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Temptation could so easily override sense, here among these people. Without knowing it, they gave him means of escaping his own convictions, alternatives he hesitated to even consider. He tried to quell the urge to speak his mind, to give in to the deep pressure to speak things that must remain unspoken, but words slipped through, guard lowered inexorably and by degrees.
He pushed them, more than he should. Tried to pull Sera to her own truth. Made Varric defend the dwarves' refusal to reclaim ancestral empire. Criticized the Qun for enacting its will upon the world, as if he was so different. He couldn't stand seeing his reflection in them, aspects of self or choice he recognized, a distorted mirror image. The isolation forced upon him by fate and self and secret, the lies that burned, the guilt that crawled in him like a living thing bent upon mutual annihilation.
There were newer moments that haunted him, too. They had been in the Fallow Mire, working their slow way through the risen dead, when he'd first relayed the story of the man on the island. He'd wondered for some time: was anyone in Orzammar even trying to rebuild, to regain lost glory? "Is there at least a movement to reunite Orzammar and Kal-Sharok?" A mere distraction, conversation to distance himself from the smell of dead flesh and swamp, to keep his thoughts from lingering unduly on the long deaths this place had so recently seen, plague deaths.
Varric's response, irreverently probing, was predictably unsatisfying. "What is it with you, Chuckles? Why do you care so much about the dwarves?" It was because the dwarves remained a mystery to him, moreso than the other people who populated Thedas, for what little he had seen of the dwarves in the Fade was second- or third-hand accounts of memory. Once, a spanning empire. More recently, little more than thugs or merchants. He had despaired, in his way, to see them brought so low.
"Once, in the Fade, I saw the memory of a man who lived alone on an island. Most of his tribe had fallen to beasts or disease. His wife had died in childbirth. He was the only one left. He could have struck out on his own to find a new land, new people. But he stayed. He spent every day catching fish in a little boat, every night drinking fermented fruit juice and watching the stars."
"I can think of worse lives." Light-hearted as ever.
"How can you be happy surrendering, knowing it will all end with you? How can you not fight?" No real response, a joke about the fruit juice to deflect, simple and meaningless.
Some time later, he apologized for pushing for information. He had determined a need to accept the loss of dwarven history, something surrendered to time and the memories stored in underground Shaperates. The Fade would bear no significant reflection because there was nothing of significance left to reflect. A tragedy, but not one that could be solved by pestering his traveling companion. They were now in the hot wastes of the Western Approach, an area burnt by the Blight. The mere fact of animal life even here continued to surprise him, something of a balm after seeing the scale of destruction. His apology was sincere but the explanation that had followed it was, perhaps, a mistake. Still, it was quickly forgotten while fending off raiders and witnessing the majesty of a High Dragon's flight. At least, forgotten for him. Varric surprised him by bringing it up again as they were following a trail bordering a deep crevasse, the shade far below looking unduly appealing.
"What's with you and the doom stuff? Are you always this cheery or is the hole in the sky getting to you?" Having felt the conversation finished, abandoned, destined to remain unresolved and without satisfactory answer, he was truly confused by Varric's sudden comment and expressed as much. "All the 'fallen empire' crap you go on about. What's so great about empires anyway?" Another probing question. For all that he sought to learn from Varric, the other man had his own share of curiosity. "So we lost the Deep Roads, and Orzammar's too proud to ask for help. So what? We're not Orzammar and we're not our empire." True enough, if simplistic. "There are tens of thousands of us living up here in the sunlight now, and it's not that bad. Life goes on. It's just different than it used to be." He sighed softly, the sound lost amidst the constant lonely song of wind gusting over sandy expanses.
"And you have no concept of what that difference cost you," he pointed out after a moment. He saw Feydis glance back at the two of them, but he didn't interject.
"I know what it didn't cost me. I'm still here, even after all those thaigs fell." Yes, but who are you without your history? Alone in the world without anything to anchor you? He didn't voice the question, aware that he had likely overstepped already, but the considerations remained. They pursued their ends in this place, all of them eager to return to a place of familiarity.
Quite some time later and they were in the Hinterlands once again. It felt strange to return here after having traveled to so many distant places, but Dorian had learned of Venatori nearby and some of Cassandra’s rogue mage and templar targets were here as well. Despite the value of returning it felt disquieting, a little like walking through a home you once lived in, now bustling with new life. It was a sensation he’d experienced frequently ever since he’d first risen from his uthenera. Perhaps it was that unsettling quality of memory that drew him back to the conversation, an insistence upon a small conclusion when so many things remained pending. “You truly are content to sit in the sun, never wondering what you could’ve been, never fighting back.” Varric glanced at him, something Solas couldn’t quite parse in his gaze. Pity, perhaps?
“You’ve got it all wrong, Chuckles. This is fighting back.” Solas raised a brow at that.
“How does passively accepting your fate constitute a fight?”
“In that story of yours - the fisherman watching the stars, dying alone. You thought he gave up, right?” Solas nodded, agreeing. “But he went on living. He lost everyone, but he still got up every morning. He made a life, even if it was alone.” There was a depth to the words that belied their simplicity, an undercurrent of deep feeling thrumming through them. “That’s the world. Everything you build, it tears down. Everything you’ve got, it takes. And it’s gone forever.” There was no argument he could make on that front, the truth of it coiling around him, a sweet, catching pain, an ache from overexertion. “The only choices you get are to lie down and die or keep going. He kept going. That’s as close to beating the world as anyone gets.” Solas hesitated, considering the point, letting it sink in, before finally nodding.
“Well said.” Another pause. “Perhaps I was mistaken.” The sentiment was a temptation. To go on living after everything you knew, everyone you loved, your entire world was removed. To keep going despite it. To carry their memories… a temptation, indeed. But what if the man on the island had a chance to restore what was? What if he could have built the beginnings of a new society? Would letting himself live still be a victory? He puzzled over it, lapsing into an introspective silence as they roamed the Fereldan countryside, their Inquisitor leading them ever forward.