“They call me ‘The Dread Wolf.’ What will they call you when this is over?”
Iyden drew in a breath at the question and how coldly it was asked. The rhythm of the red lyrium roared fury against the inside of his skull, bitterness and anger and a thousand other rages crashing over him. He felt half invincible and half a corpse. The lyrium crystals that had taken the place of the missing Anchor were a constant weight. His shoulder ached, his scarred skin prickled and itched, and his head throbbed with the rhythm that had grown from a song to a storm over the past few months. He wanted more than anything to sleep peacefully and Iyden could see that same exhaustion reflected back in Solas’s face. Rather than sympathy, the red lyrium stoked his fury.
Whatever feelings Iyden had once had for his former companion were gone. He had held on for so long, hoped and prayed and searched. He had done everything in his power to turn Solas from this path. And now Solas had dragged him down with him, corrupting him in mind, body, and soul. And Iyden wasn’t sure whether the thought came from his own mind or the lyrium when he realized he hated the elf standing before him so indifferently.
What would they call him?
The lyrium hand hummed faintly as it curled into a fist.
There were so many things they might say. So many names to pick from.
Apostate.
Knife-ear.
Once, he might have been remembered as the Inquisitor, or even the Herald.
He wouldn’t have blamed them for calling him a monster after what the lyrium had done to him either.
But in that moment, the name that made his blood run hot with rage was the one he spoke, letting it fall from his tongue like venom.
“The fool who loved you.”
