"It was how the first of us were born," Solas admits, "Our oldest and most powerful walked in bodies made from Lyrium, and even I roamed the realm of dreams and spirits, until Mythal— she said. She needed me. Needed wisdom. Thereafter, the elves had children in the ordinary way. But our leaders, our brightest and strongest, were always spirits embodied."

And he had known it, too. Had felt the earth rumble its protests, even before he had first awoken. He had known it for folly, his own desires aside... But she had asked, nearly begged, for him to join her. She had needed him. And he had loved her, loved her ardently, his dearest friend in all the world. There was nowhere he would not go to follow her, when she needed him, even if he did not wish to go.

Wisdom, twisting into Pride. Sileal, into Solas.

"After the Titans were severed from their dreams, the dreams indeed became a wrathful blight, which attacked all that lived indiscriminately. I contained it well, with all my power, and placed in a dark and sleeping place, where it might one day be soothed, and diminish, unbreached by any hand. The remainder of the titan's minds fled them, into bodies they had forged from stone, to care for themselves. They were mindless, before it, as devoid of speech or culture as animals are... and then, suddenly, they were not. That was the beginning of the Dwarvish people. And the beginning of a golden age, for the Elves. And all it required to bring about both, was the callous murder of an entire race."

And it was his invention, his weapon, that had done the work. If only Solas had had greater will, or fortitude, or if he had questioned... But he did not. And if his voice gives any hint of the weight of self-loathing he feels, then it is no wonder. It is right that he should be hated, for what he brought about.