The Last Time I Loved Pride

From Dust, To Dust Again

Ilensul. Many sacrifices for [all]. from the words: il (sacrifice) + en (plural suffix) + sul (for). Her father unknowingly cursed her the day she was born.

She watches as her would-be goddess of justice raizes another village.

This one would not bow quickly, if she remembers correctly. This time, mostly humans. The ghastly pollution of mage fire curls into her lungs as noisome smoke. The smell of sulfur and blood has almost become nostalgic for her. It is a sign that it is almost over, that she is reaching the end and, this time, there might be a chance that death will be merciful and meet her in the dark, sticky liquid that embraces the rubble underneath her.

"Why?"

It hurts too much to move the rest of her body, but she forces her head to turn, forces herself to look where the words have fallen softly, shakily, from his lips into the ash and dust.

She's seen him like this so many times that it almost doesn't even hurt anymore. It always ended like this, with them both sitting on a desolate hill, bloodied and beaten in more ways than just the physical. She had tried to stop him, tried to show him reason. And then, in the midst of her doing so, she had fallen in love with him, and he almost almost changed his mind. She had fooled herself into thinking that her love would change his heart. That this time, it would work, and they would all be saved.

And he had proven her wrong. Every single time.

"Why did it end this way?" He whispers as he watches the woman he so desperately wanted to avenge destroy the world of the woman he so desperately wanted to love.

"Because this is how it always would." She replies.

There is something almost comforting in it. In knowing how the world would end.

"...how many times have you known?" He asks.

She hesitates. "...four times."

He shakes his head. "You should have killed me the second."

"I should have done a lot of things," She agrees.

The sky is the same sickly red that oozes into the molten dirt. It's been like that for weeks now. Or maybe a month. She forgot to count after the third time.

"It was not supposed to end this way," Solas' voice finally cracks. It's heart-wrenching, splintering even, and it doesn't matter. It is done. "It was-she was supposed to-"

"It's alright, vhen'an," she lies, "I know what you thought."

There is a loud cry, and they both watch in silence as Mythal lifts her palm to the sky to strike down another group of men. In the distance, a baby wails in vain.

After that, all is silent except for the casual lick of flames against dying structures and the stomping of the last Evanuris. Mythal has won. There is no more left to take that is not already her's, and there's something beautiful about that, too.

"I was a fool, Illie. I am so sorry," and finally, just as he always does-he weeps.

Illie. She scorned the nickname now. If she remembered right, her full name meant something important, something to do with sacrifice. It seems fitting, given all of the times she's drifted through, trying to save a world that didn't want her, a people that scorned her, and a man who loved her-but not enough.

The taste of the last is bitter, like rashvine.

She waits a few moments, allowing him the grief that she's felt all these times. She counts his cries until they soften into whimpers and fade into Mythal's booming footsteps.