Chapter Text
So.
Her lover is a god.
A trickster god of rebellion of all things, too. A legendary bad boy basically. The very one her Keeper always told her to stay away from.
It's kind of hot.
Not kind of, it's Western Approach hot, and she'd muse upon just how captivating his thighs looked in that ancient golden armour if it weren't for the fact that the heart-shattering weight of his revelations crushing her very being is taking precedence for the moment.
Her left arm throbs, she realises, but cannot decide if it is because he held it or because the anchor is gone and he, and everything she's become, seems to have gone with it. It's probably the latter but she shies away from the thought and just scratches absently at her wrist.
The eluvian ripples and fades then, denying her the respite of avoidance. He is gone, the anchor is gone, and she is barefaced and on the ground amidst qunari statuary at the heart of a breathtaking ruin of her people.
It feels very… melodramatic, actually, in a wind-caught-her-tears-as-she-beheld-her-lover-choose-doom-over-her sort of way that one might read about in Varric's novels. Romantic, tear-inducing, heart-wrenching, and all the other apt descriptions his publisher might print onto the cover.
It's actually perfect, she realises, because that is exactly what this is. The moment she stops distracting herself with all those nonsensical things, her chest aches in a way that tells her her ribcage is trying to do her a favour and crush her heart for good because putting it out of its misery is, in fact, the lesser evil.
She gives her anguished heart a break for a moment as she takes in her surroundings.
Copper-gilt leaves swirl upon a gentle breeze, graceful elven architecture crests the horizon with latticework turrets and slender archways, resolute elven statues bespeak pride and glory. Sumptuous and enchanting at once.
Mhm, definitely the setting of one of Varric's novels, she decides.
Her, a betrayed maiden pining against her better judgement for the mysterious lover who claims to have, -technically-, never lied to her. Her charm so great that the whole being a god and wanting to destroy all she holds dear thing all but slipped from his mind.
Him, a sophisticated man with a dark, troubled past and a secret identity, torn between love and duty, convinced he must choose the latter because of -and- in spite of his love for the enthralling maiden all at once.
Her, on her knees and in pain for more than one reason. "Var lath vir suledin" at her lips.
Him, with that mournful look that bodes ill for her heartfelt confession and not in the least because he has no faith in -her-.
He turns away, once again, and walks away with the gait of one struggling against the pull of the abyss that is, right that moment, her heart. Broken, where before he was confident, his meticulously-maintained facade cracked.
If she were a maiden from Varric's tale and not this shell of a person on the ground, how would he pen her reaction?
Waterfalls whisper at the edge of her hearing while lengthening shadows of her marble entourage cloak her in a morbid shroud, wind is in her hair.
Very well then, she decides with sudden calm and clarity, may as well play along. It is a mercy for her heart to hope rather than wallow in despair at the mere thought of his din'anshiral. There's the whole issue of what it entails for the world, too, but even looking that way right now threatens to draw her under and never let go.
So she will be the hand-clutched-to-her-chest-sorrow-in-her-eyes heroine.
Except, she won't be the kind who faints and needs saving. Neither was the woman in Swords and Shields after all. She's Dalish, lack of vallaslin notwithstanding, and if there's one thing her people are good at it's refusing to yield. They might be wrong about a myriad things, they apparently most definitely are, but they taught her to fight.
She'll be the formidable Emerald Knight of legend because her wolf's gone astray and she needs to bring him to heel. And give his scruff a thorough shaking. And perhaps a spanking...
An elven metaphor that is not connected to romantic heroes who ultimately failed would work better, but for now the whole striking maiden with a wolf analogy works for her.
She gazes about, schooling her expression. From what she's learnt, he's been keeping a close eye on her. Some might call it spying on his competition. Or "disturbing". She chooses to go with "romantic".
She rises resolute, mouth set in a thin line of grim determination, chin tilted upwards like she's spent a lifetime at Halamshiral. She lets the wind catch her hair just the right way for it to unfurl dramatically.
"Two can play the Game, ma vhenan", she murmurs in her best Vivienne impression and strolls away nonchalantly through the stone graveyard, resting one hand behind her back and then the other.