Someone cure him of his grief

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The refreshing cold of the mountains does not follow him from the night before. Solas, roused from a deep slumber, wakes to the soft bristles of tall grass brushing against his nose.

At first, the warmth from the sun felt gradual, as though he were carried in a cloud from the slopes to a resting place down below. The landscape tickles his face, and it prompts a sudden sneeze.

His body jerks with the movement, surprised. This drags him completely from the coziness of his half-awake state.

One pair of pale violet eyes widen.

This was not Vanderfell. It was not somewhere he recognized at all. If he was a particularly religious man, he might have assumed he was dead.

Standing with a newfound alertness, he spins a couple of times about his position, confusion evident on his face. Was he still dreaming?

"Bestefar?"

A familiar voice. In a language he did not know by nature, but knew by sound. Hesitantly, he takes a few steps forward. “Vasiliya?” His voice carries across the field of unknowns, deep and full of concern. Another step, following the direction her voice came from. And yet he began to doubt. If this was a dream, how could she be here too?

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There is a moment between thrusting himself through this mysterious field and finding her that he realizes he is now finding comfort in knowing where she is. Gone is the feeling of sheltered distance, keeping others at arms length in order to manage his own heart better.

For whatever reason, he felt a coldness solved only by reaching her side.

And while he was following the familiar timbre of her voice, he also looked to where the sun seemed to shine the brightest overhead. Something in his head told him she was where the warmth was strongest. His legs carried him into a brisk walk, but the ache of the frost inside him drove him forward.

He didn't understand it. He only knew it to be calming. And as he crested over a slight hill, there she was.

Faster than he, but slowing as she approached — he barely had time to utter a greeting before she was upon him, nosing her way through the fur around his chest and neck. He sucked in a stunned cross between a grunt and a gasp.

A closeness that they had not breached yet, a familiarity he was new to, and yet — Solas did not move.

He did not step back. The otherwise fleeting ghost of a man stilled, his heart a rampant set of hooves against his ribcage. Hooves like that of the goat they had hunted what feels like many, many dreams ago.

Quietly, he looked down, maneuvering so that he did not accidentally shove her from her position. His neck craned to allow his gaze to fall upon her forehead.

What was this — fear? She had collapsed into him in the gentlest way she could manage. He knew not how to best comfort her, but ..

He leaned into it.

Folding his chin over her shoulder, he closed his eyes, allowing a brief, silent passing where he just gave in to the feeling of the sun against his body. He almost forgot he needed to probably say something, but after a bit of just allowing, he sighed.

Stepped back. One, two paces. Just enough to look at her directly.

“When I said to find me, this is not what I had meant,” he smiles, the feeling of it foreign and odd on his features. He almost immediately wants to wipe it away.

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