She did not fall to her knees sobbing. She stood there, in the glen, and watched him walk away, past the rocky out-cropping, and out of sight. She could hear him speaking to his halla softly in elvhen. She heard the soft hoof-falls on the wet ground, and only then did she allow herself to believe that he was really leaving.

She lifted her hands to her cheeks. They didn't feel any different, but she could still feel the prickle left over from whatever spell he'd used. She angrily wiped her eyes, willing herself not to cry.

After a couple of deep breaths, she picked her way gingerly out of the glade. Her halla waited, alone. She hoisted herself onto its back and together they began making their way back up the mountain path into the Frostbacks.

She arrived back at Skyhold as the sun was rising. Solas' halla hadn't been returned to the stables – he was still gone. Dodging questions and looks from her advisers, she took the stairs two at a time to her quarters, and then – only then – did she cry.

—

He did not return that evening, nor the next. She allowed herself wonder if he ever would. She did not sleep much – the voices from the Well whispered in her mind all night, and she found herself desperately hoping to glean from them some shred of meaning or understanding.

On the third night, as she was leaving the War Room, she saw the door to his study was open, and a lit candle flickered at his desk. And there he was, his back to her, contemplating the latest mural he'd begun work on. It was the Temple of Mythal, she realized, as she stood frozen in the doorway. She silently watched him for a while as he dipped his brush and painted in broad, bold strokes, his attention completely absorbed in his work.

"Solas," she said, finally.

He turned to her, his face betraying - for an instant - pain, and then sorrow, before his mask slipped back on and his features arranged themselves into a stony, impassive countenance.

"Inquisitor," he replied.

She blanched at the formal title.

"Solas, we need to talk about what happened."

–

She would still come into his study, and sometimes sit on the couch and watch him paint, just like she used to. He readily spoke to her about Corypheus, and the plans for the coming battle, and of course, the Fade. She made the decision not to push him further on other topics. He would talk to her when he was ready, maybe after this was all over.

She did, however, ask him to help her to make sense of the voices in her head from the Well of Sorrows. Of course, this got his interest, and before long, the two of them were seated on the couch together, him listening intently to her descriptions of the images and memories and whispers that now bubbled just beneath the surface of her waking mind.

The sun had long since set, and a passing servant stopped to ask if they needed anything. On a mad whim, she asked if the boy could grab them a bottle of Tevinter brandy from the reserves. To her surprise, Solas chuckled at her request and did not object.

They drank into the night, and soon the conversation shifted from the Well to more mundane – and hilarious – gossip. Without thinking, she shifted against the armrest, stretched out her legs, and rested her feet in Solas' lap. Old habits die hard.

At her touch, his face looked as though he had been struck with a physical blow. She suddenly realized she could not bear the rejection that she knew was coming. She hastily stumbled to her feet.

"It's getting late," she muttered, "And thank you, really, for helping me make sense of all this ancient elf stuff. It means a lot, truly."

"I'm glad to be of service," he replied, somberly. "It means a great deal to me as well, truly."

She couldn't meet his eyes, and made a quick exit.

–

Sleep would not come to her that night. The late summer air outside was warm, even in the mountains, and she watched the moon inch its way across the sky through her thrown open windows. It was too hot, so she shoved her blanket off, and then it was too cold, so she curled back up under it.

She was just starting to drift off when she suddenly became aware of a figure standing at the foot of her bed.

It was Solas.

Their eyes met, and then, without seeming to move at all, he was on top of her, kissing her fiercely, hungrily, pressing his body against hers, his hands pulling at her loose linen shirt. She gasped his name as he entered her in one swift thrust – a question, or perhaps a plea.

He buried his face in her neck and responded with a low growl that turned halfway into a ragged moan. She arched against him, her fingers clawing at his back, pulling him to her, and their movements became frantic, desperate, unstoppable.

She cried out as she came, and he groaned as she felt him release inside of her at the same moment.

She woke with a start, still gasping. She was alone.

Was that… had he…

Was it real?

–

When she passed through his study that morning on her way to meet with Cullen, she searched his face as she greeted him, looking for a sign. His eyes flicked up to meet hers, impassive as always, but she thought she saw a flash of… something? Desire? Regret? Sorrow?

The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that it wasn't an ordinary dream. She remembered how he'd felt when he'd taken her to Haven in the Fade. Haven hadn't felt real, but he had. He WAS.

And thinking back on last night, the sky had seemed a bit odd… brighter, with stars in places they shouldn't be. Her room had seemed too big, or too small, or just a bit off. It was her room, but not her room.

But he had felt like himself. He had felt warm, and alive, and real. She'd felt his heartbeat, his skin, his breath.

He had come to her in the Fade, she was almost certain of it.