Chapter Text
They stare at the space where her arm had been, just as they had stared at the mark. They look away more quickly now, but when they think Maiwe is not watching, they stare at the empty sleeve, the way it is pinned back on itself, creating a negative space. She let them stare, her face flat and dispassionate. The legends had only grown around her- slayer of dragons, hero of Thedas, leader of a small force that had stopped a Qunari army. Inevitably, eyes would wander up to her vallaslin, still so proud on her face. The Gods were a lie, a voice in her head said. You could have been free of them. Can you still wear your lie so happily? Yes.
While Fen’harel gathered an army, Maiwe held back. They expected her to go; were they not her people? But Maiwe stayed, her Inquisition disbanded, her companions scattered in the world. Loneliness was not an unfamiliar feeling, but it gnawed more now than it ever had before.
At night, she thought she clutched the sheets with both hands. She could feel her fingers, could feel the weave pressing into them. Then Maiwe woke and there was nothing where her left hand had been. There was merely that space, and the fleeting sensation of fabric against skin that no longer existed. Her mind seemed detached from the whole process. How curious, it said. Meanwhile, the rest of her continued as usual- the aches and pains of a body that had been held in stasis, an illness kept at bay by a magic no longer present. Would it come creeping back now? Would the corruption in her lungs overwhelm her? There was so much yet left to do; the fingers of her missing hand trembled and clutched a dagger that was not there.
Given a mansion in Kirkwall, Maiwe lasted all of a week. They were rebuilding and Varric assured her that things were better, but it still smelled of stone dust and misery. The alienage especially made her frown; all the bright flower boxes could not disguise the unpaved streets and the rats that wandered out in the daytime brazenly. The elves there were half afraid of her, bowing and not looking at her eye. They still looked at her stump; they all did.
“It’s much better here now,” one assured her, gaze fixated somewhere over Maiwe’s left shoulder. “With so many leaving to join Fen’harel’s army, there is enough room for everyone, finally. No one need beg on the street.” The words twisted in her heart and she should have stayed to help. Instead, Maiwe fled. Too many knew Solas here and her words would do nothing to turn the tide. She had to run further, to where his reach did not extend.
Lost, she returned to Haven. It no longer smoked, and stone structures were going up in place of temporary wooden shacks. They still loved her here, almost worshipped her. She had almost killed them all, and they welcomed her with open arms. She did not deserve this, but she had nowhere else to go. Her Clan did not live, and even if they had, even the Dalish were joining Solas’ growing forces. Haven, filled with Maiwe’s worst memories, became her home again.
In the scorched and melted walls of the former Chantry, Maiwe found her old bedroom. Now that there were houses enough to go round, people had left what had previously been the only standing structure. They were building a new Chantry, the same size but far more magnificent. With the gold that had been donated, they could afford leaded, colorful windows that depicted not only the prophet Andraste, but the newly reinstated hero Shartan. The newly elected mayor smiled broadly at Maiwe as he pointed this out, gesturing from Shartan’s pointed ears and back to her own. With his bald head, the Shartan depicted looked eerily like Solas, and it was difficult for Maiwe to fake a smile and nod. “I appreciate the gesture.” That was all she could say. They knew she did not believe in the Maker. She believed in nothing except her own strength, and that if she were to call upon her friends, they would return. That had to be enough.
Now she sat in what had once been Josephine’s office, the wooden chair hard against her back. With her eyes closed, Maiwe tried to summon even an ounce of Josephine’s patience and political acumen, and found only nothing. Her stump ached and her prosthesis lay discarded at the side. It was a simple thing, light wood to get her used to the weight and the way the leather cup rubbed against her bare skin. It irritated at the best of times and today it had made her bleed. Coupled with the ache in her chest, it was difficult not to succumb to misery and self pity. Only Scout Harding’s report kept her awake- faithful Lace, who helped Maiwe braid her own blonde hair now, who had stayed with her. They went riding, pushing the limits of Maiwe’s endurance every day. “It’ll be good for you. Come on.” Lace took her to childhood spots, swimming holes and sunny spots in the Hinterlands where Maiwe could simply soak. And Lace still scouted, still brought Maiwe news. She didn’t have to stay, but she did.
“There’s a Sentinel elf coming, in that armor they all wear. I don’t know if he’s an envoy of Fen’harel, but he’s traveling alone.” Now Maiwe waited, one hand twisting a piece of braided leather over and over again.
“What do you think he wants?”
Maiwe paused to consider. “I don’t know.”
“Do you want me to have people ready? Just in case.” How did Harding even still have people? There should have been none. Maiwe didn’t like how they all still followed her. She was nothing anymore. Not until she figured out how she would move against Solas. She was useless.
“It’s fine. If he wanted to kill me, he could have at the Temple. Or he could just sneak in. I don’t have guards anymore.” A weak smile. At least Maiwe’s every move was no longer monitored.
Lace looked doubtful but shrugged, vanishing outside into the winter crispness. Soon the snow would fall again.
When her thoughts returned to the present, Abelas was already standing before her. Maiwe’s instincts had dulled as the pain had flared, and she was visibly started for several long seconds before composing herself. Abelas looked much the same- did he still call himself the same thing? His armor matched what Solas had been wearing. It seemed a confirmation of Maiwe’s worst thoughts.
“Abelas.” Her tone was admirably even. “Welcome. I am no longer Inquisitor, but perhaps you only come bearing a message.”
“I wish to join you.” He was affectless; her mouth hung open for a brief second.