The Inquisitor's mood hangs over them all as they make their way towards the Frostback Basin. It has been a week since their ill-fated trip to the Storm Coast, and the heavy decision made still swells around her, drowning out the normal vibrancy of her eyes.

And it is partially his fault. Solas could not abide by the decision she made, finding it difficult to separate the elf he loves with the Inquisitor he follows. It was a foolish thing to do, childish, and he regrets the few hours he let her wallow alone in the blood of the fallen. He saw too much of himself in that moment upon the cliffs, of all the sacrifices he made and how they changed him forever. He does not want that for her.

The Iron Bull fairs no better. He pushes forward, claiming to be scouting ahead, but there is little he can see with his gaze kept to the ground as it is now. Cassandra kicks at every rock in her path, mouth set in a grim line. Even though she might wish to ease their travels, Solas knows it's difficult for her to find the right words to say.

The long journey since Haven has changed them all in some way, and he can see the signs of wear like scratches in fine armor. Varric's crossbow seems to weigh more heavily against his shoulder. Blackwall laughs less as he tries to find his true voice. Solas even sees changes in Sera, however slight, as the world continues to grow larger for her each day.

For a maddening moment, he wishes she were here to dispel the malaise around their party. She would no doubt be crude, but her methods are a hidden kindness more often than not.

If she is not here to do it, then Solas will have to take up the mantel. When they catch up to Iron Bull, he projects his voice for the others to hear.

"Iron Bull, how do your people put on shirts?"

He watches Keela's steps stutter for just a moment. She tilts her head, trying to catch the intent of his question. He has kept it neutral, as if he might be commenting on the color of the leaves. For his part, The Iron Bull takes a second to answer before shrugging.

"We don't, usually. It's pretty hot where we're from."

Solas hums thoughtfully in response, neither pursuing nor dissuading him further, and their party is silent for a few strides before Bull speaks again.

"But I can get into anything with a loose collar. Just gotta ease one horn through and then angle it up. There's a term for getting caught unprepared that translates to 'running around with clothing stuck on your horns.'"

"Colorful."

It is more than either Keela or Bull have spoken since they set out on their latest quest. It's as if Solas' simple question has unleashed the flood waters and he can practically see Bull's shoulders stretching out from their tight discomfort. The corner of Keela's mouth twists up and it is more than enough for Solas to see even a small part of her melancholy lift.

"How did you manage to get into your Winter Palace attire?" Cassandra asks.

"The jacket was the easy part, but the under things? Not so much. I uh.." Bull clears his throat. "I just went without them. Please don't tell Viv-I mean, Madame de Fer."

"Oh Bull." Keela laughs and the sound seems to brighten the spaces in-between them. "Such a crime of fashion in front of all those people she knew? She would never let you hear the end of it. But don't worry, we'll protect you from her wrath."

"Thanks, Boss."

Pain still lingers beneath their skin, and Solas expects it will for some time, but they walk with lighter strides and life animating their limbs for the rest of the day. Bull and Cassandra get into a friendly argument over steel while Keela listens, quiet but content. Solas watches her take in their new surroundings with a renewed interest and catches her pauses to rub petals of flowers between her fingers, or to consider a statue worn down by time.

When they make camp for the night, tired but hopeful, Keela grabs him away from settling their tent and into a kiss. It is soft, warm, relieved. When she pulls him closer by the edges of his collar, the embrace deepens and grows into something hotter. It thrills him to feel her fire burning so bright again.

"Thank you," she whispers against his lips.

She is always so clever. He should have known she would notice his attempt earlier. "I am glad to assist, although I must admit I do not know what I have done to deserve such thanks. Enlighten me, and I shall endeavor to repeat the action if such rewards are offered."

Keela smiles, her yellow eyes dancing in the firelight. "Solas…"

"Forgive me, vhenan. Lately I have been…a fool with clothing stuck on his horns."

She kisses him again, her laughter tickling into his mouth. It tastes of forgiveness and healing, a balm for these bruises between them. Hands slide down his chest, slow and purposeful, and rest inside the palms of his own. "Come."

She turns and tugs him towards their tent, and Solas follows her willingly. He will not make the same mistake twice.