Solas contemplates that for a moment, and draws his knees up under the water until he is sitting cross-legged. Yes, he had at that— he had given her chance after chance, extending his trust until it had stretched so thin that anything at all might break it. What was wisdom, to hope for better, and prepare for worse? To trust in one who had always done right before, knowing they would do so again? To learn from mistakes and— but he had, eventually.
"I loved her," He says, quietly. There is something hideously vulnerable about bare feet, and hot water. Solas feels gutted somehow, as if having told Barcus anything all, all else must come pouring out. The steaming entrails of his history, all spilled out on the ground, "Mythal was... my entire world. We founded an empire, we fought wars together, to free our people from the specter of death and subjugation. Thousands of years of magic and history. Then she raised herself up as the Goddess-queen of a pantheon of monsters, not content merely to rule when they might be worshiped instead. There are no words to express what I felt on that day. The betrayal of all we had fought for was..."
Wrenching, awful, ugly. The worst of him came roaring out— or perhaps the best. And she had not even deigned to look at him, to meet his eyes, or truly answer his accusations. She and Elgar'nan, once so opposed that she had begged him for help, insisted she needed him, needed his advice, his perspective. Now they held hands, and sat in thrones side-by-side, and branded slaves one after the other, by the thousands. What could he have done, but turn away from her? It would have killed him to do otherwise. It tore him apart, even so.
"I had allowed myself to become a slave, worn her brand and collar, and I had not evened questioned it, until that day. But this is all long past, and Mythal is dead. And I have been trying to do just as you say— repair what I can, where I can. And rebuild the rest, as I am able."
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"I loved her," He says, quietly. There is something hideously vulnerable about bare feet, and hot water. Solas feels gutted somehow, as if having told Barcus anything all, all else must come pouring out. The steaming entrails of his history, all spilled out on the ground, "Mythal was... my entire world. We founded an empire, we fought wars together, to free our people from the specter of death and subjugation. Thousands of years of magic and history. Then she raised herself up as the Goddess-queen of a pantheon of monsters, not content merely to rule when they might be worshiped instead. There are no words to express what I felt on that day. The betrayal of all we had fought for was..."
Wrenching, awful, ugly. The worst of him came roaring out— or perhaps the best. And she had not even deigned to look at him, to meet his eyes, or truly answer his accusations. She and Elgar'nan, once so opposed that she had begged him for help, insisted she needed him, needed his advice, his perspective. Now they held hands, and sat in thrones side-by-side, and branded slaves one after the other, by the thousands. What could he have done, but turn away from her? It would have killed him to do otherwise. It tore him apart, even so.
"I had allowed myself to become a slave, worn her brand and collar, and I had not evened questioned it, until that day. But this is all long past, and Mythal is dead. And I have been trying to do just as you say— repair what I can, where I can. And rebuild the rest, as I am able."