ironhands | Open Post: Papae Solas

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Open Post: Papae Solas

It would come as a surprise to many that Solas was a father at all.

For thousands of years, he had pinned his heart to hopeless places, and been denied. For thousands more he had lain in wait, or recovery, and anyone else might have woken foolish and willing and full of more ordinary mistakes. But Solas? He had had so many chances, so many years and willing partners, so many reasons... And for all of them, he had created much, but never a child.

Beleth Lavellan, Inquisitor, had changed everything. Her power too, extended as far as this: now there are three.

Those who seek him out while he is in the city will find Solas often decamped at the residence of Barcus Wroot, and they are very likely indeed to find him curled up with a baby on his chest. Children require rest, and Solas, often lauded as a god, has great dominion over dreams— he guard's his children's jealously.

Don't wake the baby. You monster.

Or maybe you'll spot him at market, wandering between the stalls with a tiny, red-headed cloud of curls clinging to one hand, pointing out all the sights worthy to see. Even above the noise of the crowd, you can hear the excited squeals when she encounters an enchanted trinket.

"Papae! Can we buy this? Please?"

Who could resist that face? Not Solas. Not today. And is that... a pickpocket, sneaking ever closer, or perhaps something more dangerous? Better watch out, though who you might be saving by intervening is an open question. It's dangerous to go hunting for wolves...

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Barcus would never wake the baby! He's a gnome, he's nothing if not stealthy. He does, however, make so bold as to bring Solas a glass of lemonade as he sits with his child, then joins him nearby, reading silently. There is something pleasant about sitting in a room and not requiring speech, just being in another trusted person's presence.

At last, after a few chapters, he does look over at the man and his infant and sighs, speaking quietly: "You're going to leave at some point, and I'm going to look at Bel or Ashton and tell them I want a baby, and give them a heart attack."

It's not something he's mentioned to any of his partners, is the thing. Still, maybe this is a good opportunity to watch how Solas and Beleth and Felassan manage a polycule with children involved. An unintentional mentorship.

Solas is reclined in the curve of a bay window, looking out onto a summer courtyard— surely a place of luxury and leisure, once, and now one of industry. He did not doubt Barcus' pragmatism, and there is ample proof to meet his expectations.

It is a comfort, to spend time in the presence of his friend, after so long removed. Solas chuckles at the thought, and smiles at Barcus.

"There are many children in this city, who dream of being cared for and loved, and who have no such luxury," He replies, helpfully. The baby stirs slightly and resettles under Solas' soothing hand, one tiny, pointed ear poking up through his wispy hair, "I am sure you would find them amenable to your cause. I was never interesting in children, for my own sake, but Beleth convinced me of the appeal— now I can only dimly imagine the world without them."

A nightmare, to be sure. But the fear of loss is the surest child of love, and Solas is not unique in loving his children.

"But you have questions. I can tell."

Barcus sobers at the reminder of the local orphans. Halsin has certainly taken his fair share to care for in new Reithwintown, and there are programs to make sure the ones that remain don't starve, but Solas is right. There must be scores left who would benefit from real affection, a home to call their own. He's quiet for a moment, wondering how far his own emotional resilience stretches. He can offer resources without a second thought, but does he really have the strength to be a proper parent?

"I had a large family, growing up. I didn't expect to partner with anyone who'd bear me biological children, but somehow I always thought I'd have a few. There's plenty of time to adopt, but I have so much to share at the moment, it might be the best time."

He raises an eyebrow at the comment about questions. "...well, I do know where they come from, dear. You don't have to explain the process."

"I don't know. I don't know that I have questions that can be put into words, to be honest. I just...want." Solas, for all his intellect, can't tell Barcus how his lovers would react to the idea of children, or how they would work out the details between the lot of them.

Solas offers Barcus the flat, sarcastic expression that that deserves. Yes, thank you, that is not what he meant either— though in retrospect, that is what it sounded like, is it not?

"It is possible for them to give you biological children," He counters, by way of vengeance, "Or the reverse, though it might require a significant leave of absence. In the Fade, there are very few limitations upon physical form, and what one longs for is prone to becoming reality without warning."

For, you see, when two elves love each other very, very much... Well. It doesn't really mater what they looked like, back home. Dreams are funny like that, sometimes, as is magic.

"You need only ask."

To say that Barcus is surprised by this information would be an understatement. He is rendered speechless to a degree that is actually unusual for him. He also turns more shades of pink and violet than Solas has ever seen him turn before.

There's a long pause while he takes a cautious sip of his own lemonade, gazing into the middle distance, then: "Fine, then. I didn't think I had any questions about the process but I am properly chastised for my arrogance."

Whether he will wish to act on this revelation or whether it's just an interesting flight of fantasy, he doesn't know! But it does open an avenue for curiosity that feels a little less impertinent than it otherwise might: "Are they...from all three of you then? Is that possible?"

Solas laughs, real and low in his chest— trying to do so quietly, and then to suppress it as the chuckles disturb the baby's sleep. He fusses and curls up, his little face wrinkling in dramatic displeasure, but eventually resettles with significant application of back-rubs and gentle reassurances.

"No. Beleth bore all three, though we intended only two, originally," There is still laughter in Solas' voice; twins are a blessing, and proof of Beleth's line. He cannot help but delight in them, "It was her wish. They are mine by blood as well, which was Felassan's. Myself, I gave no opinion— they are ours, and they are loved. That is all they ever need to be for my sake."

He pauses, his glance significant over Barcus' still-flushed expression, and smirks.

"...But there were options. You have friends in high places and low, Barcus Wroot, and should be made aware of the breadth of choice that stands before you."

It's actually a risky temptation to dangle in front of him. Barcus' calling is invention but his vice is connection, in part because he denied himself for so long in pursuit of his work. The idea that he might have a child of his body and Bel's, or maybe even a little bit of all of his lovers who he's been so afraid of losing for good after leaving Caldera--well, his first thought is what wouldn't he give for that? A little physical risk, a little time to carry them and then forever after to raise and love them? That's not a sacrifice, that's a gift.

But it's not something that he would undertake seriously without a number of long and thoughtful conversations. "I-I think what I meant to ask was whether they could be, by blood, a little of each of yours." Because if physical form is no obstruction, why should anything else be?

"But...you're right, o-of course. The point is that they are here and you all love them." It takes him a moment to recover his breath, even after this, and the flush lingers yet.

"How is Felassan? I hope he'll stop by as well, some time." Speaking of people who are entirely normal about their life partners.

"An interesting question," He says, and for a moment or two entertains himself in idle thought, tenderly flattening the wispy hairs at the back of the baby's head, "In theory, there is no reason why not; the Fade is the realm of the mind, of memory, intention, and dreams. But unformed bodies are particularly malleable, and the spirits within do not know what they are; the more complex the mixture, the more opportunity for unintended consequence."

Of course, within the Fade itself, there is no reason to believe such unusual persons would by necessity find their physical forms incompatible with life... but there was also no guarantees. Certainly, living in a realm of almost pure magic could compensate for any number of difficulties, but should such a child ever leave the Fade...

Well. Solas shakes his head on a grimace.

"It is not a field well-studied. As far as we know, there have been no children physically conceived, borne, and birthed within the Fade, excepting for our own. And we three are all elves, and relatively similar— the variables were as minimized as they could be. I would not lead you blindly into tragedy, my friend; there is always a risk of failure to accompany the possibility of success, if you have the courage to face it."

Barcus is quiet for a while, thinking this over. He's gotten a little better at self-analysis through his time in Caldera, and after consideration, he nods. "Anything worth doing is worth failing at," he says. "Fear of failure won't stop me, but another life is well worth mulling over."

"I haven't even broached the topic with Bel. And as much as I love all of them, he is the one who stays with me, maybe for good, so I won't do anything to push him. I think...the idea is so compelling because I want to hold onto them without holding them back. If I could keep them with me and still let them go to be everything they want to be..."

He shakes his head. "But that is absolutely not a good reason to have a child. I'll keep the possibility in mind, of course, but for the somewhat distant future. In the end, adoption might be best." But even at that rate, it's not going to happen soon.

"I am yet unpracticed with childrearing," Solas admits, with a smile towards the baby, evidence by itself of his still-young experience, "And I was never a child, myself. But I do not believe anyone could appreciate being thought of as merely a part of their parent, however beloved."

He falls into a tender, contemplative silence, for a moment, thinking the idea through. Sunlight is falling through the windows in a lazy dapple, dust-motes intermingling with the air, like a slow, golden dance. The baby sighs, and without knowing why, Solas mirrors the gesture, and is content.

"You have a great heart. Of all the many dangers, I do not think a lack of love, or consideration, is one of them. It is my opinion that any child would be safe with you, regardless of their parentage."

"Exactly," he says, giving a slight, rueful nod. "I know better. I have a few things to work on first. In here," he touches his own temple with a single fingertip.

"Besides, maybe I should enjoy what I already have for a bit first." Because the others may come and go and return, but it seems as though Bel will be staying for the foreseeable future.

He quiets as Solas does, watching him interact with the drowsy infant, and finds his own twinges of longing fade into something softer and more pleasant in the peaceful silence. He can just be happy for his friends, and revel in that.

Of course, he flushes again at the compliment, and smiles. "You have a way of making words feel like treasures, you know that? Thank you. I cared for my younger siblings often enough, growing up."

His blink at the compliment is a moment of surprise, and then he laughs, very quietly. Barcus Wroot, have you not enough of a harem? Behave yourself.

"I thank you," says he, "I have a well-earned reputation for ferocity, but it is my preference, always, to be known for Wisdom. I am grateful that recent years have given me few reasons to bare the Wolf's fangs."

And all of them, as ever, worthy targets. He hopes, perhaps futilely, that Baldur's Gate and it's many demons, gods, and myriad peoples, will give him no cause to wield his considerable power against them... But.

But, he is prepared to tear down the firmament itself, should any of them think to threaten his family. And so it is not an impossibility.

"Enough of my story, for now. What have you done with your years, Barcus Wroot?"

What, can't a man flirt idly with his friends? He just has a lot of affection to give, so sue him. Anyway, he does mean it. A Solas compliment is a special thing.

"Well, you make me feel particularly appreciated when you tell me kind things, and I have yet to object to your lectures. Your children, as they grow, will probably object to being told things by their papa, though. I hope you're braced for the tiny eye-rolls and longsuffering sighs."

Doesn't matter if you're right. The kids have to be annoyed, they're contractually obligated.

"It hasn't been years for me. A few months. Nearly eight months, I think? Bel found me first, and I'm immensely grateful for that. I've had plenty of work here, but I can't begin to articulate how awful the thought was that I might never see any of you again, even with gates and doors between universes. Having him with me makes me feel...stable again."

"As far as my work, a lot of it has been in reconstructing the infrastructure of the upper and lower cities. The Netherbrain and the mindflayers did a number on bridges and roads. That work, the Ironhands do largely pro bono, but then the patriars throw gold at us to repair their fine houses, so we more than break even."

"You will find, I think, the economic inequality here downright galling. Gods know I do, but it's tricky to address with so many forces pulling the city one way and another. I genuinely believe that leaning into labor guilds is the tide that will eventually float more boats than not, though. Cut down the noble houses, raise up the meek. But I'm not a revolutionary, only an artisan." So he says, but the fact that he has an opinion here and at least part of a plan says something he doesn't want to hear about himself.

"The other thing we're working on is dismantling the remnants of the Steel Watch, but it has to be done in secret, with care. The components can be delicate, and volatile. You can't just dump infernal iron into a rubbish heap and bury it. We might be at it for another year yet."

Truthfully, Dorian had actually come by to see Barcus, so seeing Solas as he entered the gnome's residence was a surprise, especially seeing the child in his arms.

Catching the words in his throat, he adjusts his volume before finally greeting, "Oh, hello! Sorry, am I interrupting something?"

He supposed it was his fault for not checking with Barcus before coming over. "I can always come back another time."

"Dorian Storm," Solas replies, by way of greeting. He does no get up— but that has more to do with the tiny body splayed across his torso, blithely dreaming, than any attempt at rudeness. This time.

"This is my daughter, Lingrean; Unless you wake her, you will be interrupting nothing. We are visiting for a few weeks, while we may."

"Oh! How wonderful!" He couldn't help being just a bit surprised about the fact about Solas having a child, but that's probably shouldn't be something to say out loud. "Congratulations."

He steps a bit closer to observe the sleeping child. "How old is she?"

"Her age is still best counted in weeks. She has recently mastered crawling," He is very proud of this accomplishment, an inanity he might once have scoffed at, but now finds helplessly charming, "To become used to a body is no mean feat, but she progresses beautifully, every day— and her brother, as well."

Said brother being not in evidence, at the moment, but Solas is clearly unconcerned. He tries his best to dote upon them, but at their tender age he can only expect so much in the way of preference: their mother has a monopoly on the food supply, after all.

"You seem well, here. But this world will have been your home, originally, yes?"

"Oh wow, really? She can crawl already? That's amazing!"

Dorian doesn't really know the children's ages for milestones like that, but he was impressed all the same.

"Oh, she has a brother as well? That's wonderful. You must be so proud."

He'd never thought much about children himself. He knows one day he'll likely have to have some of his own, especially now that he was next in line for the Squall's golden seat.

"Oh, um, no actually. I'm from a different world myself. I only came to visit Barcus."

At this point, Bel has probably seen Solas and family at Barcus's, and gotten at least some attention as an elf, but definitely odd-looking by Thedosian standards. From what Bel knows of Thedas, even if Solas and Beleth are able to make changes for the better, Baldur's Gate is a lot more friendly to a family of elves than a human city in Thedas would be.

Bel is drawing more of the attention here -- a drow on the surface is a curiosity, even when it is assumed one in a human city is likely an exile. It also discourages pickpocketing, which is good because Bel definitely has more knives on his person than the one he is openly wearing. But it means he does see the pickpocket going for Solas, under the assumption that Solas is being distracted by a small child.

Bel remembers Solas fighting Loki to a draw, mostly because he, Finnick and Beleth had been left hastening their return from death. Bel does not want to deal with the Flaming Fist reacting to whatever Solas might do, or bringing Barcus in. (He expects that any restraint Solas would show was based more on what he considered appropriate in front of his daughter, and Bel doesn't know what that is.)

So cue a drow sidling up behind the would-be pickpocket and says conversationally, 'that man is a friend of mine; do keep that in mind'. Which does the job, well enough, as the pickpocket feigns an interest in Ordinary Market Activity.

Only then does Bel nod to Solas.

Solas is not surprised to see Bel, but he is at the intervention— and grateful. It was gracefully done, and quiet, which was not guaranteed by Solas' methods. Though, when they meander closer and Avisenehn proclaims her enthusiasm for silken scarves, he permits her to paw through the barrel of fabric scraps for treasure, and leans over in a conspiratorial manner.

"I would not have killed him," He says, though his carefully light tone betrays that yes, death had indeed been one of the potential options, "Thank you. It was quieter this way."

"That definitely would have upset Barcus," Bel agreed. Which was clearly the relevant factor. "Old habit on trying not to cause a fuss."

"And I didn't want to spoil your day out with trouble." He nods to Avisenehn. "How much am I allowed to buy her things if she asks for something?"

Bel has a soft spot for children, especially children getting to be innocent for longer than drow children got to be. He figures money is not a problem here.

"If she is permitted sweets at this hour, she will not eat dinner," He replies, "If you buy any thing that resembles a pet, be sure you do not mind taking it into your own home, instead."

Any pet that is owned by a three year old girl, is actually owned by her parents, you see. And Solas has his hands very full indeed, as it is. But Avi has emerged from the barrel with a length of brilliantly violet silk, just a shade brighter than her own purple eyes, and is waving it about in triumph.

"She is the daughter of what is considered by most to be a new pantheon of elven gods," He says, with wry, annoyed sarcasm. He has always quibbled with the g-word, but even he cannot say that the world sees him differently— among friends, at least, he knows he will be understood, "You will not spoil her with a afternoon of indulgence. Be free, Belantar."

"I could not offer much to my younger siblings that was not dictated by the terms my mother set, which were far more strict than yours." Bel doesn't know what Barcus may have said about how most drow lived; he's not brought it up to Solas himself, beyond a distrust in the local elven and drow gods.

"It has made me very generous with children." And the terms were reasonable -- Bel might have grown up with a sibling with an aptitude for nature magic, but at three, Ilphyl wasn't yet able to capture small creatures that then needed to be removed from the house.

So he's taking out his own purse and offering Avisenehn enough of the local currency to buy the silk. "Good choice. Silks are a lot more durable than they look, as well as pretty." And also a status symbol both on the surface and the Underdark.

"It's a present for Mamae!" the child informs Bel, matter-of-factly, and when presented with the coin snatches it witha delighted squeal, "I'm going to give it to her."

"Da'len," Solas reminds her, with a meaningful glance. Avi looks at him, blankly uncomprehending, and he nods towards Belantar.

No dice. What? What does that mean, Solas? She doesn't get it. He sighs, smiling indulgently.

"What do we say, when someone offers you a gift?"

"Oh! Thank you, tarlin!"

Bel notes this little father-daughter interaction with interest. Look, some of us didn't have functional childhoods. (Whether Bel knows enough about Solas's history to know that Solas's experiences were wildly different than growing up in a physical body with parents who also have bodies is an open question.)

"You're welcome. Tarlin?" he looks to Solas. Alas that while they might be both speaking Elven, the languages aren't actually the same.

Zevlor and Solas did not speak much, in Caldera. Once or twice. But the old hellrider cuts a distinctive enough figure that he may recognize him anyway, as he makes his way through the market, pacing slow and deliberate along the sandy riverside. He pauses near what appears to be a tiefling child selling newspapers. If Solas had looked at them at all, he would have seen they're all from several days ago, perhaps fished out of the trash for resale. Zevlor buys one without question, giving the child a tentative pet on the head and nodding at whatever she says to him.

And then, another step or two closer to Solas, and his tail whips out, tripping up the would-be pickpocket as he draws near. Handy to have that extra appendage.

"Goodness," he says in a monotone. "Are you all right? How clumsy of me."

And maybe it's the gleam in the tiefling's fiery eyes or maybe the thief gets a second look at that "wood elf" he thought he was going to rob and realizes he needs to refine his technique, but a moment later he's scrambling through the crowd like a dragon is after him. Zevlor watches him go with narrowed eyes, tracking him, so focused on his retreat he forgets to speak to Solas and his child.

One moment there is no one there, and the next--after a flurry of chilly, juniper-scented air--there is Loki. He hesitates not a whit, not even offering Solas a greeting, before he flips a few coins to the nearest merchant, casually overpaying for a beautiful little pennywhistle made from carved reddish stone and copper filigree. It's shaped like a fox.

He offers it out to the little girl with a graceful bow, while at last glancing up at Solas. "It's important to nurture musical talent in the next generation, don't you think, Eiðbróðir?"

Mischief. Give a toddler an instrument and there will be so much noise. But it's gentle, as far as tricks go, and there's a blend of fondness in his eyes, alongside the amusement.

"I think my daughter's mother will kill you far more soundly than I ever could," Solas replies mildly, and only flinches a very miniscule amount when Avisenehn's immediate expression of gratitude arrives in the form of a blistering shriek from the whistle in her hands, "But you are used to living dangerously, are you not?"

Such as, for example, right now. You bastard.

"How are you, Lethallin? You have been missed."

"Don't threaten me with a good time. I love a woman who can snap me like dry pasta," Loki says blithely. He'll be far more conciliatory when Beleth is around to hear it, don't worry. He feels freer to harass you, Solas. It's a kind of love.

There's the faintest flicker of ruefulness in his own face at the spectacular noise the child produces, but he covers it up quickly. Look, it's good for security. If they get separated, Solas will be able to find her by the godsawful noises.

"I'm well," he answers, starts to reach out instinctively as if to pet the little girl's hair, and then stops himself. Best to be introduced first; children are people, you don't get to take familiarities just because they're adorable. "Caldera is at peace," he goes on to assure Solas, "and inasmuch as I can be, so am I. For now."

Trickster's gotta trickster. You get it.

In the meantime, he sinks easily to one knee to let Avi look him in the face. And possibly blow noises directly at him; he'll cope, he asked for that. "Good morning, Älskling, and well met. I'm an old friend of your father's."

"I will inform her of that opinion, should she ask," He replies, drily, but vengeance is brought on its own feet, and Loki's own wince is satisfying. Didn't think this one all the way through, did you?

The girl deftly dodges his hand, tooting fiercely at it, to be sure of her defenses, and only calms when Solas puts a restive hand over one shoulder.

"Papae?"

"This is Loki, da'len. An old friend."

Something in the way he says that sparks recognition in the child, and she turns back to Loki only slowly, eyes trailing towards her father as she turns. Then she is looking up at him with huge eyes, whistle clutched in both hands, staring.

"Avi," He reminds, gently.

"Mith'Avisenehn, ashafen'lene," she pronounces very seriously, and then blurts, "Papae says you are Elvarman'mi!"

Solas sighs minutely. The perils of bedtime stories.

Felassan alone might approach and open a door so silently that there's no forewarning of his arrival, but plenty of time to spot a sleeping baby before he chooses to open his mouth. But this is not Felassan alone. This is Felassan with Avisenehn on his shoulders, merrily babbling about her plan to have ten or a million kittens when she's grown. And though their combined heights do not pose any real risk to her curly head as they pass through the door, he's still distracted by ducking down a few inches to make extra sure.

He doesn't freeze when he notices Solas and the baby. Fluidly, he rolls Avi down off his shoulders and bundles her against his chest instead, and she's small but she's clever. She's learned about the moments sudden silence is needed to let the grown-ups listen for danger, or to avoid startling a deer or a wisp, or to prevent the twins from wailing back into wakefulness and prematurely ending her opportunity to be the sole center of her parents' attention for a little while. So she is instantly quiet, even as she turns her head to look at her Papae and tiny sibling, except for the quiet clap of her hand over her mouth, eyes merry and unafraid of scolding: it's a game, and she's in on it.

(Her hand, by the way, is bright daffodil yellow. So is most of Felassan's face, where he's let her finger paint over his vallaslin, albeit with neither the fine motor skills nor the patience to trace the lines too precisely, and then acquired a few smudgy handprints during her shoulder ride to boot. When she lowers her hand from her mouth, she'll match.)

Felassan bares his teeth, more grimace than grin, and waits silent to see if they've narrowly avoided disaster or stumbled right into it.

Solas observes these antics with an indulgent snort, and silently lifts the baby's limp, dangling wrist— then drops it, demonstratively. He is dead to the physical world, safely ensconced in Faerun's Fade, or in the protected garden that Solas has made of this place's dream-scape. It would take more than a heavy footfall to wake this one.

Still, his voice is quiet enough, as he beckons them nearer.

"You seem to have enjoyed yourselves," He says, all the sardonic edge passing from his eyes as they take in first Felassan's new adornment, and then the instrument of said artistry, "Da'len, is this your work? You are becoming a very fine artist. I approve."

"I can do you too, Papae." Avi giggles, her voice a whisper more in spirit than body, "Then you can match!"

Solas' hesitation is brief, the length of a breath; his eyes flicker back up to Felassan's face. Ah. "Of course. It would... be my honor. But first, we must find your brother somewhere else to nap."

Felassan's grimace turns into a smile when Nori's chubby little hand falls back onto Solas's chest, but a moment later that smile dampens. Ah indeed. He begins to open his mouth; Avi is old enough, he thinks, to understand that Felassan loves the taste of lemon and she does not, and the games that enthrall the twins are dull to her now, and what one person finds fun and harmless might make another sad.

But Solas is faster. Felassan's eyes narrow infinitesimally, but that's the extent of his protest for the moment, as Avi notices she is being held like a baby, which she no longer is, and squirms until he grants her the dignity of setting her down on her big-kid feet.

"Maybe in the bathtub," she proposes.

"Oh, that's not going to save you," Felassan says, because they had been on their way to rinse off the paint. From her, not from him. He'll wear his all day. But plans to continue painting right now will get her a temporary reprieve from bathtime, at least, and Felassan puts his hand on her head and wiggles affectionate fingers against her scheming little head. She's her mother's daughter. And her father's. And his. "I'll fetch your paints, da'lath."

Better than sending her to leave yellow handprints all over Barcus's things. Faster, too. He'll be back in a flash.

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Open Post: Papae Solas

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