Sometimes, she goes to the Chantry. A quick spell to alter her appearance first, of course (It isn't hard. She sheds faces like others shed clothes), and she can walk in, hobble in, limp in, however she wishes. Nods to the mothers and sisters, makes play at praying at the altar and looking at statues with familiar unfamiliar faces.
His nose wasn't that big, She thinks when she sees the bust of Shartan.
He was much less handsome, She thinks when she sees the portrait of Maferath.
And she, She thinks when she sees the statute of Andraste, she has not had that face for a very, very long time.
The Chantry smells like dust and moldy old paper. She misses the days when worshippers met in secret, the air heavy with the scent of smoke and fear. Men and women carried daggers on their hips, terrified of what would happen when they were discovered. Nowdays, people worship in the light of day, raising soft hands that have never touched a blade to the heavens.
She sits on a pew, not listening to the Chant being read. The words have never meant all that much to Her. They are a pretty story, a story told in the context of ideals and perfection. Reality is never so pretty and She was never so perfect. If it was so, She would be long dead.
But She is not dead. She is sitting on a pew, listening to the Chant and wishing to touch a world that has been gone for a very, very long time.
She has been a Queen. She has been a Bride. She has been a Warden. She has been a Champion. Now, she sets others along the paths that she once tread. Watches a darkspawn horde overwhelm a tower, drops out of the sky to save the Warden and would-be king who linger there. Watches a group of Fereldans overwhelm an ogre with a combination of skill and sheer luck that She herself is all too familiar with, so She dips down and saves them too.
It's best to have insurance. It's how she's survived this long.
Names, places, voices, words, thoughts...how many of them can a person have before they overflow with them? She doesn't know and She hasn't found it yet, that limit, that precipice. There is still change in the world, things she cannot forsee. It thrills Her, it vexes Her, it makes Her very grateful Her life has been so long.
She sees far and She travels wide and She inserts Herself into so many legends and so many old tales that she loses count.
She is the dragon queen, sacred to none and yet feared by all. She goes to a place where ashes that are not Hers lie and wonders, not for the first time, whose body lies there, burned. It could be Shartan, maybe, or Maferath. She never saw them after that day...that day when the sky was bloody and flames that didn't burn licked her body.
More likely, it is some anonymous person She never met. She thanks them for their sacrifice, for the use of their body, and gazes down into an urn that should be Hers. The fact that it is not Her boils down to chance, or maybe fate. Her skill and Her power had precious little to do with it.
Years splinter and fade and crack before her. She is older than so many things. Some days, She thinks that She had lived for far too long.
But today is not the end, not now. Not yet. The world cannot be without its dragon queen, without the Witch that haunts the Wilds. She lingers on the edge of the world, in it, but not truly part of it, and watches the world in quiet apathy as the years roll past with all the certainty of waves coming in against a sandy shore.
Time stops for no one, not even Her.
She looks at Her reflection, a reflection that wavers like sunlight on the surface of water. Andraste, Flemeth...She has had many other names beside, but those two remain Her favorites. Bride of the Maker, Witch of the Wilds...She thinks it is obvious, at time, that the two of them are one and the same. She makes play at guessing games, tries to make riddlers and tricksters see through the facade to Her true face.
So far, none of them have been clever enough. They cannot see through Her bluff, cannot win against a dragon queen. She searches, sometimes, for a man who might tell Her story and understand it. She is starting to think no such man exists.
She has not yet decided if it is fate or chance that has pushed Her so far...
Flemeth wonders is She will ever find the answer. She wonders if anyone will ever know the full story, the story of Andraste, the Bride of the Maker, and how She lived far too long.
She watches as a Warden becomes a hero and a Fereldan becomes a Champion. Death can wait a little longer, She decides. There are still stories left for Her to tell, still heroes left for her to save.
The dragon queen watches as they journey into the sunset, bathed in Andraste's grace.
A/N: Yeah, I know this is weird. But I've always thought that Andraste and Flemeth were the same person. It makes sense, no? What with the dragon cult and Flemeth being more or less immortal...And there is that book in-game that suggests Andraste might have been nothing more than a very powerful mage. Whatever. Just some weirdness that I've set here to percolate. Do with it what you will.
Disclaimer: Still no. Check back again later.