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Andrala, the most annoying crafter in all the free marches, pinched Rasanon’s cheek, a knowing grin on her face. Rasanon shoved her hand away, giving the best glare he could muster.
“Aww, still raw, da’len? Sorry, sorry, lethallin.”
A few laughs responded to her comment, from the few people at the celebration actually paying any attention to him.
She was right, of course. The vallaslin was still fresh, so fresh he was still tending to it to prevent infection. Right now, he would not admit that under torture.
“Maybe I just don’t want to hear it from someone who barely qualifies as an adult themselves,” he mocked. Andrala only smiled wider.
“You’re so cute! One little hunt and now you’re all grown up!”
“Now, now, let the boy celebrate, will you?”
Andrala rolled her eyes at the Keeper’s words, but the smile kept it good-natured.
“If I must! I’ll go find Luc – your dad always brings in the hard shem drinks for parties.”
With a small wave she was off, disappearing into the increasingly loud chaos of the camp.
“I’m fairly sure your father is the only reason vallaslin celebrations get so...big,” The Keeper said. “Traditionally most other clans have a nice meal. Maybe a few small gifts.”
“You can’t tell me other clans don’t drink, Grandmother.”
“Now I didn’t say that.”
She stepped forward, taking his face in her hands. He was taller than her now. He hadn’t noticed that before.
Her wrinkles deepened as she smiled, gently pulling his head down just far enough to land a small kiss to his forehead.
“I’m proud of you, da’len.”
He couldn’t help his own smile as the warmth of her affection spread through his body.
“Thank you, Grandmother.”
***
He hated apologizing. It never came naturally to him, more like pulling teeth than mending a relationship. Still, for once, the idea of not apologizing was too much to bear. So he faced it instead, starting with the advisors.
They were...surprisingly understanding. Most of the inner circle was. Some, like Varric, waved his apology away, water under the bridge. Some watched him with a distant disapproval, softening once they realized why he was there.
It felt too easy. Granted, most of them had done worse things, even during their time in the inquisition, but it didn’t ease his embarrassment. However stressful the truth of Ameridan and the first inquisition was, the temper tantrum he’d thrown in the war room was...well, just that. A temper tantrum, not worthy of him, his position, or those who had stood by him for months now.
“Is that what will happen to me, when this is done? Will Josephine shave down my ears? Cassandra paint over the marks on my face?”
No, he should have had better control over himself.
Lucky for him nobody seemed to hold it against him. So far.
It took longer than he expected to find Solas. The mage had drifted from his usual stomping grounds, standing now out on the ramparts near the garden, gazing over the mountains.
“Solas.”
The mage tilted his head in acknowledgment.
“Hello, Inquisitor.”
Neutral, painfully so. He wasn’t sure how to interpret that. No point in putting it off, then.
“I’m sorry, Solas. For my outburst earlier. I should not have acted like that, towards any of you, and I do not intend to let it happen again.”
Solas faced him properly, his eyes oddly...searching.
“It’s alright. Recent events have been….stressful, for us all. And particularly for you.”
Rasanon sighed, letting himself lean on the stone.
“And I know that’s no excuse…”
Sometimes he hated how easy it had become to talk to Solas. The words fell out without permission, demanding an audience regardless of his wishes.
“It’s isolating, here. Not just as inquisitor, but as a Dalish. To every single person in Skyhold, the Dalish are either frightening or a joke or both. Even to the well meaning ones. It’s...lonely. And frustrating. And I…” He huffed, annoyance at himself only growing. “And I let it get to me. Let my emotions overwhelm me. I regret that, and I especially regret taking it out on all of you.”
He forced himself to straighten, to face Solas again, biting back a desire to keep complaining. But he was not met with anything he expected. Not judgement, or annoyance, or pity, or even a distant neutrality. Instead, Solas reached up, a hand gently pulling Rasanon’s head forward, pressing his lips to Rasanon’s forehead.
“I am sorry, lethallin,” he said as he pulled away, arms folding behind his back once more, “for making you feel that way. It was wrong of me to put you in that position. You...you are not alone.”
The awkwardness of his words barely registered as Rasanon just...stared.
And then, he laughed.
“Sorry!” he said, “I swear I’m not laughing at you Solas, that was just so…Dalish. I didn’t know anyone did things like that outside of my people.”
It was Dalish, familial, gentle, and so, so familiar. Images in the back of his mind; parents, grandparents, elders in the clan. Even that warmth, that connection it always brought, was the same.
Solas wasn’t even that much older than him, as far as he could tell, but he certainly acted like he was.
Solas’s mouth twitched, finally pulling into a small smile.
“For all that they may have gotten wrong, the Dalish have some things right.”
“Well thank you, Hahren.”
Solas only raised an eyebrow at his tone.
“Truly, though. Thank you, Solas. I appreciate your words.”
“I mean them,” he responded simply. “Though, I may have another apology to give soon,” he added dryly. Rasanon followed his gaze, immediately picking up on the not so subtle stares now turned their way from the closest passerby and eavesdroppers.
“Hopefully it does not cause too much trouble for you and Iron Bull.”
Rasanon snorted.
“Please, there are far worse rumors spread about me. I’m certain at least a few came from Bull himself. Not that he’s the jealous type anyway. More likely he’ll use this as an excuse to mock me.”
“Or perhaps tie you up and put you in time out.”
Rasanon groaned, very aware of the heat spreading in his cheeks.
“Fuck you, Solas.”
Solas only laughed.
***
The weather never cooperated. The sun shone, strong and bright, on their bloody battlefield, completely oblivious to all they had suffered. These agents of Varric’s, at least, had the sense to stay back, to allow him to approach Fen’Harel on his own.
Fen’Harel sat alone, bloody and dirty, down on his knees, head bent. He did not lift it as Rasanon approached.
“It is done. I have failed. Do what you will,” he said, voice empty of any strength, any resistance.
Even from this view, face hidden, he could tell the man was tired.
Rasanon knelt in front of him.
“Solas.”
The seconds dragged, each one an hour, a day, a week. Finally, though, he raised his head, just barely enough to look up at Rasanon.
Had it really been so long? It wasn’t real, that time. It only showed in the exhaustion in Fen’Harel’s face, but nowhere else. They could have been on a mission for the Inquisition, or Skyhold.
But they weren’t. Rasanon’s hair was beginning to grey, lines appearing on his face, and he’d gotten used to fighting with a prosthetic. Everything had changed, even if nothing had.
“Do what you will,” Fen’Harel repeated.
How did he look so old and so young at the same time?
Rasanon did not respond. Gently, he rested his real hand at the back of Solas’s head, gently pulling them together as he pressed his lips to Solas’s forehead.
He could feel the shock, the surprise. He pulled away and spoke, the only words that mattered, that he’d wished for a chance to say for a decade. Tears fell between them, though who they belonged to, he wasn’t quite sure.
“Come home, brother.”