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He wondered if he would ever become accustomed to such finery or luxury; many soothed that time would soften the harshness of physicality, that permanence of being. But even that concept—time—was unsettling and foreign. How could he measure that which could not be measured?
Solas sighed as he stared blankly through the ajar balcony doors of his chamber. Sheer curtains billowed in and out of the room, occasionally obscuring the moons with their flickering. Even in this deepness of night, the viridian atmosphere danced and warbled above. It was not by any means bright but it was still there. And what a great comfort it was. He reached out and slowly flexed his hand, stretching those muscles and ligaments. Solas pretended as though he could touch that green skyscape and its ribbons wove as skeins between his fingers. That same hand clenched into a sinewed fist and returned it to returned his side. Solas reminded himself that he chose this life. He chose his form and accepted permanence.
And with this permanence came this luxury and that burden of time. How long had he had this body, anyhow? A day? A month? A millennium? How could he keep count? It still felt as though he only just now bonded to this form. Perhaps he would always feel this way—this…this confusion.
Ah, he thought, that is another annoyance, is it not?
All of these emotions coursing through him and consistently churning with no cease in sight. How did one handle this? Solas would be neutral then feel rage insidiously crawl through him, or experience such a jubilant joy only for it to be tainted by an unbidden remorse. Did dwarves and humans deal with such turmoil at every waking moment?
A single, quiet knock at the door brought him aware to his surroundings. He huffed under his breath and reached to bring the balcony’s entrance to a close. The evening meal awaited and an anticipatory pang in his stomach brought a haste to his step. Another confounding thing - these needs of his body. Hunger, sleep, baths, oils, creams…so much was needed to maintain it. That went without mentioning his hair, which he still could hardly handle. One morning it was fine, the next he contemplated shaving it all away. Alas, on this night he still had to manage it, so he swept it up into a loose hold with a ribbon.
He bound into the hall outside him chamber and swept through a maze of turns. As he went, walls changed from brightly painted and adorned with paintings or the occasional sculpture to raw stone and exposed beams. The palace was near completion and when finally finished, it would be the jewel of Arlathan, perhaps even Elvhenan as a whole. Solas even assisted in its design, as much as June allowed. So, only the occasional tiled mural or rough drafting, but still nonetheless a surely worthy contribution.
Through all his doubts and fears on tethering his spirit to flesh, there was a gratefulness that he made the decision. Mythal strongly compelled him to make the change, but nothing prepared him for the wonder of tangibility. Solas lamented the intrinsic connection to magic and the world, and he always would. To be born of the Fade was a connection like no other.
But to touch? To feel? To create? It was all beautiful. To be grounded meant sacrifice, and Solas would make it worth while. To live.
Solas inhaled very deeply, allowing his chest to stretch, then exhaled in tempered breath. The dining hall was just ahead, and familiar laughter, music, and chatter cascaded through open doors. Inside, there were a variety of low floor tables interspersed between tall ones. Nothing was formal within this hall, and Solas found that perfect. One craved a chair and table? Perfecting fine. One wanted to recline on the floor and hardly move? There would be no problem; it was all the choice of the elvhen.
Though it appeared Solas' choice tonight was already made for him as his usual group situated themselves on the floor.
“Solas!” exclaimed Falon’Din when he saw the man.
Dirthamen, Falon’din, and June made motions for him to join, and Solas rushed as much as he could without appearing silly. These legs of his still had a tendency to somehow stumble him at the most inconvenient moments. Solas scanned faces and counted heads as he approached and noticed she was missing; though Benevolence—Mythal—tended to come and go as she pleased, it was always a great disappointment to find her missing.
Dirthamen gave Solas a clasp to the shoulder as he sat with them. The others made their welcomes to him, though Elgar’nan’s half-hearted. Their table was filled with a variety of savory foods and sweetmeats, but his hunger left when he noticed Mythal’s absence. Still, he ate what he could as he knew this form would protest if he did not. He had already learned the lesson of ignoring meals, and he was not willing to learn it again.
“So,” Elgar’nan began, “what of this Sylaise, June?”
June blinked in surprise at the sudden question and took a second to mull over his answer. “I believe she shall prove useful. The People adore her.”
“The People love me,” Elgar’nan replied with a smile, “but that is not why they look up to me, is it?”
“You…are correct.” June’s posture stiffened slightly.
“I know I am,” the All-Father agreed with a humorous huff. “Now,” he started and waved his hand, “tell me more about her, June.”
“Sylaise has been there since the first birth and now guides many through the process. None have died under her care.”
"The first birth?" Elgar'nan repeated with approval in his voice. “Arrange the meeting.”
June smiled, then. “Absolutely.”
“Is this wise?” Dirthamen suddenly interjected. “Allowing more into our space?”
Elgar'nan's features downturned and he silently urged him to continue his thought.
Dirthamen explained, “You eye Andruil for promotion, and now another you’ve yet to even speak with.”
The elder god plucked his metal cup from beside him and swirled its contents. A lengthy drink followed. “I understand your hesitancy, I do. For what is to come, we need a group the People can follow for guidance. And we will need one that represents battle for the wars to come, and one that blesses the new souls that join.”
Dirthamen remained silent, remaining unconvinced. Falon’Din glanced at Dirthamen with an unreadable countenance, and Solas perhaps detected a hint of frustration. Did the two halves not agree?
Elgar’nan leaned forward and scanned each of their faces. Solas thought he must have imagined it, but the elder god’s eyes felt like they remained on him for a fraction longer. He imbibed the rest of his libation and rose. “I suppose I shall reveal my surprise early,” he told them. Elgar’nan turned to the dining patrons and announced loudly for all to hear, “We require privacy.”
Some grumbled and hemmed and hawed, but they left in a promptly manner with whatever food they took with them. Elgar’nan spoke to a nearby steward before turning towards them with a small smile. “I hope this will ease your worries, Dirthamen.”
Soon, two young elvhen came in. Both were somewhat nervous, but they were more eager than anything else. They bowed to Elgar’nan, and the man gave them a hearty, appreciative laugh.
“You needn’t bow, my brave children,” Elgar’nan said with a voice full of abrupt warmth. “Come.”
Solas sensed the signature of Elgar’nan’s powerful magic consuming the two elvhen. What had he done to them? What had he done?
Elgar’nan released the spell he had on the two, and raw, black curved markings revealed on the foreheads of the Elvhen. “We shall each have a mark that our followers will bear. Once fealty is pledged, the ink cannot be removed.”
Questions were asked and answers given, but Solas heard them none. Elgar’nan meant to brand the People, to entrench and further the divide, to further heighten the status so-called Evanuris. Solas knew this would happen—he knew! Elgar’nan always wanted and sought for more, there was no satisfaction to be had for the man.
“Madness,” Solas stated, breaking whatever topic there was.
Elgar'nan repeated with a hint of mockery, "Madness?"
"You know it is."
“Say your piece, perhaps you can sway my mind.”
“Is there a piece to be had?” Solas frowned.
Elgar’nan chuckled at that. “These flesh born children are without the experience, how are they to learn? As they grow, we will need order. We will need the vallaslin, Solas.”
“Vallaslin,” Solas repeated acerbically, “you truly think the People will accept this change?”
“Benevolence believes so.” Elgar’nan flashed him a wicked, knowing smile.
A mixture of emotions roiled with Solas, something he’d never experienced. White-hot anger, disgust, disappointment. He felt the urge to cry or fight or scream or perhaps even vomit. Wisdom was never meant to feel so much, for the volatility and uncertainty of being.
Solas whipped on his heels and ignored the hand that reached out to him. As he wended through the half-finished palace toward Mythal’s wing, he somewhat regained his composure. Surely, the elder god lied; Mythal would have never approved of such an action.
And if she did?
She couldn’t have. The All-Mother to the People would not do so. And Solas held onto this belief as long as possible, but the closer he grew to the wing, the more unsure he became. Mythal would do anything for the Elvhen if she thought it a benefit.
His hand suspended over a handle of the double doors leading to her chamber. Even in this hesitation, Wisdom knew the truth. But he needed to hear it from her. He closed his hand over the handle and twisted while knocking with the other. “Mythal,” he announced while entering.
“The study,” her voice carried.
In a few long strides, he made it to the study and stood at the doorframe. Bent over her desk, Mythal’s hair cascaded down in messy bundles of hair. Her cheeks were slightly sallow, and her arms were willowy as she held her head and pored over a piece of parchment. He dress sat poorly on her as it wrinkled in several places from thoughtless movement. She was beautiful, even in such a state. Like this, to him, she radiated most. This was the spirit he found wandering the Fade so long ago.
“What is it?” she asked him without looking up.
Solas took a step within the office and immediately felt her magic curl against his in familiarity. He was thankful that even with their forms, such signatures were not lost.
“Vallaslin. Is it true?”
Her eyes snapped to his and a mild shock replaced the focus she’d just worn. “Elgar'nan,” she accused.
Solas nodded.
Mythal cursed under her breath. “Of course.” She shook her head and cursed again.
“Mythal,” Solas began, “he said you support the venture.”
“I do.” She locked her gaze onto his and adjusted her posture, head held high. “It is the way forward.”
Oh, he knew this emotion now. Anger. “You sound like him!”
“Perhaps I do.” Mythal took a quick breath. “But we are growing too fast, something needs to be done.”
“You told me you needed my wisdom, Mythal. To withstand the louder voice that would go too far.” He came closer to her. “This is too far.”
Her brows knitted and her head swiveled away. “It is what must be, Solas. I am sorry.”
“And you?” he questioned, rage and disappointment shaking within him. “Tell me, will you forge your own brand?”
She stayed quiet.
“You already have,” he uttered in a low voice. “I am made a fool, it seems.”
“Solas…” Mythal closed her eyes for a moment that did not last. They opened in surprise when Solas shuffled to her.
Solas kneeled before Mythal in her chair, a firm expression etched into his features. “I will wear it.”
She pushed him away from her and stood; her wrinkled dress fell to the floor with a soft thud as the chair screeched in the rushed, harried movement.
“Get up.”
Solas stayed firmly rooted in his place.
“Get up!” she repeated, but it was for naught.
“If the People are to be branded, I shall as well.”
They stared at one another for a long while. Solas saw how her eyes flickered away often and how tightly she grasped the sides of the dress. Her magic frantically bounced around him and he felt her coaxing him nonverbally. He repelled all attempts.
He spoke, “Bring whatever and whoever you need. I shall wait.”
Mythal sat back in her chair and seized Solas’s face in her hands, jerking his face up toward her. Wisps of her black hair tickled at his throat and cheeks. She provided no warning before her forceful magic carved itself into his skin. Every score, every curve, he keenly endured. The trails followed along his eyebrows and branched toward his hair line.
When he recognized what the vallaslin mimicked, he thought his heart might have broken. He hadn’t experienced this before, so was not sure at first. But as the lines burned and seared themselves into him, that ache and rip in chest was undeniable. He held his breath to prevent it from becoming shaky and tensed his jaw rather than squeeze his eyes further shut.
“It is done.”
Solas blinked through the minor channels of blood that made their journey toward his neck. “Thank you.”
“This is nothing to thank.” One hand still held him, and its thumb rested in the middle of his chin. She held his head as she dragged her other sleeve around his face to pat away as much blood she could. She dared not touch the fresh wounds she just made.
“You used no ink,” he remarked, still somewhat dazed.
“Not for you.” Her bloodstained hands fell away him. Silence filled between them
He pressed his lips together and swallowed. “I will…be on my way.” Solas slowly rose from his crouch.
“Wait—” she voiced and stood along with him.
“There is nothing left to be done or said, Mythal,” Solas spoke softly.
She rested her head on his chest; their hearts beat rhythmically. Mythal raised her head and kissed him. “No, there is not,” she said just as softly afterward.
As Solas held her, he thought them spirits once more roaming the impalpability of the Fade. They could encounter and understand all. There were no walls or rules. No one to tell them what to do or where to go.
But they were not in the Fade.
Solas did not trust himself to speak, so he simply left her and turned away. As he exited her wing, he caught a glimpse of himself in a nearby mirror. Though bloodied and red, faint light grey marks were etched into his skin in cruel mockery of what was not.