Chapter Text
“Because I am not a monster. If they must die, I would rather they die in comfort” Solas’s parting words, before he left her on the ground one final time - were quiet and almost, almost gentle. His words also couldn’t be more wrong.
She laughs, then, at the face of the God that had indeed betrayed her people. She laughs because Elves like her would never die in comfort. Before Solas’s empire descends, when the world would be torn asunder with strife and blood, the elves will die the way they lived – Hunted, persecuted, and slaughtered like animals.
But then again, he, who is of the elvhenan and one of the Evanuris, probably feels more of a kinship to the humans who now reigns over Thedas. On the other hand, they have never been his people at all. They are shemlen to him and nothing more, the blatant reminders of his mistakes.
She laughs all the way to the exalted council, flings Divine Justinia’s writ on their faces before disbanding the Inquisition. Confusion and rage explodes around her as the shems screams and shouts for themselves to be heard - always screaming, always demanding, always so afraid. And yet she is a beacon of calm amongst the din, even though what was left of her left arm is a world of pain and dried blood still clings to where Cassandra’s sword had done the job her heart didn’t deign to do.
Unlike them, she knows exactly what to do.
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What was left of her inner circle converges around her the very next day - anxious and eager to begin on what was to be their second attempt at saving the world - and she wouldn't have had it any other way.
She poured each of her advisors a drink, as she was wont to do during their days in Skyhold. Each goblet they sipped took them back to countless days and nights they had done this – maps strewn about and hands pointing, voices raised and lowered as they fell back into the hard-won camaraderie they had forged. She is glad to have them like this, even as she leaves her own goblet untouched.
Deathroot is tasteless, colorless, and most importantly painless. Like going to sleep, Keeper Deshanna had taught her. She was also the one who taught her to extract and powder them, how to mix it in water for hunters and scouts too mangled by shem swords and pitchforks to survive the coming winter.
Small mercies, da’len. Sometimes this is all a Keeper could do for her people.
She thinks now of how her Keeper must have died, on the edges of shem spears and ugly cries, desperate and afraid as plate mails emblazoned in sunbursts advanced, advanced without mercy. Leliana had comforted her then, whispering old elven dirges and telling her that she’d done her best, that there was nothing else she could have done. And she had believed her, for elves has never had peace. Would never have peace. Her only wish at that time had been for her to be there – So she could tip the deathroot into her keeper’s lips, into the sweet milk of the da’lens under her care before the shems arrived.
And so this is, too, a small mercy. The Inquisition has fought and fought against everything, against the very world they are always trying to save. How much longer would it be until the faith in Leliana’s heart breaks again, or until Cassandra’s resolve is whittled down by a world that insists to be treacherous? How much longer until the kindness in Josephine’s eyes is dimmed, how long until the demons in Cullen’s mind overtakes him completely?
She hasn’t the heart to find out, not anymore. And so they drank as they talked, and soon, they fell.
Only Leliana seemed to notice anything was amiss as her eyes widened in realization, in panic, before it slowly, slowly dimmed. She held her hand throughout it all, because Leliana was probably the only one who would understand. In the end, the Divine’s eyes fluttered closed for one last time, the peace in her face more beautiful than any painting of Andraste could ever be. Cassandra is slumped against her chair, a tenderness she rarely saw softening the harsh angles of her faces. Josephine, ever so impeccable and delicate, lies tranquil in her repose – Like a butterfly alighting in her hand when before it constantly fluttered and fluttered. And Cullen, her dear Commander, who had always worked so, so hard – finally rests.
If the wine had been her token of mercy, the knife was another thing entirely. Sturdy and cold, a simple carving of Mabaris inlaid with metal on the hilt – It was Ferelden to the bone. And had, in fact, been hanging from the sash of Arl Teagan Guerrin of Ferelden until this very morning. Sera had been all too glad to nick it from the ambassador, toasting her raucously with the very same wine before she slumps against her shoulders. It had been straightforward and simple, just the way the girl had always liked it.
Her friends deserves to die in peace, surrounded by people they trust and love. These people, though, will die with swords and flames and fear in their heart. So she slams the knife – deep into the wood one last time. One last mission for the Inquisition. The guards will find her friends in the morning, along with the proof that Ferelden ambassadors had poisoned the Divine and her honor guards in the wake of a failed Exalted Council.
She kisses each one of them on the lids, the last of the warmth alighting on her lips, tucks an errant curl behind Josephine’s ears and righted Cullen’s mantle, before she closed the door behind her council one last time.