Love is an illusion, she thought, after. She felt hollow as the older man held the hand of the pretty Chantry initiate before her. She loved him, and he loved her. Or so she thought; but here he was, declaring his love for another, asking him to help her escape the Tower because they were friends, and friends help anyone with anything. She foolishly placed her life on the line for this man that she loved, that she thought she loved, to help him destroy his Chantry leash, to escape into the Great Wherever and have fat babies with the woman he said he loved. And then he turned his blood magic on all of them, and she knew that love was an illusion.
Love is an illusion, she thought, listening to Ser Jory drone on about his pretty wife and the child that was expected to make an appearance while he was pledging himself to the Wardens. If this man loved his wife as he claimed, he would not have left her at their home, helpless, while he sought glory elsewhere.
Love is an illusion, Morrigan told her, and she nodded her head in silent agreement. Power was important, and real. Strength was important, and real. Morrigan had never been leashed or shackled by the Chantry, and she had a freedom that Aloria had only dreamed of, and a philosophy that Aloria could strongly admire. Love is an illusion. Take what you want, and pay for it.
Love is an illusion, she thought, looking through the bars of a cell at Jowan. Her traitorous heart beat hard in her chest and she nearly turned to go, to leave him to his fate. She looked into his eyes again, the warm, brown eyes that she had loved for so many years, and she unlocked the door and told him to go. Love is an illusion, but she had power over him, power to decide his fate, and she decided to free him from his cage much as his betrayal had freed her from her own cage of illusion.
Love is an illusion, she thought, watching the woman beg her for the life of her son. "You're a woman, what if this was your son?" Aloria mused for a moment; she wouldn't have lied to her partner; she wouldn't have sought the aid of an apostate while claiming to be so deep in her faith that she refused to let anyone know her child had the curse of the mage in his blood. If this woman loved her son, she would have done right by him, even if that meant a Chantry leash.
Love is an illusion, she thought, letting the assassin kiss her, press himself down against her, touch her bare skin. She had power over him, could make him do whatever she wished him to do, could make him stop. Power was real. Strength was real. Love was an illusion, but his touch burned her skin like she could burn the skin of others, and he left marks on her flesh.
Love is an illusion, she thought, but she still went to the pretty Dalish woman to help convince her to give her hand to the handsome, young elvish hunter. It was a pointless waste of time: she should be getting on with seeking this Witherfang. She felt stupid, then. She averted her eyes from the approving nods and knowing looks of her companions, felt heat rising to her cheeks. She might die tomorrow and the Blight take the world, but perhaps she had the power to let some people find a moment of happiness before their deaths.
Love is an illusion, she thought, her heart heavy. The dwarven warrior stood in front of the woman he had married, and the look on his face was unmistakable. She had worn that look, too, both on her face and in her heart, but the Paragon discarded the dwarf's feelings in search of her own power and glory, and Aloria knew that love was an illusion, and only power mattered.
Love is an illusion, she thought, standing before Alistair, convincing him to marry Anora. He argued that he did not love Anora, did not know if he would be able to, but she used smooth words and assured him that love could come, over time, with work. The lie felt filthy on her tongue; there was no such thing as love, but balking in such a thing would only drive Alistair away, make it more difficult for her plans, and so she lied, and knew that she had power there to make men do what she wished with a simple word, a simple promise.
Love is an illusion, she thought, as the assassin-never his name, only ever the assassin-told her about Rinna, and how she had been everything he thought he had desired. He, too, had succumbed to the illusion of love, and he had destroyed what he thought he wanted. She had killed his friend, his former lover, the Crow who had come after her, after him. She had faced him, cold and clinical. She made no claim on the assassin, she never would, but he had made it very clear that he was pledged to her and she would not let this upstart fool take something that belonged to her. Her Templar. Her Wilds Witch. Her Bard. Her Qunari. Her Dwarven Warrior. Her Golem. Her Senior Enchanter. Her Mabari. Her assassin. She spit on the corpse of the man who tried to take what was hers from her, then walked away, all ice and steel.
Love is an illusion, she thought, holding the earring in her hand, confused. The assassin was trying to thank her-pay her?- for her actions, for keeping the Crows away. The earring was beautiful, and the assassin's words were sweet and honey and awkward, and she found herself blurting out, "So...it's not a token of affection then?" And pressing the earring back into his hand when he said it was not. She still had power over him, power to hurt him, and she knew that he wanted her to accept the earring and everything between them to be happy and secure, and she hurt him purposely, for confusing her.
Love is an illusion, she thought, sleeping in her bed by herself for the first time in months. The cold space where the warm assassin usually slept felt especially empty. She had asked him to come to bed and he had refused, snapping at her. He had never snapped at her before, and now she felt confused, and angry. Her mabari would happily sleep next to her, if she asked, to help stave off the coldness of a harsh Ferelden winter, but she would not let him. She was weak, and needed to be cold so she could be strong.
Love is an illusion, she thought, but she asked the assassin if he loved her, anyway. He did not know, he replied. How could one know such a thing? "Love is an illusion," she told him, no heat in her words. "I thought so once," he said, looking away evasively. "I do not think so anymore." She accepted the earring then, unsure of why she was doing such, unsure of whether or not she wanted any sort of proposal from the assassin. Always the assassin. But she accepted it, and for the first time in months she felt as if she had no power over any situation.
Love is an illusion, she screamed in her own mind, standing in front of the archdemon, lying prone before her. She looked back, at Alistair, locked in combat with two darkspawn, and Zevran, who was running towards her, and then she grabbed up a sword from a fallen soldier and rushed towards the thing. She heard Alistair behind her, yelling at her to stop, but she knew she had to push forward, knew she had to do it. Alistair couldn't die, he had to be a king, and the sooner she freed Zevran from this illusion, the better off he would be. She drove the sword down into the great dragon's skull, felt a shock run through her body that was like a thousand thousand Templars smiting her at once. She shook and flailed, and felt her fingers burning on the hilt of the unfamiliar blade. There was light, bright light, everywhere, and then there was darkness.
Love is an illusion, she made herself think. Thinking was hard; waking was difficult. She had not expected to awaken. She had refused Morrigan's ritual, would never have asked anything like that of Alistair. She had no objections to the unknown magic, but Alistair... No. She should be dead. She was not dead; this was not the Fade, and there was no mysterious Maker or his beautiful Prophet Bride there, no Creators of the Dalish. There were just warm, honey-amber-brown eyes, concerned looks, strange hands, sounds and voices. She felt weak, felt something that she had felt before Jowan's betrayal, and forced it away. Love is an illusion. But her assassin was there, his head against her chest, holding her, and she could feel his tears through her ripped, filthy robes, and she was alive, and she did not know how.
Her skin was blotched, black with Blight sickness patches. Her hair was coming out in handfuls, and her veins were black lines under her flesh. She forgot where she was, sometimes. Who she was around. She forgot her assassin, although he never forgot her. He would gently remind her of what she was doing, where she was going, who she was, who he was. He was so much older now, lines around his eyes, on his face. His golden hair was streaked with silver, and cut much shorter than the first time she had seen him. He had stayed with her, stayed with her the entire time, leaving only for a short while when death called him away to Antiva: the death of the Crows; and duty called her to Amaranthine: her duty to the Wardens, but promising he would return, and making good on that promise. She remembered him, then. Remembered suddenly. She looked at her hands, which were not wrinkled, but looked old, anyway. Thirty years, Alistair had said. She might have as much as thirty years after her Joining, and she heard her Calling, the sweetest song, the one thing that she could not deny, that had full power over her. It had not been thirty years.
She looked at her assassin then, her mind clearer than it had been in months. He sat before her, holding her hands in his, concern in his eyes. "Zevran." It was the first time she had ever said his name. "I love you."
He smiled then, sadly, leaned forward to push a lock of brittle hair out of her face. "I know," he said.