The morning had begun somber. They walked for hours, led by the Herald, without encountering a soul along the paths or in the small villages they passed through. There were no fresh tracks in the soil. The only sounds were their breathing and the crunch of their steps.
She did not speak of her own accord throughout the journey. She answered when spoken to, yes—but she did not seek conversation. Solas could not blame her. The moment when the explosion had alerted them was still etched into his mind… and how he had seen her freeze before that grotesque landscape. That was when he understood that the Dalish woman was still far too innocent for such brutality. The blows would shape her—as they had shaped everyone—and all he could wish was that they would not be too cruel.
It should not matter to him; he knew that as well. Yet he believed it was not a matter of worrying about the girl, but of being able to place himself in her position. He could imagine exactly how she felt. He had already lived it—by fire. That was why he understood her, and perhaps for that same reason, respected her silences and the grief weighing upon her this day.
He would even wager that a layer of sorrow clung to her, pulling her down toward the ground. Surely she wished to cry, to stop, to sit for a while at the edge of the path until the tears subsided… and then walk again. She must also have felt desperate. Desperation was always the first companion of the untested. And it was understandable. There were many emotions capable of breaking the spirit of a leader taking their first unsteady steps—especially when everyone expected perfection from the very beginning, as though she were nothing more than a symbol.
Those meant to be protected often forgot that a leader was also a person—not out of cruelty, but out of need. The need to believe in that symbol of hope. It was not easy to stand where she stood. Solas knew this all too well. He also knew that this was a path walked alone. One learned to walk only when there was no strength left—when one believed they could not take another step… and yet did. Then another. And another. And with each step, one sought strength, ironically, in those who believed in you more than you could believe in yourself.
When is a leader defeated?
It was a question he had asked himself more times than he could count. And at times, he wondered whether he himself had already been defeated… and simply failed to realize it. That was why he continued—even here. Even in Thedas.
Because the Dread Wolf was no longer a leader.
He was merely the living shadow of failure.
That was why he could not help recalling his own suffocating beginnings as he watched her.
And that irritated him.
All of this dragged him toward the past like a foul tide, carrying pains he had tried to drown in waters too deep. So deep that he feared letting them surface and being, at last, annihilated beneath the unbearable weight of guilt. For he still remembered…
…He remembered, for instance, the villages razed by the fire of infamous Andruil, when she had fallen to madness. He could still see the corpses of men, women, children, and elders scattered like leaves after a storm. And above all—the eyes. The eyes of those victims, still filled with fear, as though not even death had freed them from war or from the goddess they had worshipped.
And thus he had learned that sometimes, not even death erases the fear trapped within lifeless eyes.
He also remembered the rivers. Rivers so filled with blood beneath the servants of Falon'Din that the water itself had ceased to flow beneath the crimson density. And it was no metaphor. Every image was etched with brutal literalness. He had seen so much blood… that he had come to feel revulsion toward blood magic. To hate it. To feel nausea at the mere thought of it.
Solas clenched his staff tightly.
Because not even that revulsion…
…had stopped him when he created the Veil.
There were hundreds of atrocities he could summon to memory, if he allowed himself. But he did not. And the worst of it was that he did not refrain out of prudence—but out of fear. Because with those memories came the crushing migraines. They shattered his skull. He shattered… and yes, curse it all, he no longer felt as strong as he once had. The years were clearly weighing upon him. Time, at last, seemed capable of bending him.
Solas looked at Elentari and wondered how many more horrors the young elf would yet witness upon this path she had begun to walk—the path of leadership.
The trap lay there. When one first stepped upon it, no one warned them of what it concealed… because one began with ideals and purpose. With values and hope… that along the way… fractured into inert stone. Lifeless longing. Breath without warmth. And the path grew dark. So dark that even he had been defeated by it.
Dinan'shiral…
The journey of death.
Ruthlessness, at times, was mercy upon oneself.
And then he realized he was clenching his fists—and that every time he recalled those scenes, he quickened his pace, as though by doing so he might outrun his past. A foolish wish. For Solas knew it had already caught him.
The path of leadership was infamous, tortuous, and meant for few. He hoped the Herald would be able to walk it.
He had not.
Oh, he truly had not.
Fen'Harel's blue gaze lifted toward the sky and settled upon the Breach. Yes—that mocking witness to his failure. That wound in his Veil, that cursed Veil he had placed upon the world, shattering it. His failure as a leader. His attempt to free the oppressed, the victims, the innocents… from the Evanuris.
And then he looked back at the Herald—the Dalish woman who spread false tales about those same enemies he had condemned, whom she still worshipped. Life's wretched ironies…
Her dark hair was braided, swaying with each step. He sighed. Because despite how utterly wrong her beliefs were, in the depths of his being he wished she might reach a different end than his own. For his story—that story—he would wish upon no one. Not even Elgar'nan. Only he knew how much it had hurt, and how much it still hurt… the sentence of how much more he would yet have to endure.
Solas clenched his jaw and forced himself to breathe. Because despite everything… he was Fen'Harel. Another Evanuri. The one who would shatter his Veil and unleash chaos upon this world…
In the end, the failure of the Dalish woman's leadership was already sealed by the Dread Wolf's conviction. The poor elf seemed a woman of good intentions… pity she had crossed paths with him.
Life's ironies, indeed. Let them tell it to him. Or to her.
- I don't usually like meddling in mage business, but I have to tell you something.
He heard the dwarf's voice at his side, and slowly turned to look at him. For the first time, he was grateful to the child of the Stone for pulling him from the fatalistic whirlpool he had fallen into. When he swam in that sea of sorrow, he often sank until he could no longer breathe.
- You've been awfully quiet lately about our Herald, Chuckles.
Solas curved his lips into a half-smile, feigning—what? Some emotion he did not truly feel. In a measured, almost indifferent voice, he replied. - And what exactly should I say, child of the Stone?
- I don't know. - The dwarf shrugged. - Maybe you could talk to her. One of those logical talks you're so good at. Or, you know—something practical. A bit of advice for the girl.
The elf's gaze was unreadable, but he gave the words due consideration.
- She does not need my advice.
- Oh, really? Because from where I'm standing, she looks like someone carrying the weight of the entire world on her shoulders. And you… you could help her bear it.
- It is not my place.
- And what is your place, then? Because so far all you've done is follow her in silence, watching from a distance, as if that somehow lightens her burden. But I don't see that burden lifting.
Solas did not understand why the dwarf asked him. Why not Cassandra? Encourage the Seeker to have a talk with another powerful woman tasked with saving the world. And Varric seemed to read his thoughts, for he laughed before adding. - She sees you as one of her own. And hey—before you deny it, hear me out. Don't be a pain. - He folded his arms—awkwardly, due to the staff he carried—and laughed again. - I know you two have nothing in common. You're like… mmh, one bosom of Andraste and the other...
Solas arched a brow and could not help smiling at the clumsy eloquence.
- I believe that would make us rather close, wouldn't it?
- Fair point. Poor analogy. Because finding out you're the same race would terrify you, wouldn't it?
Solas understood it was deliberate and rolled his eyes. They were not the same. He was elvhen. She was… an elf of this age. But the child of the Stone did not know that.
- Varric... - the elf said quietly, firmly. He stopped, and the dwarf did the same. - What she needs is to learn on her own. Not another elf. The path she must walk is a lonely one.
- I won't argue that. - Varric crossed his arms again, unfazed. - But I worry that learning on her own might mean breaking. Shattering herself. And the girl has a good heart—that even you can't deny.
Solas could not answer at once. In his mind, the image of Elentari running with the child in her arms, refusing to give up, resurfaced. Her determination suddenly reminded him of someone… of himself. And he felt pity.
Because he…
…had never been helped.
They had let him run. Run and run and run—until he broke beneath the pain of the dead and the burden of every life taken.
Where had that slightly naive Solas gone—the one who had begun that revolution dreaming of breaking chains? Had he died? Or did he still linger within him?
He grimaced as the comparison stirred that long-extinguished spark. The Rebel. The untamed one. Fen'Harel.
What would the young Solas say if he stood before this worn version of the present and heard him speak so cynically?
He would be ashamed.
The young Solas had never been able to look away when someone needed him. That very trait had broken him in the end. Because he went to everyone.
But no one came to him.
- I cannot tell her how to walk this path.
Just as no one had told him.
- No. - the dwarf said, stepping closer and giving him a friendly pat on the arm. Then he smiled lightly and added. - I'm just saying… there's nothing wrong with reminding her she doesn't have to do it alone. Sometimes, that's all someone needs to hear. I'm not saying you tell her how—just that you're there. That she isn't alone.
With that, Varric resumed walking, leaving the apostate behind, lost in thought. Solas looked at the spot where the dwarf's hand had rested—a small gesture, yet comforting—and felt his body betray him.
Suddenly, like a luminous lash, the memory of his old friend Revas cut through his mind:
"Rebellion is not only an act of resistance against a tyrant; it is an affirmation of our capacity to choose our own fate."
Perhaps… he had not been alone.
Perhaps… he had refused help.
Solas sighed and turned his gaze toward the Dalish woman. Her small, hunched back seemed to bear something heavier than destiny itself… the beginning of a story she did not yet know she was imprisoned within.
He thought of Varric's words… of Revas… of Felassan…
Was it possible for a leader not to be alone? Should he walk beside her with the weight of his experience?
But in the end…
…he looked once more at the great Breach…
In the end he would shatter his Veil—would it not be cruel to fill her with false hope?
He shook his head.
The dwarf had confused him.
Would it truly be so wrong to help her? To guide her?
His eyes settled on the woman's left hand… the Anchor. His power. Fen'Harel's lost power—now hers.
And he walked on, unable to decide.
He continued to follow the leader of the group.