Felassan nods. It's a nod that starts shallow, muted, but gets deeper as understanding seeps in. Understanding and something else, sparked between the flint and steel of Solas' phrasing. Maybe Felassan has more recent familiarity with leaders who won't be denied.

"Sure," he says. The dryness in his tone isn't skepticism. More why not. More this might as well happen. "But before we get into that — "

Friendly. Breezy. He'd been the same in the clearing, the dream of the clearing, all why not's and what's the harm's. He suspected he would die. He insisted on doing it talking as he always had, for thousands of years, beginning in a time when Felassan thought it was their rebellion. When he could tell Solas what to do, every now and then. When he could threaten to viciously mock him. When he'd never imagined he might raise a hand to harm him.

" — why have we not spoken in a decade, lethallin?"