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“Solas.”
His friend turns around and sees him, smiling slightly as if this is a pleasant surprise.
“Lethal’lin,” he says, warmly. The Qunari woman he turned to stone with nothing more than a glance seconds ago stands behind him, weapon raised, face frozen in confident rage.
Before Yeriel can demand an explanation for any of this, the mark on his left hand sends another pulse of agony through him. The sickly green light of the Fade is almost blinding him by now; it crawls up his entire arm, vein-like. Solas, brief moment of joy seemingly passed, watches him cry out in pain and sink to his knees. He’d caught a brief glimpse of himself in the Eluvian before passing through - the light has reached his face by now, is reflected in his left eye.
Solas approaches where he’s collapsed, crouching down before him and gently taking his left hand in both of his. His eyes flash, and the pain subsides at once. Not entirely, but enough to make Yeriel gasp in surprise and relief before looking him in the face, hoping to convey his gratitude through expression while he struggles for air.
It apparently works; Solas smiles again and helps him stand up. “That should give us more time,” he says. “I suspect you have questions.”
They walk together for a minute or two through a landscape that neither of them really take in. “The Qunari think you’re an agent of Fen’Harel,” Yeriel says, finally. He’s hoarse from yelling out orders in battle, from yelling in pain, from yelling about politics to be heard over everyone else’s raised, angry voices. It seems distant and petty now, to have wasted time caring about it.
“I am no one’s agent but my own,” Solas replies. “I fear the truth is much simpler, and much worse, than the Qunari believe.”
“You are Fen’Harel.”
“I was Solas first.”
Another stretch of silence. “Fen’Harel came later,” Solas offers. “An insult I took as a badge of pride. The Dread Wolf inspired hope in my friends and fear in my enemies. Not unlike Inquisitor, I suppose. You must know the burden of a title that all but erases your name.”
“Are you an Era’elgar? Like Asha'bellanar?”
Solas shakes his head. “This is all I have ever been.”
“And the stories I saw in the Crossroads? Are they true?”
“They are closer than the Dalish legends, though they paint me as greater, more heroic, than I ever was.”
Yeriel stops in his tracks. “Tell me the truth.” he demands.
“I sought to set my people free from slavery to would-be gods. I broke the chains of all who wished to join me. The false gods called me Fen’Harel, and when they finally went too far, I formed the veil and banished them forever. Thus I freed the elven people, and in doing so, destroyed the world.”
“Too far?”
“They killed Mythal.”
“What would you care, if she was one of them?”
Solas glances at Yeriel, his eyes tracing over his vallaslin as they so often used to. The same expression as always comes over his face, almost painfully familiar - as if the tattoos are a puzzle that Solas is close to solving but doesn’t quite grasp.
“She was the best of them. She cared for her people. She protected them. And in their lust for power, they killed her.”
Frowning in thought, Yeriel considers this for a moment. “Asha’bellanar,” he says, slowly, “said Mythal’s fragment came to her seeking justice. Was it for this?”
“I can only assume. I was not there to meet her, as you know.”
They begin walking again as Yeriel considers this. “So you formed the Veil. What happened then?”
“You saw what remains of Vir Dirthara. The library was intrinsically tied to the Fade, and the Veil destroyed it. There were countless other marvels, all dependant on the Fade. All destroyed.”
They reach the top of a set of stairs, and find themselves overlooking the small mountains of the area. Ruins sit on every surface that has room for them, overgrown with moss and flowers, brilliantly colourful in the sun.
“Your legends are half right,” Solas says, not taking his eyes off the ruins. “We were immortal. It was not the arrival of humans that caused us to begin aging. It was me. The Veil took everything from the elves, even ourselves.”
"...Dahn’direlan,” Yeriel half-mumbles, after a moment, and Solas laughs, surprised.
“Yes,” he says, “I suppose so.”
They stand there, side by side, for a long time, before Yeriel finally speaks: “Give me one reason I should believe you.”
“There are very few. I never said you had to believe me. I only hoped.”
He presses on, ignoring Solas’s words. “Either you speak the truth,” he says, “and you are the Dread Wolf. And I cannot trust you.”
“Or?”
“Or you’re lying to me about who you are. And I cannot trust you.”
Solas sighs. “You will not consider the possibility that your legends are wrong, and the Dread Wolf might tell you the truth?”
“If you do speak the truth,” Yeriel says, turning to face Solas, “it is for the first time. If you do, you have been lying to me from the moment we met.”
“Ir abelas, lethal’lin-”
“Tel’abelas.”
He sighs again. “You’ve earned your anger. But you must understand; I awoke in a world where the Veil had blocked most people’s conscious connection to the Fade. It was like walking through a world of tranquil.”
This time, it’s Yeriel who laughs, in disbelief more than anything. “We’re not even people to you?”
“Not at first. You showed me that I was wrong… again. That does not make what must come next any easier.”
“And what must come next?”
“I lay in dark and dreamless sleep while countless wars and ages passed. I woke still weak a year before I joined you.” Solas’s tone grows more solemn as he speaks. The frown on his face deepens. “My people fell for what I did to strike the Evanuris down, but still some hope remains for restoration. I will save the elven people, even if it means this world must die.”
It takes a few moments for Solas’s words to register. “Die?” Yeriel asks, anger quickly replaced by surprise. “Why must it die?”
“A good question. But not one I will answer. It would be too easy to tell you too much, my friend. I hope you will believe that I take no joy in this. But the return of my people means the end of yours.”
They turn, and continue to walk together for some time, whether minutes or hours. Solas talks about Corypheus, and the failed plan with his orb. He talks about the Eluvians, and his spies in the Inquisition. None of it really registers - Yeriel tries to phrase what’s on his mind rather than listen, and in the end, he simply blurts out:
“Let me help you.”
“...You cannot.”
As Solas moves to continue walking, Yeriel grabs his arm with his good hand. It’s not a strong grasp by any means, but he stops nonetheless.
“Solas. You know I would give my life to restore our people.”
“Would you give the life of every friend you have ever known? Of your clan? Your vhen’an?”
The answer must be obvious in his expression, because Solas smiles, sadly, and puts a hand on the side of Yeriel’s face. “There is no glory here; only a price I alone will pay. Your victory over the Qunari should have earned you a few years of relative peace-”
“No.”
“... No?”
“There must be another way. There must be a way that doesn’t demand the destruction of the world!”
“Lethal’lin-”
“There has to be something you’ve not considered-”
“There is no other way.”
Solas doesn’t have to raise his voice; the certainty in his tone stops Yeriel’s protests immediately.
“What about the anchor?” he manages, finally. “It’s getting worse.”
The pain has begun flaring up again, as Solas moves his hand from Yeriel’s face to once again take his hand in both of his, looking at the mark there with the same focus as the first time he saw it, almost five years ago in Haven.
“Yes,” he says. “And I’m sorry. It will eventually kill you. Drawing you here gave me the chance to save you, if only temporarily.”
Yeriel looks at the Dread Wolf of his childhood nightmares, the liar and trickster of every myth he studied and prided himself in knowing and understanding, who stands here with his hand in his, smiling warmly at him like they’re brothers. “There has to be another way. I’ll prove it to you.”
“I treasure the chance to be wrong once again, my friend.”
Magic surges through his hand and arm, and the pain seems to move, focused now, in his hand and arm as it used to be rather than throughout his whole body.
“I’m sorry,” Solas says, again. “Live well, while time remains.”
There is a flash of green light. Then nothing.