The apology softens the edges of Felassan's expression into something pensive, conflict turned inward, and it stays that way until Beleth reenters the room with her chair. He doesn't do her the disservice of pretending he's been smiling this entire time. One unfurls on his face more slowly as she speaks.
Annoyed. Clever. Calm. He was not lying to Solas when he said he liked her already. That doesn't mean he wouldn't lie to her, of course; a look from Solas, and he would conjure a half-plausible tale that required them both to be only as old as they look, whatever understanding her tone had previously implied. But such a look doesn't come.
So he says, "I did not 'grow up,' fen'vaslanelan," first of all, "but we had halla butter when the halla thought we deserved it."
He sounds fond. He is fond. Ghilan'nain did at least that one thing right. He steps closer to take one of the cakes, and he doesn't sit down in the chair she's been so kind as to leave empty for him, but he doesn't retreat back to the wall again, either.
"The first one I rode was called Tarasyldhe. One of many called Tarasyldhe," he amends. "She might as well have had wings. We lost her pushing back one of Falon'Din's incursions," comes quieter, "and the world has never seen another like her."
This is statistically improbable. There were likely a dozen like her at the same time she lived. But Felassan did have a childhood in at least one sense of the word: everything new, nothing calloused, first horses the best and first losses the hardest.
no subject
Annoyed. Clever. Calm. He was not lying to Solas when he said he liked her already. That doesn't mean he wouldn't lie to her, of course; a look from Solas, and he would conjure a half-plausible tale that required them both to be only as old as they look, whatever understanding her tone had previously implied. But such a look doesn't come.
So he says, "I did not 'grow up,' fen'vaslanelan," first of all, "but we had halla butter when the halla thought we deserved it."
He sounds fond. He is fond. Ghilan'nain did at least that one thing right. He steps closer to take one of the cakes, and he doesn't sit down in the chair she's been so kind as to leave empty for him, but he doesn't retreat back to the wall again, either.
"The first one I rode was called Tarasyldhe. One of many called Tarasyldhe," he amends. "She might as well have had wings. We lost her pushing back one of Falon'Din's incursions," comes quieter, "and the world has never seen another like her."
This is statistically improbable. There were likely a dozen like her at the same time she lived. But Felassan did have a childhood in at least one sense of the word: everything new, nothing calloused, first horses the best and first losses the hardest.