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You wonder if ending up somewhere because you were opposed to every other option counts as a motivation.
When your father brought up marriage, you had fought it. You had protested and complained, but you knew in the end there was no avoiding it. You would go through with it, but you made it clear you weren’t happy with it.
When those humans showed up – spoiled brats, high up and safe and causing ruin for a laugh – and ripped you away from your home, you had fought it. You spat and cursed and killed and while you were freed from the marriage, you hated the cost.
A human saved you – a decent being among swine. You hadn’t wanted to leave. Your home was here, your people were here, a crushed afterimage of previous glory. Fighting for people who thought you less than filth was unappealing, but you also didn’t want to die.
Your life from then on was constant fighting; for humans, for survival, and somehow for the world. You hadn’t wanted any of it. You were filth. Trash. A disgusting elf, and now they wanted you to pick up your daggers and fight for them.
You hated it. You screamed to yourself, repulsed and struggling. You went along bitterly, into a role that by all means shouldn’t have been yours.
You helped where you went. In all of your journey, helping was the one choice you made without hate. The unfortunate, the suffering. The ones you could understand. Those who suffered because of the arrogance of others.
And people flocked to you. A group of people, who stood by you and called you friend. Who believed in you, who thought you alone could complete this impossible task. You didn’t understand, and part of you wanted to scream at them, to tell them to go away and let you do this yourself, because there was no way anyone supporting you could be anything more than a cruel trick waiting to happen.
But they stayed. They fought with you. They spent time with you and…you grew to love them. Your makeshift family, dragged together through circumstance and expected to be able to save the world with you at the helm.
And you did. You fought, just as always, until the bitter end. The archdemon was slain, its blood covered your blade and just as always, you opposed. You opposed the fate of the Grey Wardens and lived to see what followed the Blight. You cheated and stole from what should have been and now you stood surrounded by the same nobility that started your mess.
They cheered for you, praised you, called you the “Hero of Ferelden” when not even a year ago they would have left you had they found you dying in the streets. You wanted to state that, to paint it on their walls until they understood, but you bit your tongue, for once in your life.
And for the first time in your life, your motivation for something wasn’t just to avoid the opposite.
“You know,” Zevran drawled, leaning against the wall. His eyes trailed briefly over the ladies gossiping together before returning to you. They lingered longer on the earring hanging from the hero’s ear, and your eyes caught the smile that graced his face. “I was thinking that it does not bode well to linger in one place for too long. Especially considering the Crows are likely to come after me once more.”
Stepping closer, consciously avoiding the gazes of those around you – since when did you pay attention the opinions of humans, especially those who owed you as they did – he placed his hand gently on your face, fingertips trailing lightly from your temple to your jawbone. “And I admit that I loathe to think of our time together ending.”
For once you agreed to something, wholeheartedly.