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The Spirit of Wisdom was always a curious thing, inherent by nature. Its many tendrils extending from its essence, exploring, touching, tasting everything in its path. If it could devour knowledge in its entirety, it would surely try. Nothing bored it, nothing could tire it of wanting to learn. The world to explore for centuries to come, and nothing excited the spirit more than knowing it would have the time to discover all its secrets.
It lasts so long like that, learning and exploring, before it stumbles upon another of its kind that intrigues it more than anything else has before.
A Spirit of Hope sat lurking in the forest. Dazzling in its essence. A soft cooing from the creatures around them, and the spirit seems to vibrate in excitement at meeting one like itself. Comes close enough that their spirits almost intertwine, and Wisdom is overwhelmed with a flurry of positivity, admiration, hope and love for the world they inhabit. Not wanting to just learn its secrets but wanting to protect it too.
We shall be great friends, the spirit whispers later in the day, the sun setting over the forest. Doves flying freely above them, bunnies running in search of berries, halla grazing the green grass.
Wisdom has a great deal of hope that the words are true.
—
Mythal is captivating. A spirit of Benevolence transformed into a body of flesh, mortal and godlike all at once. Beautiful, she is, even as she comes to Wisdom and asks him to become one such as her. Flesh and bones and blood – it all seems so convoluted, unnecessary, and Wisdom denies at first. How could it not? The Fade, the magic, it is all it has ever known. But the woman is convincing, requesting a wisdom only Wisdom could provide, and so flesh and blood he becomes. A creation of his own making, sturdy and beautiful, and the final touches are Mythal’s hands upon his cheeks, and the curves of her vallaslin soon mark him. Etched forever onto him.
Wisdom dies, and Solas takes its place.
—
Hope finds him even in this form – as if drawn to the very nature of Solas. Solas can feel its confusion, its curiosity, the fascination towards Solas’ skin. He lets its tendrils touch against him, slowly, hesitant. “You need not be shy,” Solas tells it, fond as ever, perhaps missing when he was the same as it was. Easier to not think of it.
He is what Mythal needs, and it should be enough.
Hope curls itself next to Solas much like the many felines of the forest do. Content to watch as Solas learns to grasp handwriting with his newly-made hands.
—
Time passes without a visit from Hope. The fighting between Elgar’nan and Mythal worsens, and Solas is feeling anything but hope. The body is strange to get used to. It grows tired, hungry, easy to make bleed and bruise and break. Vulnerable to prey, and that is how Hope finds him again. Solas slaying a large wolf that means to attack him, the pathetic whimper falling from its mouth as an arrow pierces its throat before it can even lunge.
When Solas turns to the archer, he does not recognize him at all. A tan elf, brightly violet eyes, the same vallaslin as his own painting his skin, a wide smile on his lips. He has never seen the man before, but in an instant, he knows. Feels the emotion of hope settling in the pit of his stomach even if it curdles and makes him feel sick.
“Wisdom,” the deep voice calls for him, and how wrong it sounds coming from a man’s tongue. How right, too. Each syllable rolling off the tongue.
“Solas now,” he responds slowly, at a loss for words. The man is close enough now that he could reach out and touch the fresh flesh. Curl a hand in his hair – long and brown, radiant in the sunlight. Brush fingers along his cheeks. Crafted to perfection, just as Solas is, as Mythal is. As they all are.
Spirits – still simply spirits for now – peer on from afar at their reunion. Chattering of wisps at the sight.
“It is me, old friend. Hope,” he says as if Solas would not always know him. In the dark, as human, as a mere wisp. Solas would know him. And then he shows Solas a loose arrow. Carved from the bark of the trees surrounding them. The wolf lay dead on its back, and blood stained the snow a deep red beneath its corpse. “Though I have taken a new name. Like you. Felassan.”
He blames the weak prison of flesh for the fact he feels he can barely breathe as the man reveals to him what he already suspected, who he is. Like you, he says, and it makes Solas’ weak body feel sick.
—
The infighting only worsens with time. The Evanuris get drunk on power. They expect much from the spirits that they morph into flesh: obedience, loyalty, unquestioning servitude. They mark the bodies with their vallaslin, inking ownership onto the flesh, and listen little at all when Solas says it is not right. It is unfair and cruel, and Mythal always soothes him when he goes on his rants, but she does little to convince the others to truly stop.
And Solas would be remiss to not forget he has her own ink on his body. And Felassan too, tracing the curves of his cheeks and around his violet eyes.
It is harder to ignore when the proof is in front of his very own eyes.
And over many nights with the man himself, Solas grows braver. Hopeful for a world where no spirit is forced to take up a body. Where the likes of Elgar’nan does not take on slaves, does not worsen the war between the elven and the Titans. Where his wisdom is used for knowledge rather than command, than battleplans, than a bloody and brutal war.
“I would be at your side,” Felassan says one night, taking Solas’ hand in his own. Warm skin, soft skin. “If you wish to take them on.” The words so sincere from him. Embedded with dreams, with the same yearning Solas feels for a better world.
With faith in Solas and his own ideals.
—
Losing Mythal is like losing a part of his own soul. What was Mythal to him if not everything? The grief torments him, eats at him. Elgar’nan tugs at the wound with his cruel tauntings, the lapdog of Mythal, the beloved of Mythal, where were you when she needed you most?
Felassan comforts him as best as he knows how. Gentle words, softer touches, letting Solas pull away from him and grieve alone when it feels he has no other choice. He does not comment when Solas comes back to him, bare-faced save for a scar showing his mistaken experimenting, but simply watches him with a sad gaze.
And when he tells the man that he plans to lead a rebellion against them all, Felassan grins. “And I will fight along with you. I will be your arrow, your weapon for the battles to come,” he says then, suddenly, the smile curving his lips. The branches of Mythal’s vallaslin curve with it.
Solas gives him a heavy look. “No. You must not feel indebted or bound to me. You are your own being. Free from all chains, all expectations.”
It would not be the last time Solas had to ensure that Felassan knew he could leave anytime he pleased. An incessant need to prod at him to leave, you owe me nothing, as if he was unable to wrap his mind around the idea that Felassan would stay at his side to the bitter end. But it is over these nights, over grief and hope, that the plans for a better world are spoken amongst themselves.
—
Felassan is at his side when they free the first slaves, as Solas stands in front of them all and says, Ar lasa mala revas. They are grateful, but soon enough one of them asks, “But where will we go now?” And another, braver and younger, “And what if we wish to join your fight to free others?”
The question shakes Solas. He had not considered what comes after this, once freedom is procured and all shackles – metaphorical and physical both – free those bound at the feet of the Evanuris. Where in the world is free from the most powerful mages the world has known?
Felassan touches his wrist gently, interrupting his thoughts, and smiles at him before turning to the people. “We have a place for you. A home. We shall house you until you can prepare your own life. Or,” and that smile turning proud, turning into the one of a revolutionary, “You stay with us, and fight by our side to free our people. We would take every bit of help you can provide.”
And thus the Lighthouse becomes a place of refuge. The people are fed, clothed, their vallaslin erased from their features, and they look to Felassan and Solas both for guidance.
When Solas worries if they can truly do this, if Wisdom is enough, if Hope is enough, Felassan just gives him a look of disbelief. “The people believe in you. I believe in you. Freedom is not accomplished in one fell swoop. However long it takes, I will be by your side.”
And Solas believes him without hesitation.
—
The fire crackles in front of them. Like the flames that easily spring forth from Solas’ fingers, created from nothing, and still the man watches the dance of it as if it is the first time having seen it. As if there is some secret embedded in the flickering glow of it. Solas looks at many things like that. Clouds that bring rain down upon them. A new elf, a new friend. The animals in the forest that come up and rub against his legs.
Sometimes he looks at Felassan like that too. As if he is still unsure if there are parts of the man that he has yet to discover. As if he wants to know all there is to know about him now, as he was before they crossed paths. And he hardly ever pries, but Felassan would answer any question he could pose. He wants Solas to know him entirely.
Felassan notices most when Solas’ eyes trace the pathway of his vallaslin. One of the few people in the Lighthouse, on the battlefields that still have their markings. “You do not like it,” he says. Not a question. Simple truth.
And Solas does not need to ask what he means. “How could I? A reminder of your servitude.” Harsh truths. “You know I have means to rid you of it.”
Felassan picks a branch from the ground and throws it into the fire. Wisps of flames dance in the air. It reminds him of a distant past behind him. Tomorrow they will march into one of Elgar’nan’s lairs and free what must be hundreds of slaves. Some of their own fighters will die too. Solas will free them all of their chains and then their ink.
Felassan resists the urge to touch his own face. “I have no answer for you, my friend. Truly. You know I have no loyalty to her,” and the simple words still make Solas stiffen, “But it is hard to say why I linger to erase it.” The wind blows in his hair, a chill up his spine. The warmth of the fire on his face. The human body, and all its sensations. “I wanted to look like you when I came into the flesh.”
“But I do not have it anymore.”
“No,” Felassan agrees and smiles to himself. A scar still marking where Solas once had the ink. A scar Felassan would put onto his skin now too if it were possible. He is his own, and yet it is hard to not feel so inspired by the man. Wisdom once, Solas now, and those frightened and in awe of him craft their own title for him.
Fen’Harel. Dread Wolf. Breaker of chains. Mythal’s dog. So many things he has been called. To Felassan, he has always been his friend first.
“Perhaps if there were a Fen’Harel marking, I would wish for that instead.”
Instant irritation from Solas, a scoff almost. “I would never. I do not own anyone, and I do not wish –”
“Relax, my friend,” he says, holding up a hand. “I only meant that I would not mind being recognized as one of the fighters for our war. Proudly so. But I know you would never do such a thing.”
Silence lingers between the two of them for a long while. “No, I would not.” A strange look on Solas’ face as he watches him.
“Perhaps for the best,” and Felassan’s wide grin again, “I would not want you getting too prideful after all.”
—
Hope is etched into the very nature of his every action during the war. He led, hope-first, spouting optimism to the teams, the armies, to his comrades putting their lives on the line for his and Solas’ revolution. They were all people who believed in a just society. Equality, fighting the tyrannical nature that now twisted and deformed those he may have once called friends. New friends formed amongst the battlefields.
And so many of them die. Battle after battle, corpses – some so newly made, newly crafted in their unique perfection – littering the ground. They died under his guidance, under his appeals to hope and justice. Solas told him it was necessary. It could not be prevented. They would die again and again if they knew it was needed.
Still. Regret eats Felassan's heart. And despite the man being too proud to admit to it, he sees the same in Solas. Solas appealed to Mythal, begging all-but on his knees for her to join their side so long ago. End this horrible war before it is too late.
One of the few times Solas had more hope than Felassan.
Felassan cradles the body of a young elf. Young in body, ancient in spirit. A Spirit of Compassion turned blonde, frail, too delicate to fight in a war like this, but passionate nonetheless to try. How he stuck to Felassan as a little shadow sometimes, childish in nature even in his old years. Like a little brother. Dead now, thanks to him.
“We shall win the next battle,” Solas says slowly from behind him. Felassan shuts the body’s eyes shut. Compassion lost and buried in the battlefield. “For his sake.”
Words fester on Felassan’s tongue. Things that turn hope sour. We cannot win. You cannot win. We are up against people far more powerful than us. Solas, his ancient Spirit of Wisdom, must sense his grief. His sorrow. “Do not let this torment you. I –” A twist of his lips. How many deaths have they seen now? “I believe the war must come to an end soon.”
Hope stronger than Felassan’s. He cannot help the cruel smirk that deforms his lips, lying the boy to rest and turning to face the man. “Dirthara-ma,” he spits out, and regret instantly comes over him. How easily war tears down the bonds they hold most dear. “I did not mean that,” he says instead of i am sorry. “I believe I am in need of rest. It has been a long day.”
“I believe you did," Solas replies curtly, a subtle edge to his tone. “I can feel your grief, Felassan, and even if I could not, I would still feel my own." His gaze shifts to the lifeless form on the ground, and for a brief moment, there is a flicker of vulnerability behind his eyes. Felassan might sometimes think him unaffected by all this: their people dying, bleeding, the forests they love drowning in death and corruption, the anguish of spirits sent to die under his orders — but Felassan knows it is unfair to accuse him of such apathy. Solas has never been one to grieve openly.
“But I find myself wondering what it is you expect us to do in order to win this war,” Solas continues, crossing his arms over his chest as he looks down at Felassan. Felassan grits his teeth at Solas' tone. Centuries ago, his voice was soothing. Echoes of magic, of wisdom, knowledge inherit. A soft-spoken tongue, a poetic cadence. Never assuming, never condescending. Wisdom passed through his words, and Felassan devoured his knowledge. No question was ever silly to Solas – a spirit who lived to answer any inquiry. They have turned sour over the spilled blood of the war. Prideful at times, rude and harsh and cunning. A side to the man he was never familiar with. Usually it is aimed at Elgar'nan, Ghilan'nain, sometimes a traitor-spy found out. Hardly at Felassan – for he knew too well Felassan would not let it go. Would laugh and shake his head, Old friend, this does not fit you! That Felassan kept him grounded, reminded him what it meant to be the face of revolution. A face that people turn towards when seeking justice.
But the man grows prideful. Resigns himself to many nights alone, distant and hesitant at Felassan's tries to offer him company, an ear to listen, a shoulder to cry on. He does not blame Solas entirely. He knows his own spirit feels slowly crushed under the weight of all that has come to pass. When was the war started? It feels like millennia have passed, like not even a day has passed. The same slaves they first freed no longer linger in the Lighthouse. Some died. Some simply moved on to forming a new life. How many people have come and gone?
Yet Felassan still stands by his side.
Still, Solas continues. “Did you think there would be no loss? No casualties? If that is the case, then I fear your hope has made you naïve. Fickle hope, a dangerous thing.”
The words gut Felassan deeper than any blade could. Was it so long ago now that Solas does not remember who they are? The days in the forest, as spirits chasing each other through the branches? The days as newly-made men, hopeful this change would be for the best, that it would change the way the world itself worked. Hope all they had as they wrote manifesto after manifesto on the plight of the slaves, on the necessity for freedom, battleplans and tactics to free those kept under the heel of their cruel brothers and sisters.
Hope, the very being of Felassan. That which flows through his veins, makes his heart beat, fills his lungs. All he was before he became human.
“I understood everything that was at risk when I agreed to fight by your side," he begins instead of a number of cruel insults he could fight back instead. If he allows himself the indulgence to fight Solas, they could spend another century going back-and-forth. A tug-of-war between two people who know each other’s innermost regrets. Still, his own voice sounds as dejected as he feels. "I would choose it all again. You know that." A sigh, standing to face Solas.
What is time to them, truly? Time had no meaning when they were just spirits. It hardly has any now. Still, he feels the weight of a century’s worth of exhaustion deep within him. When facing Solas now, he sees the same exhaustion mirrored in his eyes. Their reasons are right and just. Their fight is one worth fighting. It does not make it any easier of a fight.
And they face enough battles. “I do not want to fight with you,” he says. Solas smiles guiltily at the words, small and barely-there. Perhaps other agents under them would not even recognize it as a smile. But Felassan has known him his entire life.
“And neither I with you, Felassan.” His arms uncross from behind his back, still at his side. A small movement. A seeking of comfort, Felassan has learned now. All his quirks, his tell-tale signs. “Ir abelas.”
Felassan hugs him before Solas can refuse. Solas, a lifetime in skin and flesh, still so unused to the affection one can receive with it. Awkward, arms staying at his side. A huff of laughter from Felassan, “You are allowed to hug me back, Solas.” But he looks up at Solas, he is gazing at him oddly.
Felassan has little time to consider its intention, its hidden meanings before Solas is holding his face softly, the thumbs caressing the bottom curves of his vallaslin. “Ar lath,” soft and sweet on his tongue before the man is kissing him. An affection most rare, one passed between the other elves of the Lighthouse, one he is not sure he nor Solas have ever indulged in. Solas is passionate in the movement, one hand coming to lay on his waist. It mostly makes up for the cruel words exchanged earlier.
When Solas pulls away, the look in his eyes can only be described as great sorrow, great affection morphing into one. “I need you at my side,” is what he says, his eyebrows furrowing as if he is in a great deal of pain to even say the words. “I do not know what would become of me or this fight without you.”
Felassan thinks again of the first day Wisdom stumbled upon him. How he had peered on at him from a distance, as if afraid to spook Hope. How Hope had to dance to him, had to coo at him, Do not be afraid. You can stay close. How even now, pressed against Solas, the connection feels far too tenuous for what he wishes: to be spirits, to meld into each other as they once had. How he had followed Solas into flesh because he had great faith that whatever Solas did, surely it was the right choice to make.
A freedom they had then that they do not have now, even as they fight for everyone else’s freedom. Yet still.
“I have been by your side from the start,” Felassan says, voice soft with love, “You would need to kill me before I abandon you or our cause.”