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vir-tanadahl · 20 days ago

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The Burden of the Dread Wolf

Summary: Solavellan ending told from Solas' POV. Obviously, Veilguard spoilers.

Solas—no, the Dread Wolf—stands battered and broken, bruises blooming like shadows on his skin, a dull ache thrumming through him with every breath. After all these years, he’s so tired. How could these last ten years weigh on him more than a millennium of existence? He, the Dread Wolf, has sacrificed so much to come this far. To claw back the power stolen from his people. To avenge the death of Mythal.

The regrets have always clawed at him. He regrets leaving the Fade. He regrets not stopping Mythal from becoming a god, from following the path that led her to death. Most of all, he regrets… not saving her. She called to him, once, asking for his aid. And he came, heart open, reverent. His love for her was beyond romance, something ancient and deep, an adoration etched into his very being. Her death was the final twist of the knife that cleaved wisdom from pride.

He regrets claiming her power, believing he could mend a shattered world, erase the pain he himself had wrought. He regrets the blood he spilled, even Mythal’s vessel, to seize the strength he thought he needed. He regrets the death of Varric, another thread severed in his relentless pursuit. And he regrets not staying by his vhenan’s side—his heart, the Inquisitor. His light.

He regrets his betrayal of Felassan. Of Rook.

Yet here he stands, the Dread Wolf, carrying the weight of those choices, haunted by the choices he has made.

"Please, Rook. I don't want to fight you." His voice trembles, a rare crack in his guarded tone, pleading and raw. There's no deception in his words this time, no clever twist or hidden intent.

Rook tries desperately to reach him, her words filled with a pleading urgency. Rook tries to reason with him, pleading with him to see the pain caused by Elgar’nan and Ghilian’nain. She tries to pull him back, to make him understand the cost of his path.

But Rook doesn’t realize he carries a burden heavier than just their sins. He believes he broke the world—because he is the one who broke it—and only he can restore it. Unbreak it. He feels that duty, thrumming in his very bones. He has to make it right. He will make it right.

Yet, he can’t see what lies just beyond his reach. His wisdom, once clear and guiding, has been twisted into something darker. Pride whispers that he can undo this mistake, that he alone can reshape what was lost. But true wisdom would show him beauty even in the scars of his unintended creation. The Dread Wolf has been trapped in his own prison of regrets long before he was accidentally trapped in the prison he created for the Gods.

“Destroying everything won’t fix your mistakes,” Rook says firmly, her gaze steady as she extends his lyrium dagger toward him. “If you want to save this world, bind yourself to the very thing you’re trying to erase.” Her voice is low but resolute, her outstretched hand unwavering. Another regret, he thinks, already settling like a weight in his chest.

The Dread Wolf takes a deep breath, turning slowly toward the place where the ritual will begin. His head falls forward, and he closes his eyes. “I… I cannot.” His voice is strained, heavy with exhaustion. “To stop now would dishonor everyone I’ve wronged to get here.” The terrible things he’s done, the lives he’s destroyed—they press down on him like shadows, demanding he see this through. If he stops now, what meaning would all that suffering hold?

“Even if…” Her voice, barely a whisper, cuts through his thoughts, and he turns, feeling his heart twist at the sound. “Even if those you’ve wronged asked you to stop?”

He knows that voice. His breath catches sharply, a tremor of recognition running through him as he meets her gaze. The dagger slips lower in his hand, almost forgotten, as he turns further to face her, his mouth parted in stunned silence. “Vhenan…” Solas breathes, the word heavy with disbelief. His voice wavers, pride crumbling as the guarded walls around his heart begin to fall, leaving him raw and exposed in her presence. His chest tightens, a tremor passing through him as he struggles to comprehend the impossible—she is here, standing before him

She is the woman he never meant to love but couldn’t help himself. The one who helped him see worth in this world he’d crafted out of his own wounded heart. She saw him—truly saw him—for who he was, asking questions that peeled back the layers he’d hidden behind for centuries, curious and kind.

“You think you’re beyond saving, but you’re wrong.” Her voice is soft, coaxing, her words weaving into his mind like a lifeline. “I’m here, walking the dinan’shiral with you.”

Pain and confusion cloud his gaze, and Solas bows his head, his voice rough. “I lied to you. I betrayed you.” Shame ripples through him, and he dares not meet her eyes.

She steps closer, her voice unwavering. “I forgive you. All you have to do… is stop.” He turns fully to her, his expression strained, the weight of regret etched across his face. “Ir abelas, vhenan,” he murmurs, his voice barely above a whisper as he lowers his head again. “But… I cannot.”

Solas turns back toward the ritual site, his shoulders slumped. “Long before I met you, I failed my oldest friend. She died because of that failure. If I leave the Veil in place, I am destroying the world she wanted. And I will have…” his voice trails for a moment. “She would have died for nothing.”

He lifts the dagger, preparing to begin the ritual, when a raven’s sharp caw cuts through the silence. The bird swoops down, shifting midair into a figure cloaked in shadow and mystery.

“And whose fault is that, Dread Wolf?”

Solas whirls, momentarily stunned. “Morrigan?” Surprise flashes across his face as he tries to reconcile the sudden appearance of the Witch of the Wilds.

“One appellation among many I wear,” she replies, her voice smooth and enigmatic. “Advisor to Orlais, Witch of the Wilds, Daughter of Flemeth…” She pauses, her gaze piercing. “And once, long ago, an old friend.”

Solas’s gaze shifts, realizing he’s now surrounded by three women. Rook steps forward, her expression resolute as she lifts a small statuette of Mythal. “Mythal lives on in her,” she says quietly, “and in this.” She places the statuette in Morrigan’s outstretched hand, who, with a knowing glance, activates it.

A soft, ancient glow pulses from the statuette, filling the air with an ethereal light. Memories rush forward—fragments of Mythal, fragments of that fateful moment of betrayal when he failed her. Solas stands frozen, the weight of the past pressing down upon him, as Mythal’s essence shimmers, a reminder of the failure he made.

He gasps, his breath hitching as his gaze falls upon the form of Mythal as he once knew her, luminous and fierce, yet filled with a serenity that pierces his soul. His head lowers slightly, his mouth parted in silent reverence. “Mythal…” he manages, his voice barely a whisper, as if any louder would shatter this fragile moment.

The essence of Mythal stands before him, her form imposing yet gentle. “I pulled you from the Fade you cherished and thrust you into war. I turned your wisdom into a weapon…” She pauses, her eyes softened by an ancient sorrow. “And it broke you.”

Solas bows his head, shame tightening his posture, his voice trembling with regret. “The things I have done…” His words are heavy, laced with anguish and remorse.

But Mythal raises a hand, stopping him gently. “Are not yours to bear alone, my friend,” she says, her voice warm and kind. “The wrongs we committed, we committed together.” She reaches out, resting a hand on his shoulder, and a warmth spreads through him—her forgiveness, her absolution.

Solas’s shoulders slump, his head low, his hands trembling as he holds the dagger close to his chest. It’s the very blade that severed her life, a symbol of his failure and the pain he’s carried.

“I release you from my service,” she commands softly, her voice both gentle and resolute before disappearing. He no longer needs to be the Dread Wolf.

A shudder passes through him as the words sink in, releasing a weight he’s held for far too long. He leans forward, hands braced on his knees, head bowed, processing the unexpected mercy she has offered. Pain lingers, but beneath it… a flicker of relief, tentative and bittersweet.

The Inquisitor kneels beside him, her presence steady and warm as she places a gentle hand on his arm. “There is no fate but the love we share,” she murmurs, her voice soft and unwavering. Her words hit him like a tidal wave, and his breath falters, a tremor running through him as he clutches his chest, feeling the sharp ache of despair radiate through his being. He closes his eyes briefly, the weight of his choices pressing down on him.

Slowly, he rises, shoulders still hunched beneath the burden he carries. He turns, his gaze trailing over the tears in the Veil that continue to spread, multiplying like dark wounds in the sky—a reminder of his failures, his responsibility.

With a final look at the three women before him, he raises the lyrium dagger and, with grim resolve, slices the palm of his hand, letting his blood flow to complete the ritual. His voice is quiet but steady as he speaks, binding himself to the Veil. “My life force now sustains the Veil. With every breath I take, I will shield the innocent from the consequences of my past failures.”

He feels the connection take hold, a bond now woven between himself and the Veil, and though he stands, he feels as if a part of him has willingly surrendered to bear this eternal penance. “The Titans’ dreams are mad from their imprisonment. I cannot kill the blight, but I can help to soothe its anger.” He tells them as he hands the lyrium dagger to Rook.

“I will go and seek atonement,” he says quietly, turning back toward the gaping tears in the Veil, the rifts he has sworn to mend.

“But you don’t have to go alone.” Her voice, gentle yet resolute, pulls him back, stirring something fragile within him. His heart clenches as he twists to face her, disbelief clouding his expression. That she would even suggest such a thing… after everything he’s done, everything he’s caused. And yet, her hand slips into his, warm and grounding.

He shakes his head, his voice laced with quiet desperation. “Where I’m going is terrible,” he whispers, pleading for her to understand. But her gaze remains steady, unwavering, filled with a fierce, unyielding love.

“It won’t be terrible if I’m with you,” she replies, her voice filled with a soft strength. “We’ll make this journey together, always.”

Before he can protest, she draws him close, her arms wrapping around him as she presses her lips to his, a kiss filled with love and a vow of loyalty he can hardly believe. He’s overcome, struggling to comprehend that she would willingly join him in his path of penance—and yet, a surge of gratitude and wonder swells within him, easing the shadows of doubt and despair he has carried alone for so long.

They pull apart, his gaze lingering on her for a heartbeat longer before he turns to face Rook. “Thank you, Rook,” he says softly, his voice full of gratitude and respect. He holds her gaze a moment, then, with a final nod, turns toward the largest tear in the Veil, his path stretching out before him.

Fear gnaws at him—fear that, at the last moment, she might choose not to follow, that the enormity of what lies ahead might make her hesitate. He keeps his eyes forward, too afraid to turn back, his heart pounding with the uncertainty.

But then, he feels it: her hand resting firmly on his shoulder, the warmth of her fingers curling around his forearm, grounding him. A quiet strength flows from her touch, and he closes his eyes briefly, a wave of relief washing over him. She is here, unyielding, choosing this path with him.

Together, they step forward and vanishing into the Fade.

#solavellan #solas x lavellan #vir writes #dragon age solas #solas x inquisitor #solas #dragon age #dragon age veilguard #veilguard spoilers #solas veilguard #datv #datv spoilers #solavellan hell #solasmance #solasmancer

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rosieofcorona · 3 months ago

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Fellchaser

Hi my sweets, I bring to you some freshly baked Solavellan yearning. Also posted on Ao3, if you prefer. As always, thank you for reading. 💕

This is how he remembers it, the first night Solas knew that he loved her.

He cannot say with any certainty, after all these lonely years, what had happened directly before or directly after, cannot make out the finer details in the grand tapestry of things. But he knows by heart the shape of that hour, the way she had come to him after a victory, flushed with wine and the chill of the evening, her hair curling up in the damp autumn air.

*****

He declines, as he always does, their invitations for a celebratory drink, preferring the relative quiet and solitude of his own quarters.

For many hours, he can hear them– Bull and Sera and the rest– their cheerful noises bouncing off the castle walls like skipping stones. It annoys him for a time, disturbs his solitude, his study, until he hears (or thinks he hears) her voice among them.

Solas can picture her then, in the tavern. Bright mind, bright eyes, bright laughter. Vibrant even in the dimness of the room. And there’s a flicker of a thought he can’t keep smothered– that he should’ve gone down there with her, despite his judgment.

It makes no matter how he tries to keep his distance. She seeks him out, as she always does, as he knows she will. When he doesn’t stop her, he tells himself that it’s because she’s their Inquisitor. He tells himself she can go where she likes, that duty alone compels his counsel.

He knows a lie when he hears one.

He’s nearly talked himself into making an appearance when she shows up in his doorway, hazy and loose with the aura of drink, the tips of her ears and her cheeks turned rosy.

He does nothing to discourage her entering. He says nothing to send her away.

“Hello,” she says simply, when he sees her. Her head tilts against the frame, her gaze fond and unfocused.

“Hello.”

“You never joined us.” An accusation. Lightly leveled, lightly slurred. The syllables tumble in her mouth like stones in a river.

He wants to say, I could not bear you being so close and sweet and real. He wants to say, You are a distraction I cannot afford. Instead he says, “I was preoccupied,” knowing that answer is insufficient.

She makes her way into the chamber, weaving an unsteady path to the table where he has laid out all his books, his quills, his ink.

“With what?” she murmurs, curious even in her state.

Solas knows he should excuse himself, conjure a reason to stay at a distance. But he finds himself wanting to– what? Talk to her, tell her, keep her close?

“Translating a record,” he says at last. “Of ancient practices in Arlathan. Ritual offerings to the gods in exchange for their…favor.”

Solas stumbles on the last word, something bitter in its taste, and where she would normally probe him further she takes no notice. She’s busy poring over the largest book, its contents all in Elvhen, the ink and vellum faded by the centuries. “I can’t make out any of this,” she frowns. “Perhaps I’m worse off than I thought.” “Perhaps,” Solas huffs out a laugh. “Although the language has shifted with time. Some words may yet be familiar, if not–”

“Oh, here!” She gasps delightedly when she finds a phrase she knows, though she says the syllables slowly, as if they are new. “Sa-lath. One’s love, one’s only love. Something like that.”

“In the modern parlance, yes. But here,” he says– and he leans over her to tap the page for emphasis– “Here it means something like ‘beloved.’ The words come together, see. Salath.”

It’s the wine he smells first, that rich, warm scent that floats from her up close, but there’s something different, something distinctive hiding beneath. He wants to taste it and find out, to slip his tongue into her mouth, and–

“They would offer something beloved, then?”

Solas clears his throat.

“Or someone,” he nods, breathing deeply. “A high price for favor.”

She goes quiet for a moment, tracing the small shapes of the letters with her finger. Such a fine movement is made imprecise by the drink, but she repeats it as if she is carving it into her memory. “Salath,” she whispers, tasting the word. “Salath, ‘beloved.’ I will remember that.”

He very much doubts that she will, come morning. But it stirs something inside him all the same. Beloved, beloved.

“What would you demand?” She says, sweeping the thought from his mind. “If you were a god.”

If, he thinks, that one word louder than all the rest.

“I suppose it would depend what was being asked of me.”

“Your favor,” she tells him. “Your love.”

“Ah.” There’s a twist in his chest, like an arrow wrenched free, pain and relief all at once. “The heart of a god is not easily won. I would require yours in return.”

She laughs a little, as if he’s jesting. “That hardly seems equal. A mortal heart for a god’s?”

“Your heart,” Solas says, in a gentle correction. “For mine.” He does not kiss her, like he wants to. He does not stop her kissing him.

The press of her mouth is a summer fruit, warm and sweet and bruising lightly beneath their wanting, their mutual hunger grown apparent.

Only once has he kissed her before this. A dream, an impulse, he’d told himself then. A mistake that he wouldn’t repeat, no matter how tempting.

So he’s grateful, now, that she’s been drinking, that she’s given him an out. He can call this her impulse, even as he takes more, tastes more. He can call this next part chivalry. He knows a lie when he hears one.

“We can’t,” he says, when they come apart. “You are not yourself, and the hour is late. You should get some sleep.”

She’s disappointed, he thinks– and is it cruel to hope she is? To hope she still wants him as he wants her, even as he turns her away?

Best not to dwell on it.

“I will help you upstairs,” he tries again, and she brightens a little. “Can you manage the walk?”

There’s a part of him that wishes she’ll say no, give him an excuse to lift and carry her to her quarters, to feel the weight of her pressed against him. But she says, “Yes,” and, “I’m not so far gone,” and Solas breathes out another laugh.

He knows a lie when he hears one.

All the same, he takes her hand in his, lets her lean on him as they make the long walk to her quarters, each step its own little feat. She stumbles more than once; more than once, he catches her gently.

It is worth being gentle for her.

In her room he removes her boots, knelt on the floor as if at an altar. He hardly knows the last time he knelt, only knows that now he wants to.

When he rises she says, “Thank you,” and the following word may be his name, or another entirely. Solas tries to ignore it, tries to let the sound be lost in the lingering silence but he needs to know, as he always does, needs to be certain. “What did you say?”

“I said, ‘thank you,’” she hums, laying back on the bed, and this time he leans in close to hear the rest.

“Salath.” *****

The walk back to his quarters is longer, somehow.

He thinks of her all the way, her hair in a dark spill across the pillows, the way she rolled the old sounds of his language around in her mouth. He thinks of her when he undresses, when he slips into his own bed, when he indulges in the fantasy of feeling her under and around him. Just this once, he thinks, as his hand begins to move beneath the covers, slow at first and then more desperate. Just this once won’t hurt, won’t hurt, won’t–

Ah.

He is in love, he knows it now, as he shudders and gasps out her name. How tragic it is, and how lovely. How foolish, how sweet. His love for her could level cities. It could grow flowers.

A mortal heart for a god’s. Beloved, beloved.

He imagines what he would sacrifice for her, if he has to, when he has to. The answer surfaces in his mind like something dredged up from unfathomable depths, some unknown factor which demands to be accounted for, and which fills him with dread.

“I would give everything,” he says aloud, to himself, to no one.

The words hang in the air like ghosts, the same lament in all their mouths. Beloved, beloved. Tags by request (thank you, angels!): @meg-does-art, @lavellanart

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