"The Inquisition's campaign against Corypheus was successful. But my own quest to recover my orb was not. After the battle, it was spent and shattered, utterly beyond repair," He explains, "It had all been for nothing. And so, I was forced to seek other means, and strength I no longer possessed."

Solas is quiet a moment, watching the water even as Felassan does, and his sigh is not for his friend, but for his younger self. Idiot. Stupid, foolish wolf. How much better would it have been, never to wake at all? Stay in your fade, twisted spirit of wisdom and pride, and forget the mortal world.

But he could not.

"When Elgar'nan slew Mythal, he did it with my dagger. He was always a brute, and in this there was no difference: rather than cleanly ending her life, he shattered her soul into many miniscule fragments. Most of these faded, and died, but not all— one particular fragment of Mythal survived, taking refuge in a mortal's mind. She dwelt there, leaping from mother to daughter over generations, and centuries of time. The Dalish called her Ashabellanar. She called herself Flemeth," Solas breathes, deep and slow, in through his nose. A droplet of water falls, condensation from a stone above into the misty pool below. He delays the final moment, as if hoping for a reprieve, "I killed her. With my own hands."

He has not said it before, not aloud, and certainly not so plainly. But even so, he finds it suddenly stifling hot, impossible to breathe. The moment passes with aching slowness, until he is clammy and cold again. Solas clenches his hands to stop the trembling, ashamed of his weakness, and of so much more than that.

"Only with that power, was I able again to regain my strength."