If you did not know Felassan, you might take it simply for a listening pose, the expression of a man turning over the idea in his head. Solas, who has watched him scheme and joke and lie his way through six millennia can practically hear the gears grinding inside his skull. Is he lying? Is there a way to tell? Does it make a difference? What to do about it?

He waits, to see where the arrow will fall. Then it inevitably does, the barb strikes true, and his instantaneous, sour expression is unfeigned. He fights against it for a moment, and then— ugh.

"She did not have an army when we began," He sneers— or rather, he wants it to be a sneer. It comes out a bit whinier than that, and he has to actively resist the urge to stand up and go do... something. Throttle him, perhaps, "Make that comparison in her presence and you will earn the fate you receive. What is that Dalish proverb? Dirthara ma."

You spend ten years wallowing in grief and regret, missing your friend, and when by some miracle you finally get him back? You immediately want to shove him into the fountain. Felassan hasn't changed one bit.