I always imagined, during the early days of the Inquisition, my Lavellan looking forward to returning to her clan once the Breach was sealed. Not much longer, she'd think to herself, a creeping anticipation silently crawling up her spine. The mages were ready—everything they had worked to achieve has led thus far; she could taste victory on the horizon.
Then the Breach is closed, and they all celebrate. All they had toiled to achieve, the months spent working on the field to help refugees, to protect settlements, to gather resources. It's a relief to everyone, palpable in the air, and though many are exhausted, there is an undeniable buzz of joy at their victory.
Lavellan can go home—back to her People, back to her family. She can finally shed this title of prophet and Herald thrust upon her and return to being herself.
(She ignores the small voice in the back of her mind, that whispers of the good she's done, the friends she's made. It's not so bad anymore, the voice continues. She's begun to carve a new place for herself here, a place where she's starting to make real change in the world-even if just a small step at a time. Perhaps, she could stay a while longer?)
But then a dragon's roar, the thundering march of armored feet. The smell of blood, and fire, and death.
Lavellan falls into a cave just as the avalanche buries what was left of the small town.
She crawls through a blizzard, half dead, injured and starving. Limbs heavy, weighed down by blood, fatigue, and pain. She thinks she won't be seeing her clan again.
She whispers her prayers to the Creators... as, through the rushing wind, a wolf's howl pierces the dark night.
By some miracle, she survives. They find her, all but frozen, on the brink of crossing into the Beyond. She opens her eyes to yelling and snaps at her advisors to get it together. They'll figure it out. So much shit has happened already, they can do this. She didn't just survive a trek through snowstorm in the mountains at night while injured from escaping an avalanche for nothing.
For some reason, the shemlen take this as proof of her divine providence. She keeps a reign on her bemusement and watches as the people begin to sing.
They look to her and see hope.
The singing dies down as Solas quietly asks to talk.
The orb is Elven. It belongs to one of her gods. It becomes even more prudent to remain in a good light with the Inquisition. She sighs and steels herself to properly don the mantle of Herald.
When she returns, she sees their faces still alight with hope and faith. They had just survived something terrible, and things will only get worse from here. The Elder One has shown his face, and the cards have been dealt.
But she had delivered them away from a brutal end at the hands of a false god, and returned to them from the dead. The Maker has blessed them! A prophet, a guide, a Herald.
These people—her people—stand tall, prideful and strong. They are a resilient bunch, and they will continue to fight to protect the world.
Her heart beats harder, pulsing strong with newfound purpose.
She spends the next years falling into the role of Inquisitor. Herald. Savior and Hero.
Lavellan slips behind the mask of the Inquisitor, tucked away where it is not needed. There is no time for distractions when she's fighting a war, leading an army, protecting Thedas.
She thrives as a leader and hero, standing beside empresses and kings. Orlais and Ferelden simper at her heels, seeking favor with the Inquisitor. Her name holds weight, both grand and terrible at once. She is revered, she is praised, she is feared, she is respected.
And once Corypheus falls, another threat arises.
Her heart disappears like a thief in the night, and the Dread Wolf bears his blood-soaked fangs at her world.
The South snaps at her, calling her a threat, hissing at the wrong enemy. After all she had given for them, after saving them time and time again-
The Inquistion is ripped away from her.
Her friends leave, one by one, called away to the lives they had briefly left for the Inquisition.
But she cannot return to her life before—she cannot stop now. The world needs her.
She pushes Lavellan further away and fixes the Inquisitor in its place. She fights for a better world, she fights for this one. For her people. For mages and elves and spirits and all those who suffer. They do not deserve to die for a chance to fix past wrongs.
She fights for her heart, a broken wolf marching on towards his death.
(A decade later, the Inquisitor falls to her knees once the rift closes behind them. Soot and blood cover her, but she rushes to push healing magic into Solas's injuries.
He doesn't believe what he sees. It's her. It's really her.
She smiles weakly and holds him as he collapses into her. The beginnings of crows feet have replaced where the once-twining branches of Mythal's vallaslin marked her face. Scars, stories long told, stand where fresh injuries once lay—and oh, he still remembered healing each one like it was yesterday. Her defensive magic was strong, and she preferred fighting in the frontlines, but she was always a little reckless.
He chokes out on a sobbing chuckle quietly at the memory.
Her heart cries quietly in her arms.
She holds him close, whispering her love into the quiet air around them. Her magic licks gently at his injuries, a solemn echo of their time in the Inquisition.
In this quiet moment, the mask finally falls, and Lavellan takes her first proper breath in a decade.)
