To others, it might have been strange, to step from cold air into thick and humid, the salt the barest taste as he breathed in. But to Solas, it was as natural as that very breath, taken as the lash came down, the crack echoing through the Fade. He stepped forward like a ghost might - unworried and unperturbed by who or what would see him. It didn't matter.

It was just another dream, another mirror of a reality that was hardly real in itself. A passing thought, for him to ponder and then release before he stepped into the next.

Or so he expected.

The truth was more complicated. The truth was when he stepped further into that dream, when he found the man bent, the knife at his throat - half a child, flickering, half the full grown man, remembering, and the recognition hit him. Zevran. This was no dream of desire, no antivan silk and endless whores. This was pain, and rage, and wounds so deep he couldn't see the bottom.

This was wrong.