Expecting he would die and knowing he died are two different things. More importantly, suspecting his friend would kill him and knowing it with certainty are two different things. Any splinter of lingering hope that he might still have meant enough for Solas to listen to him — not even agree with him, perhaps, but hear him out, answer him, consider him worth the possibility of persuading or being persuaded by him — is yanked out, leaving only the concrete knowledge that he didn't.
It matters.
It would matter more if it weren't held against a backdrop of millennia of bickering, scheming, laughing. Brotherhood. Less of that and he might disregard the too-public setting and interject into Solas' stumbling story: look at me, coward. Less of that and he might — for lack of magic to let him do much else — shove him. As it is, he does still briefly consider it, hand curling into a fist and uncurling again in the next breath.
A quieter anger, close to resignation, wins out. He doesn't move from where he stands. He doesn't open his mouth to say anything. He lets Solas trail off, and he lets silence follow, without question or joke or reassurance offered to bail him out of whatever thought he can't finish.
no subject
It matters.
It would matter more if it weren't held against a backdrop of millennia of bickering, scheming, laughing. Brotherhood. Less of that and he might disregard the too-public setting and interject into Solas' stumbling story: look at me, coward. Less of that and he might — for lack of magic to let him do much else — shove him. As it is, he does still briefly consider it, hand curling into a fist and uncurling again in the next breath.
A quieter anger, close to resignation, wins out. He doesn't move from where he stands. He doesn't open his mouth to say anything. He lets Solas trail off, and he lets silence follow, without question or joke or reassurance offered to bail him out of whatever thought he can't finish.