Lathbora Viran

“Did you think it was that easy?” She says, and Solas has little time to acknowledge his shock before she has turned to face him, a smile on her face. It is not a happy smile, however, perhaps partly pained, partly smug, as if she is remembering something bittersweet. No doubt she is, as the last time they were here together was kinder to them both.

Up here the air is cold, thin, some faint snow carried in along the violent winds, howling, yet it feels to Solas as if all is silent.

She had caught him mid stride - and too late he stepped closer only to stop himself. His throat is dry - would she offer tea, smiling with such dead eyes? She might, he thinks, but does not say. There stands before him a woman scorned, perhaps feeling his own heart is as cold as the weather. He prefers her hatred to the alternative.

“I have long gotten used to things being the opposite of easy.” He says, worn, of all his obstacles, the hardest would rise up again, press their mighty weight against him like some raging, malevolent sea, like these great and terrible snow winds. Though she does not know it, she offers him both salvation and temptation, a blessing and a curse, great joy defined by great pain.

Something flickers across her face - a small joy, a greater pain, as if his words wound her in more ways than one, so familiar to a time when she could have kissed away his pain rather than increase it.

“Then why does it surprise you to find me here?” She says quietly, tilting her head, some quiet challenge, partly anger. She is hurting from him and him alone, his words with give her no comfort, offer no relief, grant her no healing. He is trapped, knowing all actions will wound her, only daring to hope he can choose the path that hurts her least.

He takes her question only to deflect, he has learned in the past that accepting another’s anger is like accepting a blow from a sword - better to let them wear out theirs rather than draw upon his own. His supply had long been depleted in the face of his trials.

“I am only surprised that it did not occur to me that you would.” Solas murmurs, a heavy weight on his heart, on his shoulders, that he should have been ready for this, for something. He should know her well enough to know she would not so quickly let go, that her stubbornness saved as much as it wasted. But they were not something that could be salvaged, even if he could not tell her so.

“What do you want, Solas?” She says softly, and all of her has changed - the gauze of anger, some viper ready to strike - slips off, pools around her feet, with the false smile, she is mournful again, stepping towards him, as if no longer venom but balm, ready to apply herself to his tattered soul, as if the marking on her hand could just as likely heal him as it could the sky.

In tandem with her, a twisted dance, he steps away, hands up to ward her off, “I, Ir abelas.” But the answers he could are too many, and reveal too much, “I cannot say, forgive me.”

She stops, a smaller smile, such hurt showing beneath the surface, and he can see she had thought of this, of her boundaries, of where he would let her meet him, that she had forgotten for one moment what they were now. She turns to look away, eyes closed, voice lost.

He had seen that face before, once, knew now that when there were tears at her threshold she did not squeeze her eyes shut, had learned from too many experiences that it furthered their appearance rather than hid them. “Of course,” She said, voice low to try and hide the tears in her voice, “Abelas, ma v-“ She took a deep and sudden breath, shaking her head slightly as if to shake the wrong words from her lips. Then she straightened, some small agony in her smile as she said, “Falon.“

“We cannot be.” He said quietly, “Please, leave this place behind you, seek a better life, a happier one. I cannot give -”

Perhaps he has forgotten how to speak to her, for each word he speaks now seems to cause her more pain than the last. She laughs, a quick and virulent sound, a double edged blade that cuts her as it cuts him, and even when it ends their wounds do not go. “You will not let me go with you, not even to help you! How can -“ She begins to pace even as her words fall away, such life within her, such energy. He has grown so tired, worn as thin as the veil, feeling every victory is just less a loss than usual.

“There is no happiness for me, Solas.” She says finally, “It is too late, too late to say that.” Quietly, more to herself, a stolen thought that flies on the errant winds, “Perhaps since first we met.”

She shakes her head again, the icy winds frantic at her face. She turns to gaze out over the expanse of white, then, with a blank face, turns and walks past him, conceding to his request, “Ma nuvenin.” She says and then she is gone.

It is gently, when she thinks he is too far away, surrounded by the lonely winter winds where he cannot hear, that a soft and sad voice whispers to his ear along the falling snow, "Dareth shiral, ma vhenan.”