One the one hand: the absurdity, bordering on obscenity, of comforting someone who mere hours ago was his executioner. On the other: six thousand years. Like. Six thousand years. Six thousand years.
And that's at least five thousand nine hundred more years than Felassan would need to catch a glimpse of the deeper shadows of terror and despair behind those stumbling lapses and unplanned silences. That doesn't mean he knows what to say. The usual options — we've seen worse, we'll figure it out — won't work. There's no we for this. Not unless Felassan can get a return ticket to Thedas at some point beyond his own death.
He steps closer to stand before his chair instead, for the first time close enough to touch, and puts his hand on Solas' shoulder. Any solemn poignancy is dampened, at least partway, by the fact that he also crams the remainder of his hearthcake into his mouth all at once.
As he chews, he crooks sideways: slow cocked head, lowered shoulder, bent knee, in pursuit of getting into Solas' field of vision well enough to make him look Felassan in the eye.
no subject
And that's at least five thousand nine hundred more years than Felassan would need to catch a glimpse of the deeper shadows of terror and despair behind those stumbling lapses and unplanned silences. That doesn't mean he knows what to say. The usual options — we've seen worse, we'll figure it out — won't work. There's no we for this. Not unless Felassan can get a return ticket to Thedas at some point beyond his own death.
He steps closer to stand before his chair instead, for the first time close enough to touch, and puts his hand on Solas' shoulder. Any solemn poignancy is dampened, at least partway, by the fact that he also crams the remainder of his hearthcake into his mouth all at once.
As he chews, he crooks sideways: slow cocked head, lowered shoulder, bent knee, in pursuit of getting into Solas' field of vision well enough to make him look Felassan in the eye.