There they were.
The two of them, standing there, amidst a garden of stone corpses. She and him, her love, her heart, her Solas.
A flicker of a smile danced across her lips, a smile born of melancholy as she tried to reflect upon simpler times. But when were times ever simple?
She pondered a life where they met in the woods, her with her clan, him a vagrant wanderer. Perhaps she would have invited him in, asked to hear of his stories. He would tell them, and she would hang upon every word, not wanting to forget a single one. In years time, she would repeat the stories to the clan’s children by the fireside, he at her side, his hand in hers. It could’ve been simple. It could’ve been easy. It could’ve been wonderful.
No. They met instead at the heart of tragedy, surrounded by death, with a blunt and explicit goal cast upon them without choice. They were not simple folk who came to love each other by pure chance, stumbling fatefully into each other’s lives. She was the Inquisitor. Inquisitor Lavellan. And he? Fen’Harel; the Dread Wolf.
He was never meant to be her enemy. They were meant to defeat the enemy together, to stay together, to live together.
But he left. And now here he stands before her, telling her of plans to destroy the very world they had fought to save. The irony would have amused her, had it not violently pulled at the strings of her heart.
In her bag, a knife. Simple and pure, a dagger meant for villains. After what had felt like years of silence between them, she took it.
Solas looked at her, his eyes unbearably heavy. “Please, vhenan,” he begged, achingly soft. “I have no desire to fight you.”
The Inquisitor shook her head, her hair fluttering gently over her eyes. “No,” she said. She took his hands and wrapped them around the dagger. He looked at her inquisitively.
Not what he had expected, it seemed. It almost pleased her to be the one surprising him for once. “What?” he asked, voice drowned in sorrow.
She took his hand, the one tentatively holding the dagger, and pressed it to her chest. She pressed it deep, deep enough to cut through the fabric of her robes, deep enough to pierce the surface of her skin and draw just an inkling of blood. “You would see this world destroyed. Fine. Then do me this kindness: let me die at the hands of the man I love, let me die with his face being the last thing I see. Do not let me die with the rest of this world, helpless and alone.”
Behind her, her companions moved. She could hear them approaching. “ Inquisitor!” One shouted. She did not know who. She did not care to look.
“ Do not come closer, ” she barked back, tears spilling helplessly from her eyes, which dared not leave Solas’ face. She glared at him intensely, her Dread Wolf. “Kill. Me.”
“You cannot ask this of me.”
“I can and I am. If you love me, if you ever loved me, then do me this kindness.”
“I…” He backed away from her, shaking his head. “No,” he said finally. “I… I can’t.”
“Coward.” She spat. “You can leave me to die but you can’t kill me yourself.”
He had nothing to say. There was nothing but melancholy, weighing willfully upon his face. “We are running out of time. Please, vhenan, let me help you.” He held out his hand for her.
She took it. “Did you ever love me?”
“Ar lath ma, vhenan,” he whispered. “That was not a lie.”
“But you would let me die,” She said bitterly. She looked at him gently, curiously. “Or maybe not. Maybe you can’t.”
The glowing mark in her hand pulsed louder, louder, louder. The fiery energy burned through her veins, coursed throughout her nervous system. She ignored it. She took his face into her hands.
“Maybe… you can be saved.”
She kissed him, and he kissed her back, tenderly and sorrowfully, and the pain in her hand melted away, from piercing agony to a dull ache to bitter numbness, and she closed her eyes, and let it all fade to nothing.