Mist and Silver Sun

Rain pelted down outside the Repository in a satisfying thrum on the windows. Sitting at his desk, piled high as it was with tomes that needed correcting and amending, black journals that awaited his thoughts and memories to be catalogued within their pages, maps that needed traced and noted, scraps of paper here and there with errant bits and to-dos from other people, pots of ink that were carefully stoppered as to not be knocked over by a stay hand. It was the desk of a chaotic mind, though such things never showed on his face. There, most would only ever find order and composure and cool gray eyes that seemed to bore straight into the soul. 

That day the gloom of his study was illuminated by both lanterns that were typically only used in the depths of the night that saw him still hard at work, both captive flames born of his hand dancing within the glass, alive and beautiful, casting their golden rays across the small room. He spoke to them as if they truly were living, sometimes they were the only words he would speak in a day if there were none in Arlathan that were seeking him out for some menial task that they needed, typically those individuals needed pointed in the direction of a particular tome and nothing more. Very occasionally someone would ask him a direction question where it pertained to a history. Those individuals were given what they required and notated in his mind with a slight fondness. 

But that do, no one had seen fit to pester the archivist, and so it was to the flames that he spoke. It is right here that the prior author was wrong. I'm not quite sure where he got the idea that vallaslin were an all encompassing pain. It honestly wasn't that bad. It's these little things in these tomes that need corrected, even if the information is available at large now if one knows who to ask. It is the tomes that are likely to outlast us at this rate. Of course, there was no answer from the dancing flames of his lanterns.

Arlathan was glorious, even if it had not been the Arlathan that he had known. Vela (and reportedly, Mythal) were doing wonderous things here. He had told Vela, and he had meant it, that perhaps her Arlathan was only as glorious as it needed to be. She had hoped he'd be proud, and he was.

Not only of the city, but of her. He'd stayed, with very little prompting. He had, in fact, asked if he may stay. Skyhold was always going to be there; he'd protected it and warded it. Hidden it from non-elvhen eyes. Non-elves who approached Skyhold would see only ruin.

And as one might, when they move into a new city, he was exploring. Some of it was familiar, the same. Other parts of it were not. His steps had eventually carried him into the Repository, to see what history Vela had found.

He had yet to meet anyone that was worth revealing himself to. Vela knew the truth, thusfar. But as he wandered the Repository, lithe fingers wandering over the spines of tombs, brushing across scroll casing. Some of this knowledge was very old, saved from the rubble of kingdoms past.

Some of it was newer, re-recorded by somebody in the depths of this place. He heard a voice, and listened for another. Hearing none, he followed the sound of the voice — curiosity piqued.

It sounded familiar.

As he stepped into the office doorway, he paused, taking in the flaming hair, the familiar tone. Quiet, trying to decide if he was correct. Never one to make a fool of himself. Vallaslin could be painful, though. Especially the more the subject resisted. The more willing the subject, the less pain. Finally, he spoke. He had never had vallaslin; but he had witnessed the reactions of many an elf when they received theirs.

If it had been for a punishment, the new markings could hurt worse than markings on the face or wrists. It was a fascinating process of dehumanization and branding.

Well yes, that may be- began his immediate response, caught up in his work as he was, before realizing that he had in fact received a response. Looking up from his work, the gold of his vallaslin catching the firelight and gleaming on one side of his face, casting the other half in gentle shadow. He hardly looked like he'd aged at all, the softness of his youth only marred by scars, but not by time. Time had not touched him in that deep sleep. But the voice that he heard was one that he had not in so long, though the face did not match. Doubt played across his features, some trick of the cosmos meant to scatter his mind and give a false hope. To provide an end to the great ache of loneliness that he felt in his chest. 

Did he dare to hope? Wasn't that what he had to cling to in these years that he was little more than a ghost among the stacks? Hope was such a dangerous thing. 

Solas....? There was some level of skepticism within his tone. Some part of him wanted to be careful here, to be doubtful and protect himself. But such was not truly in his nature. It never was. To protect others, sure. But his heart was a fragile and soft thing, often left up to others in his life to protect, and in their absence, he dared hope. 

It was hope that kept him going. 

Rising from his seat with the familiar stiffness in his body, there was no more hesitation as he crossed the somewhat cluttered space of his study, pulling the taller elf to him and wrapping his arms around him with what strength he still possessed. Small hands gripped the back of his clothing, needing to hold on. Old friend... It is good to see you. a laughter had entered his voice for the first time in a long time. Where have you been? Come, sit. Shake the rain off of you. There's so much to tell you. but still he did not move to let go. Not for a long moment letting himself find solace in the touch of another did he finally back off and let the man breathe again.

Solas raised his eyebrows, as he let the younger man hug him. Just the person I wanted to find. He smiled, settling his hands on the others shoulders. But my friend, you trust too easily. It was said in a gentle tone, a scolding voice. Like he'd use with his child.

He rubbed the Fae's shoulders comfortingly, chuckling. Well, I can only sit if you release me, Faelyn. It was nice, knowing the man had survived the creation of the Veil.

Sometimes, when it was dark and quiet enough, Solas wondered how many of his friends he had killed with the creation of the Veil.

How many loyal Sylvas had never woken up?

How many friends did the removal of the Veil kill?

It was a cycle.

And it haunted him, but he'd never be honest about that. That was his problem, and no-one else's.

The moment is drawn out, long. Faelyn is familiar, safe, and old. It's almost like he'd walked into the repository centuries ago.

Eventually, he's released. And he settled into a seat by the fire, resisting the urge to shake himself like the wolf he was.

Mythal had taught him manners, after all.

There was a familiar softness to his face, a light that only existed after his freedom came. But still, it was there for him. You may think that but you know very well that left to my own devices I must find some manner of trouble to get myself into. At least in my personal life. Work, that is far a different thing. Work remains as it always has been. A very serious business. Faelyn wouldn't apologize for seeking the affection from him, even in knowing he wasn't the most touchy of people. More often than not he'd restrained himself in years past, respecting the boundary. But when one hasn't seen a beloved friend, that he'd thought lost to the ages, some things could be excused, if only for a moment. 

Silas will be happy to know that you're safe when he awakens. Cian too, I'm sure, wherever he may be. there was an attempt to keep the sadness from his voice, to focus on the man in front of him now, though they were his friends once too. Solas deserved to know that they at least still lived, even if the truth was a complicated and painful thing. The blanket was taken from the back of his desk chair and settled around his friend's shoulders before he resumed his seat at his desk. Come then, let's hear it. I can't be the only one causing trouble anymore. What have you gotten that nose of yours into this time, hm?

Studying his old friend and insurgent, Solas raised his eyebrows. You always were too serious, Fae. He chided again, as if that'd change anything. Nothing could break those habits.

Ah, so you know where Silas is? He seemed pleased by this, though the implication of Cian was that there was no idea where that husband rested. Interesting. He wondered how they had become parted.

Now wasn't the time to ask, though.

Ah, just the usual. Breaking elves out of alienages, bringing city walls down around me. He smirked, as he settled into the blanket. Searching for shards, like this one, he held the Falon'din amulet up.

It glistened in the firelight. Caused a bit of trouble to a Dalish clan on the Amaranthine coast. I need somewhere safe to keep him, until I can find the second shard, revive him, and well... kill him.

I do, yes... He's here in Arlathan. He's safe. We arrived some four years ago now when I awoke. But that is... a complicated topic for another time, perhaps. There was a soft smile on his face, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other at the ankle. It was a relaxed position for him, as relaxed as he could be, anyway. But it was the gentle creases at the corners of his eyes with his smile that really gave it away; The happiness he had in seeing his old friend after so long. 

You've been quite busy. Though I can't say I'm surprised. You, like the rest of us, don't know how to take a day off. Almost everyone that had associated with the Dread Wolf had the same drive and work ethic that led them often to destructive behaviors in their pursuits. Passionate was the more polite word. 

Faelyn had a brush with another shard hunter, Avorra, not too long ago. Disagreeable as she was, it had still afforded a direct insight that the archivist had been missing up to that point. The true understanding that those that hunted them would stop at nothing to find them. There was a thoughtful hum, choosing his words carefully as he looked at the glimmering stone, and then back to Solas. I would say two things. The first is that you are quite daring to be carrying that around. I would council you caution, but then again, things do not change when too much caution is taken. Faelyn had every reason to be a cautious creature. It was what had kept him, and many other slaves safe while he worked with the very man who sat before him to get them to safety. 

The second, is that I would remind you of what I said many years ago. That I would always be here. And that I would answer your call if you ever had need of me again. His voice was soft, gentle. Those words had been some of the last he'd said to Solas so long ago before his life turned from insurrectionist to husband and father. But nonetheless, Faelyn would always be a man of his word. In whatever capacity was needed, he would be there.