If Felassan had understood before that Lavellan's revelation was new to Solas — not only forgotten, lost somehow in the shuffle of time, but also not previously told to him during whatever length of time they've been renovating a home together here — maybe he wouldn't have been grinning and preparing to quip about it. Maybe he would have walked backwards through the vine-curtained gap in the wall, across the clearing, and into the forest to give them a moment.

He understands that now, but it's too late. He has also only just met her and has little choice but to trust Solas' instinct, which seems to be to let her leave, so Felassan doesn't say anything to her departing back that might ruin her dignified exit. He's still smiling, watching her go, but it's more thoughtful than entertained.

Solas did warn him, yes.

Felassan allows the questions to hang there a moment while he chews a bit of his hearth cake. If he apologized to Lavellan he would probably tell her he'd only lied to her at the very beginning, unsure who she was or how much he could trust her, but that'd be another lie, because in a less direct way he's been since she entered the room: smiling, skimming the surface of everything, trying to keep the rancid angsty vibes off her floor.

He stops that now. The look he gives Solas is serious, tired enough to show a glimpse of his age.

"If you'd chosen to stop before I thought that we should let it go, I might have slit your throat while you were sleeping," he says in their own tongue — still lying a little. He wouldn't have done that. He might have thought about it, though, before either friendship or the understanding that he couldn't fix shit without Solas anyway sank in. "Besides, what else could I be?"

There's some teasing in his tone again, but it's only a thin layer over an exhausted sense of inevitability. He has been Solas' friend as long as he has been Felassan. Longer, even.

"Doesn't mean I'm not pissed."