Stranded between tame and wild, fresh upturned earth a rich brown beneath a wide blue sky. It is bittersweet to see Skyhold’s garden in this state. Old memories and new are uprooted, weeds heaped in the far corner to be turned to compost. He steals one mayflower from the pile, slipping it between the pages of his journal, to remember this place by.
Or perhaps, to remember the moment by.
Around him, mages work earth and dreams with their hands. His smells of the dirt caked under blunt nails, the threads of his sweater carry the scent of midday sun. It had been so long since he last gardened, too long. In the last thousand years friends were all he had planted in the earth, buried with naught but new roots to hold them until their soul could find the Fade. Though he supposes by now those saplings scraped the sky.
He raises himself to his feet, knee joints cracking at the exertion. Nearby a young mage with a push broom gathers the crumbled stone from the ponywall together, straining with the effort. “Hold a moment,” he mutters, staying her with a steady hand against the broom handle. “I believe it is salvageable.”
“But, messere, it’s in pieces.”
She hears no answer, his attention turned to the fractured stone. The cement that held it had cracked-- broken in a battle, or perhaps stubborn roots had pushed through the stone. Whatever the case, he can feel what was press through the Veil, possibilities and paths not taken, and no Templars around to say differently. Solas raises his hand towards it, energy pooling in his palm. Resistance pushes, unseen against his arm, which waves with some effort towards the crumbled section of the wall. Reality realigns, dreams made manifest, and the stone fits together like a jigsaw, cementing with a satisfying scrape.
“I believe that will do,” he says, angling the broom back towards her waiting hands. She fumbles, eyes wide with bewilderment as she closes her grip. A fine layer of dust coats the ground where the pile sat, the only hint that it had ever been there at all. “If you would sweep this up, please.” He hears a stuttered affirmation as he turns, his attention turned to pouches of seeds waiting to be planted. Hovering nearby, a young man hovers, his robes clear of soil and dust. At first he thinks he’s simply here to watch, but the hesitant look upon his face, dark brow drawn together, makes Solas think twice.
When he looks again, he recognises the boy’s face. He remembers it from Redcliffe’s docks, his face as worried then as it is now. “Connor,” he greets, drawing level with him. His hands come to rest behind his back, fingers knotting together. “We met in Redcliffe, briefly. My name is Solas.” In all the commotion, he suspects his name was lost in the shuffle. The Herald had commanded most of the attention, and with good reason.
