Planasene Forests, Kingdom of Nevarra, 9:40 Dragon
The warm viscosity between his hands soaked into his flesh, an oily residue his body rejected. It was not the first time the Great Wolf had spilled innocent blood, but it was the first time he had done so in this silent, alien world he had awakened to a month ago.
And he despised this world…
Solas raised his blue gaze to contemplate his work: the bodies of a Dalish clan scattered across the ground. All of them grotesquely destroyed, and though he felt no affection for them, neither did he take pride in what he had done.
Had it been necessary to kill them, even after they believed him to be Fen'Harel?
Perhaps yes.
Perhaps no.
All he knew was that he could not leave loose ends. Not in this world that despised him, where these elves—primitive and lost—continued to worship the impostors of their age, those power-hungry egotists who had called themselves "gods," yet never had been.
Or at least… that was the excuse he told himself.
- Unnecessary… - the Dread Wolf murmured nonetheless, as one of the elves let out his final breath, choking on his own blood.
He looked at him with a mixture of disdain and pity.
The cause of death had been the insult to Fen'Harel; Solas had merely done what was required. And he could not ignore it.
Even so…
…unnecessary. Every body screamed it without a voice. He had carried out an unnecessary slaughter—another among many that only increased the weight upon his shoulders, growing heavier with each passing moment.
Solas sighed and closed his eyes, but immediately felt the gesture was cowardly, so he forced himself to look upon the devastation.
One. Two. Three.
Do not 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 were torn apart. Some had died with their gaze lost in the firmament; others with eyes wide open, mouths frozen in a final scream as Fen'Harel stole their very last breath. Some still clutched their heads; others lay curled like infants in the maternal womb. Some wounds still bled, as though refusing to accept the end. But the end had reached them nonetheless…
From each body extended a red thread of opened veins, seeking to join one another, yielding to the will of the earth that wished to write with them a single word: guilty.
Twenty-three elven corpses—children and elders alike—faces painted as servants of the Evanuris. No distinction. No mercy. All alike… who had been slain…
…by him.
He squeezed his eyes shut, a sharp spike piercing his temple and warning him that if he continued, he would suffer yet another of his habitual migraines—those that had appeared in the final days of Elvhenan and that seemed unwilling to abandon him even in this flawed world.
The irony nearly made him laugh. Damn them all. No—damn this… his conscience, warning him that he could no longer endure it, yet Solas was unwilling to listen. He could not. He could not, because if he did…
No.
He must not.
It felt as though a hammer struck his skull head-on. The explosion made him see flashes that did not exist—not truly. Solas knew the sharp pain could subside if one replaced emotion with clear tasks… a purpose. A distraction capable of deceiving him. And so he did just that. He rose slowly, wearily, and fixed his attention on the bank of the stream. He imagined what he would find… fresh, clean currents, small flickers of playful magic evoking better times, far from war cries and drums of anguish… far from his vow to protect his people… to protect…
No.
He must not think of that.
He advanced with measured steps, fully aware that he was lying to himself. Because here he would find no luminous glimmers, no thunderous music… here he would find nothing of what he had once called home.
Once there, he crouched and placed his hands into the cold currents, while the movement of the water carried away the reddish stains from his fingers. At least the water was still cold… even in this silent world, in that at least they were alike…
As if in a trance, his blue eyes watched the crimson smears drift away from his hands faster than he would have wished. He could not think of anything… He must not… Though at times, it was inevitable…
The Deadwinter's night.
Then…
…the last red 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…
She… whom he could not save…
Solas clenched his teeth. The pain in his head began to pulse with a powerful, ancient rhythm, like a distant drum marking the beginning of another war and dragging him toward yet another abyss.
If he thought of her…
…there would be no return.
Everything would break…
He would break…
…as had happened on the Deadwinter's night, before the creation of the Veil…
Another cruel stab pierced his temple mercilessly, making him tremble. Solas closed his eyes and stifled a growl.
Was it worth rising again and fighting to reclaim what he had broken?
He was tired. No—exhausted… his spirit shattered. And he did not know if he wanted to write this story without her…
She was no longer there… and that, too, was his fault.
Guilty.
But then he remembered the savage beings that inhabited this world, deafening in its silences. Worshippers of Elgar'nan and the others… as primitive and ignorant as the fools of his own time had been. 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.
And then he decided.
This would be the last thing he would do: tear down the Veil and ensure that the Evanuris—and the poison among them—would never be released again.
That would be his legacy to the world he had sought to protect and had ended up destroying.
That…
…would be the legacy of Fen'Harel.
Solas rose and walked with unsteady steps, his hand still pressed to his temple due to the intense pain… And for that reason, he failed to notice the witch who had been watching everything from afar. One of the infamous Flemeth's daughters dwelled within these woods and guarded their secrets. And she had just borne witness to the greatest secret of this age:
The Dread Wolf... had awakened.