Chapter Text
The last cart creaked and groaned as it disappeared down the winding path from Skyhold. Ellana Lavellan stood at the edge of the crumbling courtyard, her lone figure etched against the rising dawn. The dismantling of the Inquisition was complete, and with it, the remnants of her once-mighty army faded into memory.
She had given everything to save Thedas—her arm, her love, her purpose. Yet, as Skyhold’s great gates stood empty, a hollowness gnawed at her, as if this final chapter had left her unmoored.
Her steps carried her through the ghostly halls of the keep, her boots echoing softly against the stone. Skyhold, once filled with the clamor of soldiers and advisors, was now a silent monument to what she had built—and what she had lost.
Her feet carried her without thought, winding through paths she knew by heart, until she reached the doors to his chambers. She hesitated, her hand resting on the worn wood. She had avoided this room ever since Solas had vanished, but tonight, the pull was undeniable.
The air inside was cold, stagnant, as if it had been untouched since the day he left. Dust clung to the surfaces, a reminder of how much time had passed. Her gaze swept over the simple furnishings, her breath catching when it landed on the desk, where notes and sketches still lay scattered as though he might return at any moment.
But it was the mural that stopped her.
Hidden behind a faded tapestry, it stretched across the stone wall in vivid, untouched detail. Lavellan stood frozen, her breath caught in her chest as her gaze traveled over it.
It was her.
Not as the Inquisitor. Not as the leader of armies or the breaker of cycles. This was Ellana as Solas saw her—his vhenan, his heart.
She stood radiant, bathed in a golden light that seemed to emanate from her very being, her hair cascading around her like streams of gold. Her hands were open and graceful, as though she were welcoming him home. She was framed by soft, curling patterns of silver and emerald, threads of magic that seemed to flow from her presence into the air around her.
Her face—oh, her face—was painted with such care that it took her breath away. Every detail was perfect: the curve of her lips, caught in the faintest hint of a smile; the gentle tilt of her head; the fire in her eyes that spoke of strength, tenderness, and love.
It was not the face of a warrior, nor a queen. This was a goddess—not one of power, but one of love.
This was how he had seen her. The one who had reached into his heart and pulled him from the abyss, the one who had made him question everything he had worked for. This was her as he wanted to remember her, as she had been in those rare, stolen moments when it was just the two of them.
She took a step closer, trembling, her fingers brushing the stone as her vision blurred with tears. This was not a public tribute, not a declaration for anyone else to see. This was private.
He had painted this for himself. An expression of his pure devotion. His love. His regret. His torment.
Her knees gave out, and she crumpled to the floor, pressing her forehead to the cold stone as the tears spilled unchecked. The weight of his love, of her loss, was too much to bear.
“Solas…” Her voice broke, a whisper that carried all the anguish she had buried for so long.
Her sobs echoed in the empty chamber, raw and unrestrained. She clenched her fist, her nails biting into her palm as grief and anger collided within her.
“You loved me,” she choked out, her voice rising. “And you still left. You still—” Her words dissolved into a wail, and she struck the floor with her fist. “Why? Why wasn’t I enough?”
Her breath came in gasps, her tears carving paths down her cheeks. She pressed her hands to her chest as if trying to hold herself together.
“I gave everything,” she cried, her voice cracking. “I gave you my trust, my heart, my soul. And still, I lost you.” She tipped her head back, her voice trembling as it rose to the ceiling. “I lost everything! How can I go on?”
The silence that followed was deafening. For a long moment, there was nothing but the sound of her broken sobs echoing in the empty chamber.
Then the air shifted.
It began as a faint warmth, brushing against her skin like sunlight breaking through storm clouds. The hum of magic followed, soft at first, but it grew steadily louder, vibrating through the stone beneath her hands.
Lavellan raised her head, her tear-filled eyes widening as the glow began to form in the center of the room. It flickered and pulsed, golden and radiant, until it erupted into a perfect circle, its edges curling and shifting like the petals of a living flower.
She staggered to her feet, her pulse racing as the rift swirled before her. Its light filled the room, illuminating the mural, the walls, and her trembling figure. Tendrils of energy reached out, brushing against her like curious fingers.
Her breath hitched, and she stumbled backward, shaking her head. “No,” she whispered, her voice raw.
The rift pulsed again, its magic reaching deeper, pulling at her very core.
“No!” Lavellan cried, planting her feet as if she could fight it. Her body began to lift from the ground, weightless, as the rift yanked her forward with relentless force.
She twisted, clawing at the air, her heart pounding in her chest. “Don’t—”
The pull grew stronger, and she felt herself being swallowed by the light. The hum grew to a deafening roar as the golden glow consumed her entirely.
The last thing she saw before everything went dark was the mural. Her own face, radiant and filled with hope, watching her as she disappeared.
And then, silence.