Solas' plan was to join the Inquisition, to right what he had wronged. He sought no praise, no recognition. No attention. Help when you can, then sink back into the shadows. Give vague answers. Polite smiles. Keep your head down but your ears alert. Always watch, never be watched.
But how could he? When his entire personhood is deified, is falsified, is wrong.May the Dread Wolf never hear your steps. Each time he heard those words his fingernails dug into the palms of his hands and his teeth bit into the insides of his cheeks, but he urged himself to turn away, to keep his mouth shut. Solas is both better and worse than the Dread Wolf, and how hard it is to just accept that. To trade an existence of being worshipped and feared for one of being overlooked and ignored.
When Solas steps out of the shadows, anyone who looks at him can sense his need for knowledge, for truth. It shows in everything he does; how he lights up when he is asked questions, how his eyes are constantly roaming, taking in every tree in a forest or person in a tavern or letter on a page. Either that, or he's lost in his own mind, hardly noticing anything that's going on in front of him. They call it pride, this never-ending quest for truth, this need to be right.He calls himself pride. It is not kind. But it goes so much deeper than anyone could understand. It has nothing to do with a selfish desire, nor a wish to tear anyone else down. In truth, it's a way to stay sane. It's a desperate cry into the night to remind himself of who he is, who he truly is, in a world that does not know. A world that cannot know.
Maybe, just maybe, if he uncovers the truth, if he shines light in all the dark corners, if he corrects everyone's misconceptions, if he rights all the wrongs (there are so many wrongs) it will make up for the fact that he is nothing more than a lie.
A lie.
Solas hated the Dread Wolf. His every action was an attempt to separate himself from the title that no one knew he carried. But despite how much he tried, every time he bit his cheek and turned away from the truth, his teeth became fangs and the blood slowly trickling in his mouth was the blood of those he sacrificed to achieve a new world. This world. This very wrong world.
Solas clutched the broken orb, the shards cutting into his flesh. The weight of every lie he told, every truth he evaded, every soul he hurt, piled upon his shoulders. "Solas!" the Inquisitor cried in triumph, their bloody face lit up with a smile. Corypheus was gone; they had won. But he did not respond. The Dread Wolf simply turned his head and walked away.