And he, half-turned away, stops. The dagger? That... would have worked. Whatever it took to kill Elgar'nan, it would not be easy, or simple, and surely there would be no time for careful thought. To bring the Veil down smoothly, rather than as an explosive cataclysm would require immediate action, and if in that crucial moment someone handed him a tool that would not, could not, sever the long resonance from its source and power...
That would have worked. And then, he would be flung back, and they would bind him to the Veil with blood, and thrust him into the Fade-prison from which he so recently escaped, so spend all his long, long lifespan trapped. Alone, in the grey nothingness, maddened, wounded, nothing more than a living power-source for their petty lives to feed on. An eternal torment, even if Beleth had been there— made far worse, for having her there with him, watching it destroy them both.
He looks back at her in confused horror, comprehending finally what it is she is doing. How many times had she told him she loved him still? As many times as he had doubted it, knowing that she could not, truly, understand what it was he had become, what he had done.
But if she tells him this secret, there is no undoing it.
There is no going back: she will have undone her allies plans, and gone over to his side. And so she has no power anymore to betray them or not, only for her faith in him to be answered or not. Solas' answer is at first inarticulate, a voiceless, pained denial, the sound of someone taking a fist in the gut.
She comes to him, and he opens his arms with trembling hands, and them abruptly pulls her closer, clutching, hard and desperate and frightened that she may go away, or change her mind. But he knows, he knows, she will not. Cannot. The die is cast.
"Vhenan," He whispers, broken-hearted. For the first time in millennia he truly is not so sure, and though he crushes it brutally, the question plants a living seed, somewhere down in the black heart of him: what if? "Thank you."
How can this truly be what she wants? He is not the man she fell in love with, not that gentle apostate, constructed equal parts from convenience and lies. And yet, true also that she had never wavered, had only seemed to strengthen as more and more of him came into her view. When had she known, when had she seen enough to know it all? But he knows the answer to that; years ago, when her body had been whole, and he had still thought their bond fragile enough to break. When first she had named him, her eyes bright with defiance: Dread Wolf. Fool. Prideful idiot.
Even then, it had been too late, and she had known it.
"Ar lath ma, vhenan. Thank you. I..." a quiet, bitter chuckle, "I have no words. I came hoping only for a callow apology. Perhaps one day I will learn not to underestimate the depths of your wisdom, and your strength."
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That would have worked. And then, he would be flung back, and they would bind him to the Veil with blood, and thrust him into the Fade-prison from which he so recently escaped, so spend all his long, long lifespan trapped. Alone, in the grey nothingness, maddened, wounded, nothing more than a living power-source for their petty lives to feed on. An eternal torment, even if Beleth had been there— made far worse, for having her there with him, watching it destroy them both.
He looks back at her in confused horror, comprehending finally what it is she is doing. How many times had she told him she loved him still? As many times as he had doubted it, knowing that she could not, truly, understand what it was he had become, what he had done.
But if she tells him this secret, there is no undoing it.
There is no going back: she will have undone her allies plans, and gone over to his side. And so she has no power anymore to betray them or not, only for her faith in him to be answered or not. Solas' answer is at first inarticulate, a voiceless, pained denial, the sound of someone taking a fist in the gut.
She comes to him, and he opens his arms with trembling hands, and them abruptly pulls her closer, clutching, hard and desperate and frightened that she may go away, or change her mind. But he knows, he knows, she will not. Cannot. The die is cast.
"Vhenan," He whispers, broken-hearted. For the first time in millennia he truly is not so sure, and though he crushes it brutally, the question plants a living seed, somewhere down in the black heart of him: what if? "Thank you."
How can this truly be what she wants? He is not the man she fell in love with, not that gentle apostate, constructed equal parts from convenience and lies. And yet, true also that she had never wavered, had only seemed to strengthen as more and more of him came into her view. When had she known, when had she seen enough to know it all? But he knows the answer to that; years ago, when her body had been whole, and he had still thought their bond fragile enough to break. When first she had named him, her eyes bright with defiance: Dread Wolf. Fool. Prideful idiot.
Even then, it had been too late, and she had known it.
"Ar lath ma, vhenan. Thank you. I..." a quiet, bitter chuckle, "I have no words. I came hoping only for a callow apology. Perhaps one day I will learn not to underestimate the depths of your wisdom, and your strength."