Bria'inerilan reaches the lowest point of its rotation and stops dead at his demand of who never leaves them. All momentum lost at once, drawing attention to the hilt. They pause, wondering if the sight of them standing there, the sword dangling from their finger by the ring on its pommel, might answer his question. Then, slowly, they say, "Bria'inerilan...?" as if it is the most obvious thing in the world.
As if everyone refers to their weapons by name, by she and her.
Bria'inerilan snaps back onto their hip before they take him by the arm and shoulder, the position halfway to a hug. And as he speaks, Protection feels the desire to finish it, to wrap Wisdom in their arms and shield him from the world, how it would use him, how it would twist him. Instead, their hand shifts from his shoulder to cup his cheek, steadying him to look in their eyes. "There's Wisdom in that," they say, almost with relief. Suddenly, what they need to do is not a duty but an honor—a promise to be kept. His promise, to the People. One they are proud to help with. "Don't listen to the things they say about you, Wisdom," Alenriel pleads. "Don't lose yourself to them."
For the first time tonight, Alenriel is not simply going along with his foolhardy and stubborn plan; they are eager to help him with it. To Protect the pieces of himself he clings to—his promise, if not his secret.
Then, he swallows something from another vial, and Alenriel's hands drops. It would be easier to be eager if he would stop introducing new substances to his fragile mental state. Their hands fall, and they look to the eluvian as he does.
When Solas' smile turns to them, Alenriel's expression is once again flat, unamused, devoid of the affection and assurance that was there a moment ago.
"So I feel as if I'm contributing," they echo hollowly, rolling their eyes, as they step past him and through the eluvian. "Is it so you don't forget I'm here again?"
Their foot lands heavily on solid ground beyond the mirror, as if the dirt had risen up to meet them, and they hold a hand over Bria'inerilan with the threshold of the mirror behind them. Quickly, their eyes scan the immediate surroundings, ensuring no obvious signs of company, then again more slowly to look for more hidden signs. When none appear, they continue on.
First, Protection leads him off the path that treads up to the foot of the eluvian, keeping low to the bushes that reside there. It is dark, but the moons are waxing, no longer new enough to keep the world as dark as would benefit them. The planned mission is still strong in their mind, and the eluvian has delivered them only a mile from the entrance to the Labs they were told of. Sabotage is no longer an option, though—they will need to be quicker and, with the guards' alerts likely raised, quieter. Protection turns to—Solas.
They think to say something, then simply jolt their head and begin off in that direction, winding a path towards the Labs that will avoid more obvious routes.
