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To Tear Down The World

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Solas tries to be a good man. A man of thoughtfulness, of wisdom, of compassion. But he is too much full of regret, he thinks, of longing and loneliness and guilt and icy-dark anger that runs deeper than most oceans.

He is a savior. A destroyer. A lover. A murderer.

A god. Or as close to a god as anyone living is ever likely to see.

He wants to tear down the world, tear down the Veil, destroy what is and replace it with what was. What he took away. The life and breath and magic of his people, his world, lost and fallen just like his good intentions.

But deep in the hidden corners of his heart, in the places he tries hard not to wander or explore, he wants the Inquisitor so much more. For her, he could almost lay down his burden and his grief and his anger and his pride.

Almost. Almost.

Outwardly, he hopes she lives with some measure of happiness in what time this world has left. He lies to himself, thinking his words to her before their parting were a mercy, as if a woman so made of fire and steel and moonlight and brilliance could ever be happy knowing that the man she loved– Loved? Did she love him ever? Could she possibly love him still?– was out there in the shadows, slinking like his namesake wolf, tugging on threads to gently pull all the necessary elements together so that he could free his people once more and unmake the horror he had so long ago wrought.

But mostly he hopes that she will somehow prove him wrong. That she will convince him that this ugly magic-drained world of lies and fear and hatred is worth saving even now– worth keeping, flaws and all. He doesn’t believe that he is wrong, no...

...But in the quiet moments, the too-often moments when he is alone-- Always, always alone-- in the heavy lull that comes just before sleep, he imagines that he wants to be.

And then he dreams– of her eyes, so wide, so green, like the energy of the Fade. Of the deep dark green of the vallaslin branching beneath her eyes– the markings of Mythal. Perhaps that’s a sign of something, he thinks ruefully. They suit her, even if the practice among the Dalish clans of wearing those ancient slave-marks with ignorance and pride appalls him. He dreams of her ivory skin and her pert nose and her moonlight-on-snow hair and her lips– those sweetly pink, petal-soft lips he never allowed himself to claim completely or often enough.

He regrets that. Oh heavens, oh sky, oh stars above– he will regret not having her until the day he dies. Her name will be the last word that falls from his lips, one day. Her face will be the last thing he sees before darkness rises up to claim him and the world simply falls away. In his darkest moments, he wonders bitterly if it will be because she's given up on his "redemption" and has plunged one of her daggers straight into his heart.

He would deserve it, he thinks. She should have her justice, her vengeance. He has wronged her beyond all possible forgiveness. He loves her with a fearsome desperation that honestly frightens him-- but when has love ever been enough? What has he ever done to deserve it?

Solas... No. Fen'harel does what he knows must be done. He does it because he’s the only one who can. He does it because he is the one responsible for this ruin. He will make things right again, and the People will know hope and joy and most importantly, the truth.

But when he dreams of the Inquisitor, of her life and hope and sweetness and courage, of the touch and taste of her mouth, he wakes with tears stinging the corners of his eyes and the phantom pain of a knife twisting without mercy in his chest.

I do what I must do. I do what must be done. It can be no other way than this.

He will tear down the world and rebuild it as it should have been. He will destroy what pride has wrought-- and in some corner of his soul, he knows he will destroy the one thing he holds most dear. In doing so, he will also destroy himself.

A sacrifice. His sacrifice. He owes it to his people. He deserves to die for what he has done. He deserves it a thousand times more for what he knows he will do.

He clutches a hand to his heart, aching, afraid, alone in the quiet darkness. Save me, Inquisitor. Save me if you can.

Please. Save me from myself.