Planasene Forests, Kingdom of Nevarra, 9:40 Dragon
The warm, viscous liquid between his fingers clung to his skin like oily residue unwelcome, rejected by his very flesh. It wasn't the first time the Dread Wolf had spilled innocent blood. But it was the first time he had done so in this world. Silent. Foreign. The world he had awakened to a month ago.
He despised this world.
Solas raised his blue gaze to survey his work: the scattered bodies of a Dalish clan, broken and grotesque, strewn across the earth.
And though he felt no affection for them, he took no pride in what he had done.
Had it truly been necessary to kill them, even after they believed him to be Fen'Harel?
Perhaps. Perhaps not.
But loose ends could not be left behind.
This world despised him.
These elves, primitive and lost, still worshiped the impostors: power-hungry egotists who once called themselves "gods," though they never were.
- Unnecessary... - the Dread Wolf muttered, as the last elf choked on his blood, gasping out his final breath.
He looked down at the dying body with a strange blend of contempt and pity.
Unnecessary.
Every corpse screamed it in silence.
And still… he had done it.
An unnecessary slaughter.
Another burden on his shoulders, already heavy, already breaking.
But it had been required.
He closed his eyes, as if that could wash away the guilt.
He knew better.
The remorse would remain.
It would burrow into his spirit, carving deep fissures.
Fissures that would push him, slowly and inevitably, toward the abyss...
...an abyss he had known before.
He sighed. Opened his eyes. Forced himself to look.
One. Two. Three.
Don't look any further, Solas…
Ten. Eleven.
No, you must. You must not forget.
Seventeen. Eighteen.
This is your responsibility.
Twenty-three.
Some lay face down. Others, torn apart. Some had died with eyes gazing at the sky. Others, eyes wide, mouths frozen in a final scream, as Fen'Harel stole their last breath.
Some still clutched their heads. Others lay curled like infants in a womb.
Some wounds still bled, refusing to accept the end. From each body, a red thread spilled veins unraveling, reaching for one another, as if the earth itself were trying to write a single word: guilty.
And that word cast a perfect shadow, one only he could read.
Twenty-three elven corpses. Children and elders alike, faces painted in homage to the Evanuris.
No distinction. No mercy.
All were slain…
…by him.
Solas squeezed his eyes shut. A sharp pain pierced his temple, a warning. If he continued, a migraine would come. It was his conscience speaking. But he refused to listen. He couldn't. Because if he did…
No.
He must not.
A hammer struck behind his eyes. Bursts of light flashed in his vision, phantoms of pain. The sharp agony could be dulled if he replaced emotion with clarity.
That, he knew.
A clear task. A purpose.
So, he stood, slowly, wearily.
His measured steps led him to the edge of a stream. He knelt, dipping his hands into the icy water, letting the current wash the red stains away.
Entranced, his blue eyes watched the crimson smears drift downstream, faster than he would have liked.
He couldn't think.
He mustn't think.
But sometimes, it was inevitable...
The last stain left his hands.
He must not think of the Veil.
Nor of the Blight.
Nor of her…
The one who trusted him.
The one who fell because of him.
The one he could not save…
Solas clenched his jaw. The pain in his skull began to throb, rhythmic, ancient. Like a distant drum announcing the beginning of war.
If he thought of her…
…there would be no return.
Everything would break.
He would break.
…as he had before the creation of the Veil.
Another cruel spike of pain struck him.
Solas closed his eyes, stifling a growl of grief.
Was it still worth rising again? Fighting to reclaim what he had shattered?
He was tired. No, exhausted. His spirit fractured.
And he no longer knew if he wanted to write this story without her…
She was gone. And that, too, was his fault.
Guilty.
But then he remembered the savage creatures that roamed this deafening world. Worshippers of Elgar'nan and the others... primitive, ignorant, like the fools of old…
This world was an abomination. It should not exist.
The Veil was a mistake. His mistake.
Because this… this was not the world she had dreamed of.
He made a decision.
This would be his final act:
To tear down the Veil and ensure that the Evanuris and the poison they carried, would never be released again.
That would be his legacy.
The legacy of Fen'Harel.
Solas stood, stumbling slightly. One hand still pressed to his temple.
And so, he did not notice the witch watching him from afar.
One of Flemeth's daughters lived within these woods, keeper of ancient secrets.
And she had just witnessed the greatest secret of this age:
The Dread Wolf… had awakened.