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It was surprisingly easy to just play pretend. It was easy to pretend that nothing had changed.
It was too easy pretend that she had not changed.
The Inquisitor, in all her glory, sat in the dirt. Surely, somewhere an Orlesian noble was aghast with shock that the Inquisitor would degrade herself in such a manner.
But Lavellan was not concerned in the slightest— in fact, she felt peaceful, if only for the moment.
Though this temporary peace was plagued with specks of anger and irritation, for she could not take her eyes off of the statue that towered above her—
Fen'Harel, Dread Wolf
She refused to turn her back to even his statue; she refused to avert her eyes of this truth.
the gods are real, yet they watch and wait and wait and wait for
they wait
Lavellan refused to say his name, any of their names.
Her words have the ability to inspire armies, nations, empires; she could move mountains if she so pleased.
They did not deserve to be revered by her, they did not deserve her worship.
They did not deserve her.
So, she stood. She stood from her place under the statue and brushed the excess dirt from her coat.
And she left.
The Inquisitor returned to Skyhold in all its splendor— Lavellan returned to where she flourished.
In her passing she did not spare a prayer for Fen'Harel, the Dread Wolf, not for his statue, and not in her dreams.