She sits sometimes, in the rotunda where he painted her story upon the wall. It stays there still, bright, bold, proclaiming its message to all who would behold it. But the room itself lies still and silent. No one paces its floors anymore, or paints upon its walls any longer. Those days are done. That story is finished.
Once, she would watch surreptitiously from the balcony as he worked. She would peer down as he contemplated the blank palette before him for hours, observed how he would chose his pigments, wonder as he put spatula and trowel and brush to work with purpose and skill, with the confidence and certainty she admired so much in his every action and word. She would gaze, fascinated, as the colors took shape to his will like the magic did, taking form and body to tell the tale of the Inquisitor as he saw it. And she marveled that he did it all for her, with nary a word, so that her deeds might stand the test of time, so that what only he could see in the secrets of the Fade might be visible to any who walked this room and gazed upon these walls.
But the paintings were only the surface of the story. Behind them were words and deed, hours spent talking about secrets no one else knew, fleeting kisses in the Fade, private moments sharing lives and touch and hearts. All intertwined together and painted into a monument of devotion, love and endearment that was invisible to all others despite the boldness of their declaration on the once blank walls.
But now the smell of fresh paint and plaster has begun to fade away and the last panel stands, unfinished, never to be completed. The triumph that should have been, tainted by an incompleteness, a missing piece that is gone and may never return. Visitors to Skyhold come and exclaim over the beauty of the paintings but to her, they will be ever bittersweet. They were meant to be a testimony, an enduring reminder - and they will be.