As much as he might love to argue, recreationally, Felassan has not lasted this long – in life or in friendship with a spirit of wisdom — without the abilities to listen and to reconsider, when it suits him. It does now. He's still and quiet for several beats longer as he lets his perspective shift. Not luck, to cling to life through all of that, but tenacity.

I did try to tell you, he might say; stronger than you thought. But Solas has already said he was right, and Solas has apologized as many times as Felassan cares to hear him do it, so instead he tucks the thought into his cheek, where it can amuse him without making anyone feel guilty. The sideways twitch of his leg would be a friendly nudge-kick, in theory: to signal his agreement and say sap in one gesture. But he isn't close enough, and it doesn't connect. It only disturbs the water and rocks a larger ripple, not quite a wave, over against Solas.

"I assume it is my fault," he says, without sounding especially remorseful, "and I know you recovered in the end, and look at all the wonderful people you would have missed with another fifty years — " this both irony, for the brusque Seeker and unseen sea of murderous shemlen in the memory, and entirely sincere, for Beleth Lavellan " — but you really should have slept longer."