Work Text:
Prompt: this post
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Solas kneels to lift the shards of the Orb, his key. He turns the broken pieces in his hands and realizes that he must now claim the piece of Mythal’s power that remains in this world. He has failed her, and now he has no choice left but to do her vessel great injury in order to restore the world of the People.
The wolf will strike down the dragon.
Solas leaves the companions on the mount. He travels quickly. He will take minimal supplies. He enters the fortress on the paths only he is left to remember. He takes what he needs from the library under the keep. Enters the rotunda. Considers the final panel, the scaffolding still moved from yesterday’s preparation of the wall. His hands twitch. Perhaps… Perhaps, even still, this extraordinary leader, this hero, could… He moves to gather his supplies. Tools scraping, folding and kneading the plaster. A familiar, almost soothing task. He smears the base onto the wall, wondering how long it will take the others to ensure nothing remains of the magister and make their way slow and celebrating over the peaks. The piece will be rough, inelegant, straightforward. He does not have time for more. He works directly into the plaster. Three violent guiding lines. No, too large, he must be swift — he scratches in a fourth line that shrinks the composition. What.. is he trying to say? What is he hoping for? The lines carved; too quickly - he goes over the curve in the wing again. And again. His hand shakes.
“Messere Solas?”
He does not turn, he does not speak. He cannot acknowledge anything outside of the work that lies ahead. The sword irritates him — the shape of the cross-guard. Sloppy. He cannot linger on it. The archivist is still there when he descends the scaffolding, pushes past him, starts to mix the paints.
“The others are returning, Messere Solas; I was asked to invite you to join the receiving celebration in the courtyard. They have been sighted by the base camp.”
His heart pounds. Then there is no time. He settles for a single pigment, gives a strained and grateful nod. Dismisses the archivist, more curt than he’d like to be remembered; the young man had always expressed a valiant kindness towards him.
When he is alone he paints. At first he is unable to shake the habit of care, outlining with diligence the shape of monstrosity. Then he surrenders to his hatred of the work. Of the deed and of the man who must, of the duty which means he must — . His arm jerks and he moves in huge strokes, watery pigment dripping and smearing and if he had time he would have made this a deep and bloodied red. And when he hears the cheering rise he scrambles from the scaffolding. Collects his pack. Does not look back at the ruined walls of the rotunda. It is fitting, he thinks viciously. And then he pushes the thought from his mind: another spoiled work. A failure to endure the next one thousand years. Another mistake. He has no more strength, and he leaves the stronghold quietly, and he is careful not to be seen.