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The cell is as cold and dank as Solas remembers. Damp stones and rusted chains shimmer with the magic of the Fade, the manifestation just shy of perfectly realistic. Inquisitor Trevelyan is by his side, circling the room silently, seemingly unfazed by the sudden change of location.
Solas wonders whether or not the man has realised that they are no longer in the waking world, but he can read nothing on his face that might betray his thoughts.
“I sat beside you as you slept,” he states softly as he gazes at the discarded manacles on the floor. “studying the Anchor.”
Kaelhen pauses at the sound of his voice, hands clasped neatly behind his back, before turning to Solas.
“Good to know there was someone by my side not intent on removing my head from my shoulders.” His tone is light, his smile easy, but Solas has learned to recognise the amiable mask he often wears.
It suddenly occurs to Solas that the man never speaks of the events that transpired either at the conclave or upon his awakening as a prisoner.
“You jest, but your life was not the only one in the balance.” That gets the man’s attention back from where he was staring blankly at a rusty stain on the ground.
“You mean…?”
“When I first came to assist, I didn’t expect…you.” The broad gesture Solas makes toward the man is woefully insufficient. “A man, bearing a magical mark of unknown origin, tied to a unique breach in the Veil? You were a mystery.”
The stones ripple as Kaelhen steps closer, like disturbed water.
“I was stumped, and it became obvious. I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra suspected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn’t produce results.”
A derisive snort. “That does sound like her.” There’s no trace of humour on Kaelhen’s face, only a hardened edge to his gaze. As fond as the man is of the Seeker, Solas is well aware of his wariness toward any and all who serve the Chantry. From what little he has heard of their first meeting, Cassandra hadn’t exactly made a glowing impression.
“Yes.” He acknowledges, with no bitterness. He had nothing against the woman then, and even less so now.
“Yet you stayed.”
“Barely.” The admission feels a bit shameful now, knowing what would have happened had he not saved the man beside him. “It took a while to get even the smallest understanding of what your mark was. By then, patience was wearing thin.”
They have stayed in their bleak surroundings long enough, if the way Kaelhen’s gaze keeps catching on his old cell is any indication. With a tilt of his head, Solas invites him to step in the hall. The man follows without hesitation and when Solas glances back as they cross the threshold, the holding cells have vanished into unnatural darkness. Kaelhen doesn’t spare a look back.
“You were never going to wake up.” Solas continues as the two of them begin to make their way up the stairs. “How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade? I was frustrated, frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by the Breach. Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra… or she in me. I was ready to flee.”
“And again, you didn’t.” There’s a smile curling Kaelhen’s lips now, and he looks a bit brighter now that they’ve left the lower floor of the Chantry.
“Indeed.”
“I would call you stubborn but then again… where could you have possibly gone?”
Now there’s the gentle teasing Solas has gotten accustomed to, the questioning veiled under the guise of friendly ribbing.
“Someplace far away where I might research a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me.” It is, as expected, a rather unsatisfactory answer.
“And then what?”
“Cease your needling, I never said it was a good plan.” There’s no bite in Solas’s tone, and he can’t fight the smile tugging at his face.
Kaelhen snorts, eyes full of mirth, bumping their arms together in silent apology as they pass the great wooden doors.
In front of them, Haven, as it was. Untouched by Red Templars and dragon fire, only… empty. There’s the quiet buzzing sound of conversations and footsteps, the faraway clanking noises of soldiers training but not a soul to be seen.
The Breach hums above them, unaccompanied by the relentless tugging and unrest anyone attuned to the Fade felt back then.
“I told myself,” Solas begins again, extending one arm to the sky. “, one more attempt to seal the rifts. I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then…”
The scene is as vivid in his mind’s eye as it had been back then. Solas could still remember the rush of surprise, disbelief, hope, as the man he had written off as dead appeared on the battlefield cloaked in fire and lightning, drawing on the Anchor -unaware as he was of its potential then- to tap deeper into the Fade and strengthen himself. He could feel more clearly still the way the man had yielded to the nudge of Solas’ magic when he had grabbed his hand and guided the Mark to its purpose.
The brush of their wills in that one instant had been heady and unnerving all at once, and Solas had carefully guarded himself from examining these feelings later on.
He realises that he might have remained silent too long, because Kaelhen is closer now, watching him with a look that is equally concerned and fond. Distantly, Solas wonders -worries- whether the man had been able to feel him reminisce. In this place where memories can manifest with barely a conscious thought, where one’s inner thoughts seep into the world around them, it would be too easy to bare more than intended. Especially to a man stained by a fragment of his own magic.
Solas swallows against the sudden lump in his throat. This isn’t what he had intended for this conversation to be.
“It seems you hold the key to our salvation.” As if it was needed to push his point, he reaches to take hold of Kaelhen’s marked hand, turning his palm as if to inspect it, like he didn’t know by heart every jagged swirl of green that scarred the calloused flesh there. Running his thumb along the deepest, brightest line at its centre, Solas feels the familiar crush of guilt around his lungs.
“You had sealed the rift with a gesture…” His voice is low, coloured by the same wonder he had felt back then. “...and right then, I felt the whole world change.”
He looks up to meet Kaelhen's eyes, and the moment hangs. Everything is quiet now, spare for the whisper of the breeze on the snow and the crackle of the Breach overhead.
“This isn’t quite how I remember it.” Kaelhen’s gaze flits to the side, uneasy, though he doesn't take his hand back. “You’re the one who showed me the purpose of the mark.” Solas resents the self-loathing in the man's tone, his unearned guilt over events beyond his control.
“I’m certain that you would have figured it out in time.” He says gently, giving Kaelhen's hand one last squeeze before regretfully letting him go. “If not intentionally then by accident.”
“Maybe.” Bitterness taints the man's tone still, as he turns away, gazing up at the Breach. “But how much time, how many more lives would have been lost by then?”
A rhetorical question that begets no answer. That time had passed, it was useless to wallow in hypotheticals. The man seems to reach the same conclusion as he sighs deeply. When he turns back to Solas, his features have softened around a soft smile, the carefully crafted mask discarded in a way that was getting familiar now.
“Allow yourself some of the credit, Solas. Neither myself nor the Inquisition would be where we are now if it wasn’t for you.”
These are words of praise, but the ragged edges of Solas' guilt sharpen them into accusations, piercing him like shards of ice. If Kaelhen sees or hears his sharp intake of breath, he doesn't comment.
“I’m glad you stayed.” The warmth in Kaelhen’s tone is too sincere, too heartfelt. Dangerous.
“As am I.” Solas is helpless but to respond in kind. He means it, and it is frightening. Still, when his gaze catches on the unbridled gratitude in Kaelhen's eyes, he can't bring himself to look away.
These private, unguarded moments of quiet understanding between them have been shared all too often in the weeks since they first met. Each of them softens his heart and grows the vines of culpability around his lungs into a breathtaking crush.
Something hopeful and hesitant flickers on Kaelhen's face and he takes a step forward, about to speak. Solas’ heart drops, cutting him off before he can say something neither of them can take back.
“You have fractured rules of man and nature, and you will shatter more before you are done.” Solas tears his eyes away as the words leave him in a rush. He finds his composure partway through the sentence, though his tone is far more level than he feels.
There's a crease in Kaelhen's brow at the change of topic, but it is quickly smoothed out.
“Not too many, I hope.” Back to the casual, friendly, safer banter.
Kaelhen smiles easily as he deliberately steps back, hands clasped behind his back. Solas recognises in the slight bow of his shoulders, the tilt of his head, the familiar way Kaelhen uses to make himself smaller, less threatening, like he'd somehow misstepped in their conversation. “There’s only so many transgressions this world will forgive once this is over.”
It is said casually, but they're both painfully aware of the fleeting nature of his new station, and how easily saviours are turned into villains when they no longer serve their purpose.
“You’re sadly right, I’m afraid.” It is disheartening to think about what the man might be condemned to once his role has been fulfilled. Either forgotten by history, or twisted beyond recognition. Perhaps one more hero whose self and story will be smoothed by doctrine and faith, or a cautionary tale to reinforce them.
“Ah well, at least I'm sure Varric will make it into a great story.” Kaelhen shrugs, levity not quite sincere as he begins walking briskly toward the old infirmary, physically distancing himself from the topic.
“Doubtlessly.” Solas deadpans, catching up to him with long strides. Then, before thinking better of it : “I'm quite certain that if anyone can make you into the dashing hero upon his trusty white stead, it's our dwarven friend.”
Kaelhen's eyes twinkle and he beams at the mention. They hadn't revisited that old, first real conversation they had after the man's initial steps in the mantle of Herald of Andraste, but it seems neither of them hadn't forgotten it.
“I'm taking your suggestion about the griffin though,” Kaelhen grins then adds with a comical wink. “I'll make sure he credits you for the idea.”
Solas barks a disbelieving laugh, both at the suggestion, and the man's surprising memory.
“Just imagine this,” Kaelhen hops down the stairs, wielding an imaginary sword and affecting an exaggerated heroic pose that brings a snort out of the elf. The man's eyes crinkle with mirth at the sight. “Kaelhen Trevelyan, brave hero of the people, and Herald of Andraste-” A derisive eyeroll at the title. “-riding into battle upon a griffin, armed with the powers of the Fade and -what was it you'd said? Oh right- his indomitable will.”
Solas' laugh ends on a choked sputter as he sobers up, heat rising to his face all the way to the tips of his ears. What was he even thinking back then, saying something like that to a man who was a near stranger?
He clears his throat, thoroughly avoiding the man's teasing smile.
“I stand by what I said,” he pushes, though his voice sounds strangled to his own ears. “Your sheer power of will allows you to do what few people, let alone mages, would even dream to achieve.”
There's a beat of silence, and Solas dares to look back at the man, who is now much closer than he was before, having climbed back the stone stairs separating them, only stopping a step under Solas. Even there they're not quite at eye-level, the man still hovering a few inches taller.
“Sweet talker.” Kaelhen's voice is low, warm with some much affection that Solas might choke on it.
This conversation has quickly deviated from what Solas had intended it to be. He should be used to being thrown off by the man by now, yet he had hoped that bringing him into this realm that is so familiar and known to him, he might keep a better control of their interaction.
Alas, there he is again, feeling wrong footed and unbalanced by the mortal he finds himself relentlessly captivated by.
There’s something in the way Kaelhen is looking at him now - so much more open that he usually dares to be, bright and expectant and fragile- that makes Solas loathes to tear himself away.
So he takes this moment to let his gaze linger over the man’s features. The stray strands of hair streaking his forehead, the soft line of his brow, the long lashes that brush his skin with every blink, the dark circles under his eyes that have gotten worse since Haven, and worst still since he took his new office.
The curve of his cheek, hollower than it had been a few months ago, days in the sun having speckled the tan skin with a few freckles.
The old scar over the proud bridge of his nose, white and flattened by the years -a particularly rough encounter with a side-table as a child, Kaelhen had laughed about it when he had asked-, the jagged new one running down his left cheek to his jaw, still pink and swollen, a parting gift from Corypheus.
The lines near the edges of his mouth that deepened when he smiled, framing lips that never looked better than when stretching around a grin, though he is partial to the soft, inviting curve of them in that moment-
He is leaning forward unconsciously -for what, he doesn’t dare to linger on- when he breaks from his thoughts and follows that momentum to step around Kaelhen, his feet finding the well-known path to the corner he had claimed near the infirmary.
His face is still burning, and there's a bubble of prideful frustration growing in his chest as he wonders exactly what he is running away from.
He is stewing, grappling with caution, desire, guilt and curiosity when he hears the man approach.
The sound of his boots in the snow is deliberate and louder than what it needs to be, as if to ensure that the elf hears him. Infuriatingly thoughtful.
Kaelhen stops before reaching his side, half a step behind him to his right.
“I apologise,” the man begins softly, uncharacteristically unsure. “if I have-”
“You've done nothing.” Solas cuts him off in a rush, the sparks of his earlier frustration well and truly doused by the man's shaky words. “Nothing worth apologising for at the very least.” He assures with an apologetic smile, glancing back to his friend. “I simply…” he begins, before trailing off on a sigh, returning his gaze to the wooden hedges in front of them.
Kaelhen doesn’t make a sound, patiently waiting for him to continue.
“How easily you throw me off, even here.” Solas breathes, defeated but not unkind as he runs a hand down his face.
His friend shifts and he is pretty sure that there's another apology bubbling on his lips so Solas feels compelled to interrupt before thinking about what he means to say.
“You must understand, I wasn't expecting this.” His heart pounds around what truth threatens to slip out, before he can shape it into something else. He catches himself. “When we met I…”
“Felt the whole world change?” Kaelhen supplies gently, unhelpful but painfully exact.
“A figure of speech.” Solas counters weakly.
“I'm aware of the metaphor.” His friend's voice is closer now, thick with something Solas dares not name. He can almost feel the heat of him across his shoulder from the proximity. “I am more interested in “felt”.”
It would be shameful - he decides then -, disrespectful even, not to address what Kaelhen has been bravely hinting at.
There had been flirtatious quips between them before, exchanged privately, but they were meaningless compared to the mutual fascination that had compelled them to dedicate countless hours to discovering and learning from each other. There was, decidedly, nothing casual or detached about the way Kaelhen bared his fears and sorrows to him after his ordeal in Redcliffe, or the way Solas had kept to his side until he had woken, hands clasped around deathly cold fingers for hours, when they found him nearly frozen to death after the attack on Haven. Nothing even remotely casual about the way they seemed to always seek out each other’s company like it was the most natural order of things, and after only mere weeks together.
So, while he could not play at detachment, Solas could still honour their bond and do the right thing, reaffirm their friendship - nothing more - and spare them both undue pain at the cost of mutual disappointment.
He inhales shakily, bracing himself, but then Kaelhen leans forward and his face comes into view, all warm eyes and softened edges, his chest brushing against the elf’s shoulder and Solas' next words are a betrayal of his intent, yet perfectly faithful to his heart.
“You change… everything.”
There’s a breath or a hundred, and then the delicate caress of fingertips along his jaw, gently tilting his head up. Solas allows the feather-light touch to guide him until his nose brushes with Kaelhen's. They stay there, breathing each other, and time crystalizes.
It’s quiet in conjured Haven, there’s no breeze, no snowfall, not a sound as the very Fade around them stands still.
Solas feels like he's leaning over a precipice, heart pounding in his ears, not daring to jump but too proud -too selfish- to step back.
He hangs at the edge, immobile, and the nauseating swirl of apprehension and all consuming want in his stomach unmoor him enough that he reaches out to wrap a hand around Kaelhen's wrist by his face, steadying himself.
There's something thrilling in feeling the wild echo of the man’s pulse under his fingertips, to know he is as affected by this as he is.
The touch finally seems to nudge Kaelhen into action, and Solas watches, breath caught in his throat, as dark brown eyes speckled with green flutter close and the man leans ever closer.
The first brush of their lips is feather-light, barely a graze and Solas inhales sharply, as if struck. The mere touch opens a chasm of need so great in Solas that he fears it might swallow him whole. This is unwise, foolish, but he can’t keep himself from chasing after the man when he leans back, turning fully toward him so he might wrap his arms around his waist and crush himself to his chest.
He swallows Kaelhen’s quiet gasp, before the man presses back, just as wanting. His hand is cupping the back of Solas’ head now, warm and secure and for it’s far too easy to lose himself to the feeling.
They both break apart for a short, disbelieving moment, blinking at each other, and Solas scrunches his nose at the strands of hair that tickle his face before straining back up to taste Kaelhen's quiet, incredulous laugh.
In the end, after the first few heady kisses, it's the -unseen but felt- muffled distance in the sensations that brings Solas back to the reality of their surroundings like a bucket of icy water.
He tears himself away on a sharp intake of breath, slipping out of Kaelhen's arms. The man nearly stumbles forward before catching himself, confusion in his eyes but still lets him go.
“We shouldn't.” The words tumble out of Solas' still kiss-warm mouth, untethered and shaky. “This isn't right. Not even here.”
He glances away before he sees the realisation dim the light in Kaelhen's eyes. The wind is biting and cold now, howling as the man sighs, jaw tense.
“I'll see you in the morning then.”
Before Solas can offer anything more, to explain or soothe, the world tilts.
When he regains his bearings, he's in a scenery borne of his own memories, and Kaelhen is gone.