“Var lath vir bellanaris, vhenan’ara.”
He does not know if it is a promise, or a curse.
“I wish it would, vhenan.”
He doesn’t know why he feel so empty, so cold inside as he walks away.
The first time is the quickest.
She falls when the Veil does, a single lick of flame doused out in less than the blink of an eye.
He mourns her incessantly, even as he wages merciless war against his brethren, soaking the earth with so much blood the soil takes on the hue forevermore. At the end, he stands alone, but victorious.
He’s unable to recognize the absolute monster that greets him in the mirror.
His people are no more, twisted instead into his own reflection.
This was not the world he wanted.
He listens to the miniscule shred of wisdom that yet lingers within him.
He goes back to the start.
The second time is….. different.
She’s more cautious around him, more reticent. Her smiles, and her company, are not given as freely. It takes time, and effort, but eventually she comes around. She is his once more. His heart is full.
His feet are numb as he leaves her on the ground.
This time, when the Veil falls, she persists. It’s a relief, not a minor one. She might not be with him, but she is - until one of his brethren’s arrows punctures her delicate neck.
He goes back to the start.
It’s a great deal more difficult this time.
She stays away from him. Nothing he says, or does, seems to reel her in. He puts his all into pursuing her, but instead she runs from him, and straight into the arms of the Commander.
Of all the people she could have chosen, that she chose a man who views with distrust that which is the core of her, is galling. She might defend the man, but he knows that some habits are near-impossible to break - though he does not tell her this. He steps aside instead, gives her space, hoping fervently that she will turn to him one day.
She’s dead even before the Veil falls.
He doesn’t wait to turn into a monster.
He goes back to the start.
At least a dozen cycles have passed. Each time, she pushed him away. After the Commander, it was the false warden. She died after the Veil fell, slain by her own allies.
Then the ambassador. He envied her that time, for the pair of them had been content to live quietly. But that peace was short-lived. Demons, no longer held back by the Veil, reached his heart before he could.
The time after that, was the qunari spy (that had been a difficult one. The tal vashoth had seen more of him than he’d expected). He had- he had not thought that she would uncover his plan. If he had been there with his agents-. Those who’d slain her had been punished with death, but it had been too little, too late.
The blonde archer left when he tried to reach his heart through the Well. She died alone. (That hurt, more than any of the other times. He never wanted her to be alone.)
A second time with the Commander. One cycle without any partner. Once with a dalish youth who’d betrayed her when his clan joined his side. One time with a real Warden (He had hated that the most of all. She deserved better.) That cycle with the newly crowned Marquise of the Dales.
One more entirely by herself.
Each time, nothing he does - or does not do - keeps her alive. And each time he loses her, he loses himself, turning into a creature he loathed and despised.
She is his heart, his conscience, his guiding force. She makes him better. And without her, every future he’s lived is bleak and empty and hopeless.
This isn’t what he wants for his people.
This isn’t what he wants for himself.
He goes back to the start.
She comes to him with eyes that speak of many sleepless nights. She sits across him, shoulders slumped over so he cannot see her face.
“I cannot take any more, Dread Wolf.”
His heart stutters, then begins to thunder. Surely this cannot mean-?
“I know you are Fen’harel. I know all of what will happen. I have lived through it many, many times - too many. Please, no more.”
He can scarcely breathe. “What do you mean?”
She looks at him then, tired, bone-deep, and weary. She recounts to him the events that have yet to occur with the darkspawn magister, and continues till she speaks of her death. “Each time, I die, and I wake to find myself in the dungeons at Haven. I know it is your doing, Dread Wolf.”
He lowers his head to accept the blame, for it is his and his alone. “Ir abelas,” he begins, but-
“Tel’abelas. If you truly are sorry, you will not leave me.”
Startled, he meets her gaze. She is unsmiling. The only sign of her distress is her hands twisting together. “You cannot leave me,” it’s high-pitched but not hysterical, “not this time. Each time,” she explains, quieter now, her head turned away from him, “the- the cycle repeats. There is only one thing they all have in common. You leave. This time, you cannot leave me, Dread Wolf. I- I cannot take yet another of- of whatever this is. I cannot live through this again. Either stay with me, or- or put me out of this misery.” Her voice floods with unshed tears. “Please.”
He finds himself speechless. He has never taken her with him, for he has never wanted his heart to see the monster he would become. And yet, in all this time, that single idea has escaped him.
He’s never realized that abandoning his conscience was the first step into losing it entirely, and now that he has, it seems marvelous that it has never occurred to him before, for it is so simple, and so true.
“You- want me? To stay with you? After- after everything?”
The firelight glitters against the wetness on her cheeks. “I wanted to hate you. I tried, so hard, to hate you, but I can’t. I- I can’t. Var lath vir bellanaris. I- I will always want you.”
It astounds him, shocks him to the very core, that despite the fact that she’s seen every iteration of him, she still wants to be with him. He’d thought- she is his heart, but he had never dared hope that he would be hers.
The silence stretches between them, broken only by the soft hiccups she makes. Her hand trembles where it rests on her knee. He reaches out, and gently pulls it to rest between both of his.
“I will not leave you,” he vows. “Never again.” He turns over her hand, pressing his lips to the palm. His eyes never leave hers.
She shifts, moving onto his lap. Wraps her free hand around his neck. She leans in slowly, carefully, till their foreheads are pressed together, all the while watching him.
Everlasting. Eternal. This would be the last time.He could feel it deep within him. And as her lips slowly turned up into a hesitant smile, he knew she felt it too.
