I am at my home, but this conversation is highly personal. If you wish, we can meet somewhere else.
[He is still recovering from his injuries, and tires easily, but he thinks Beleth will forgive him for ranging abroad, and alone, for this much. Or, he hopes she will.]
[He gives Kion the address, and it's a but of a tedious walk, either from the tavern's world-portals, or the docks for air and sea ships both. Beleth and Solas like their privacy, it would seem! The road Kion must walk passes through the Grey Ward, past the market stalls and places of business, past fine city manors in crowded residential districts, and finally out to where the city itself finally starts to peter out. On the east and west borders of the Ward, this would be farmland, and eventually another town, houses clustered like toys on the horizon, but this border of the chief city of the Dryad domain is forest, and trees grow thickly between houses here, such as that when one arrives at their house no other home is visible for the tree-cover.
It was a ruin when they found it, and is now a blocky, low-lying building, covered in murals and liberally festooned with greenery that overgrows the tiled roof. Painted halla are poised mid-run behind the fig-vines and silver-eyed wolves stare out from curtains of ivy, amongst deep violet glades and delicately-rendered wisps. The door stands open, flanked on one side by a black wolf and on the other a regal doe-Halla, and down a long hallway, the garden is a riot of color and life, the fountain bubbling cheerfully away.
Solas is there, his feet bare in the grass, hands folded behind his back, and dressed very humbly: pale blue robes in a comfortable cut, layered over a deeper blue tunic. His Visitor's gem, a sapphire, is knotted in twine and hanging from his neck when he feels Rook cross the wards, and turns.]
Rook. I trust you did not find the journey too arduous.
[Comparatively, it's not a bad walk at all. And Kion generally likes to be out and moving, more than happy for another reason to get a look at the Grey Ward, even if for the moment he's simply passing through. The trees are a comfort in a way, the elf feeling a faint sense of release at the sound of wind rustling the leaves.
And the home he'd been directed to... familiarity of the style of murals, the subjects just had him hit with homesickness more keenly than the vague sense of it he'd felt before. Not that it stopped him looking at them, admiring the shape of them amidst the lush greenery the residents had encouraged.
Kion, like Solas, was dressed simply, barefoot as was his preference, a simple sort of jacket and high-waisted pants in darker browns, a tunic in a richer teal. He couldn't help but smile, with a nod of greeting.]
Hardly. It does me good to get out and moving. [A pause, gaze moving over the garden, admiring the colors of the blossoms, some familiar, others not.] Your home is beautiful.
[He gestures at the plants. But then, you've seen what kind of home Solas makes, when left to his own devices: cold, lonely, with only a bare path between work, bed, and food to mark the days. Yes, it was Beleth's doing, to make what was otherwise only shelter, into something worth making beautiful; into a home.]
I wish to speak with you about the ritual site, where first we crossed paths. And of our mutual— [He falters. Once, not so long ago, he would have said "acquaintance" without a moment's pause, papering over every argument and conversation, every long night at camp, and every shared moment of history with Varric in that word. They had shared a journey, nothing more, and don't read too much into it. He is trying to be more honest, these days.] —Our mutual friend, Varric Tethras.
[Kion can't help but smile at the response, nodding his understanding. Because... yeah, Solas wasn't one to make a place particularly homey that he'd found. At least not before. Maybe now he'd branch out? But they clearly weren't here to talk decorating tips.
The falter to Solas' voice catches his ear, makes it clear beyond any doubt that what they were here to talk about... it was serious. And to the other, it seemed fraught in some way. Kion wasn't sure what to expect here, brow furrowing slightly as he cast thoughts back with a faint frown.]
I... remember it. Somewhat, it was all rather chaotic even before I was injured. Things are a bit muddled as a result.
[What about this had tension coiling in his chest already?]
Yes. You were injured at the ritual site, and Varric...
[He hesitates, ever the coward. Solas presses his lips, inhales deeply, and hold the breath... then lets it go.]
Our conversation, afterwards, in the Fade. I told you that I had forged the connection between us with Blood Magic, from what you had shed from your injury. I did not tell you that I had done something more, at the same time.
[Logically, objectively, Kion knew that this wasn't the Solas from his world. That there could be any number of differences aside from the identities of the Inquisitor, of Rook.
But so much lined up that it had a faint thread of unease crawling up his spine in a way that had tension slipping into his posture. The connection he knew about, for all the idea of Blood Magic used to manipulate unsettled him it was a useful thing. And with Neve around, there was no way the idea of Solas sneakily adding some other effect hadn't come up. Multiple times. But the admission was still somewhat startling.]
Okay. Not thrilled to hear that, but circumstances as they were... [He could understand the why, even if he still didn't like it. He took a steadying breath.] What was the 'something more'?
I cannot know if the Solas of your memories did exactly as I have. But I believe it likely. If that is true, then your memories, your very perception of reality, has been subject to a subtle manipulation. Your friend... our friend, Varric...
[And still he hesitates, a moment longer, as if merely delaying the inevitable will allow for the executioner's sword to never fall.]
Varric is dead. I killed him, that day.
[He says it softly, his hands clasped behind his back, facing Kion with his guard deliberately open. There is, in the end, no softening the blow.]
[It's likely unsurprising that it takes a moment for what Solas says to sink in. The smaller elf staring at him, expression shifting in small ways that betrayed the rapid internal thought process, accompanied by the slight pull of pointed ears downward. A subtle tell, but noticeable all the same.]
He... might not have. Like you said- [But even as he said it, in that rasped uncertain tone, it sounded wrong on his tongue in an uncomfortably familiar way. The bitter taste of denial, for all he hadn't realized it before.] He might not have-
[He shook his head, though it was hard to say if he was denying the idea, or dispelling the chance of it not happening. Even Kion wasn't sure in the moment, hands pressed against the sides of his thighs to stop them shaking.]
If... who-[A rattling sort of breath interrupting the thought.] who was I talking to then?
The mind is flexible; a hallucination, an invention of the imagination to justify the mandate that Varric's death be disguised. You were speaking only to yourself, and hearing whatever seemed most rational to you in the moment.
You will not remember anyone else acknowledging Varric's survival, of course. Nor would he have spoken to any of the others; the illusion is restricted only to you.
[It was a fragile illusion, of course. If someone had pointed it out directly, that Varric was dead, if they had argued it rather than simply accepting Rook's behavior as a product of grief and stress and the peculiarities of the individual... Well. That might have made a different end to the story.]
But he- [But he hadn't, Kion was realizing, with a slowly dawning horror. Even whenever another had been in the room, they'd never interacted with Varric that he could recall. Anything that even sounded like it might have been an exchange had been... commentary that didn't require response.
It made Beleth's comments when they'd had their fight before the chaos with Triton make... an unpleasant amount of sense.
No wonder he hadn't felt any comfort when he'd sent off his lanterns. He'd been missing one.
The ground almost seemed to be sliding under his feet, and he lifted a hand to rake over his hair, gaze dropping as he struggled with the truth that Solas was offering, quavering fingers tensing against braids.]
I- I think I'm going to be sick.
[Barely hearing Solas's apology through the pulse pounding through his ears, his own vague sort of tone muted like he was hearing it from under water's surface.]
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
voice; @dreadwolf
[No, that is wrong. He tries again.]
Kion Aldwir. We must speak on a topic of... some personal import. It would be best if this were done face-to-face.
no subject
Depending on what this topic was, this could go really well, or could be a mess.]
Face-to-face? Sure, that's fine by me. Did you have somewhere in mind?
no subject
[He is still recovering from his injuries, and tires easily, but he thinks Beleth will forgive him for ranging abroad, and alone, for this much. Or, he hopes she will.]
I leave the choice to you.
no subject
no subject
[He gives Kion the address, and it's a but of a tedious walk, either from the tavern's world-portals, or the docks for air and sea ships both. Beleth and Solas like their privacy, it would seem! The road Kion must walk passes through the Grey Ward, past the market stalls and places of business, past fine city manors in crowded residential districts, and finally out to where the city itself finally starts to peter out. On the east and west borders of the Ward, this would be farmland, and eventually another town, houses clustered like toys on the horizon, but this border of the chief city of the Dryad domain is forest, and trees grow thickly between houses here, such as that when one arrives at their house no other home is visible for the tree-cover.
It was a ruin when they found it, and is now a blocky, low-lying building, covered in murals and liberally festooned with greenery that overgrows the tiled roof. Painted halla are poised mid-run behind the fig-vines and silver-eyed wolves stare out from curtains of ivy, amongst deep violet glades and delicately-rendered wisps. The door stands open, flanked on one side by a black wolf and on the other a regal doe-Halla, and down a long hallway, the garden is a riot of color and life, the fountain bubbling cheerfully away.
Solas is there, his feet bare in the grass, hands folded behind his back, and dressed very humbly: pale blue robes in a comfortable cut, layered over a deeper blue tunic. His Visitor's gem, a sapphire, is knotted in twine and hanging from his neck when he feels Rook cross the wards, and turns.]
Rook. I trust you did not find the journey too arduous.
no subject
And the home he'd been directed to... familiarity of the style of murals, the subjects just had him hit with homesickness more keenly than the vague sense of it he'd felt before. Not that it stopped him looking at them, admiring the shape of them amidst the lush greenery the residents had encouraged.
Kion, like Solas, was dressed simply, barefoot as was his preference, a simple sort of jacket and high-waisted pants in darker browns, a tunic in a richer teal. He couldn't help but smile, with a nod of greeting.]
Hardly. It does me good to get out and moving. [A pause, gaze moving over the garden, admiring the colors of the blossoms, some familiar, others not.] Your home is beautiful.
no subject
[He gestures at the plants. But then, you've seen what kind of home Solas makes, when left to his own devices: cold, lonely, with only a bare path between work, bed, and food to mark the days. Yes, it was Beleth's doing, to make what was otherwise only shelter, into something worth making beautiful; into a home.]
I wish to speak with you about the ritual site, where first we crossed paths. And of our mutual— [He falters. Once, not so long ago, he would have said "acquaintance" without a moment's pause, papering over every argument and conversation, every long night at camp, and every shared moment of history with Varric in that word. They had shared a journey, nothing more, and don't read too much into it. He is trying to be more honest, these days.] —Our mutual friend, Varric Tethras.
Do you remember that day?
no subject
The falter to Solas' voice catches his ear, makes it clear beyond any doubt that what they were here to talk about... it was serious. And to the other, it seemed fraught in some way. Kion wasn't sure what to expect here, brow furrowing slightly as he cast thoughts back with a faint frown.]
I... remember it. Somewhat, it was all rather chaotic even before I was injured. Things are a bit muddled as a result.
[What about this had tension coiling in his chest already?]
no subject
[He hesitates, ever the coward. Solas presses his lips, inhales deeply, and hold the breath... then lets it go.]
Our conversation, afterwards, in the Fade. I told you that I had forged the connection between us with Blood Magic, from what you had shed from your injury. I did not tell you that I had done something more, at the same time.
no subject
But so much lined up that it had a faint thread of unease crawling up his spine in a way that had tension slipping into his posture. The connection he knew about, for all the idea of Blood Magic used to manipulate unsettled him it was a useful thing. And with Neve around, there was no way the idea of Solas sneakily adding some other effect hadn't come up. Multiple times. But the admission was still somewhat startling.]
Okay. Not thrilled to hear that, but circumstances as they were... [He could understand the why, even if he still didn't like it. He took a steadying breath.] What was the 'something more'?
no subject
[And still he hesitates, a moment longer, as if merely delaying the inevitable will allow for the executioner's sword to never fall.]
Varric is dead. I killed him, that day.
[He says it softly, his hands clasped behind his back, facing Kion with his guard deliberately open. There is, in the end, no softening the blow.]
no subject
He... might not have. Like you said- [But even as he said it, in that rasped uncertain tone, it sounded wrong on his tongue in an uncomfortably familiar way. The bitter taste of denial, for all he hadn't realized it before.] He might not have-
[He shook his head, though it was hard to say if he was denying the idea, or dispelling the chance of it not happening. Even Kion wasn't sure in the moment, hands pressed against the sides of his thighs to stop them shaking.]
If... who-[A rattling sort of breath interrupting the thought.] who was I talking to then?
no subject
You will not remember anyone else acknowledging Varric's survival, of course. Nor would he have spoken to any of the others; the illusion is restricted only to you.
[It was a fragile illusion, of course. If someone had pointed it out directly, that Varric was dead, if they had argued it rather than simply accepting Rook's behavior as a product of grief and stress and the peculiarities of the individual... Well. That might have made a different end to the story.]
Ir abelas, Kion. I am sorry.
no subject
It made Beleth's comments when they'd had their fight before the chaos with Triton make... an unpleasant amount of sense.
No wonder he hadn't felt any comfort when he'd sent off his lanterns. He'd been missing one.
The ground almost seemed to be sliding under his feet, and he lifted a hand to rake over his hair, gaze dropping as he struggled with the truth that Solas was offering, quavering fingers tensing against braids.]
I- I think I'm going to be sick.
[Barely hearing Solas's apology through the pulse pounding through his ears, his own vague sort of tone muted like he was hearing it from under water's surface.]