down at his lips, hand tightening around his own, but she does not press forward. She is still giving him time, the most precious thing to mortals, and for a moment he can’t remember why he is wasting one second of it.
“Thank you. You…I’m glad you are here with me, Solas.” She gives his hand another squeeze before letting go and the chill of the darkened desert rushes back in. There are still doubts lurking beneath her eyes but her shoulders are pressed back with resolve again. Keela moves to remove the rest of her tattered clothing and glances over a bare shoulder with a smirk. “But I will not banish the wardens nonetheless.”
Solas gives a short laugh, the image of her skin lingering long after she slips behind the curtain, and knows he has lost this battle and many more. “As you say, Inquisitor.”