Warning: Suicide, Suicidal Ideation, Main Character Death, and Time Travel
It was the same all over again.
Just like every time.
Just like last time.
"Tell me why we shouldn't kill you now," Cassandra spat out. "The Conclave is destroyed. Everyone who attended is dead. Except for you."
"Varric Tethras: rogue, storyteller, and occasionally unwelcome tagalong," says Varric, winking at Cassandra.
"My name is Solas, if there are to be introductions. I'm pleased to see you still live," says the Dread Wolf disguised as a humble apostate.
This will be followed by months and years of hard work – of sloughing through the undead, the possessed, the red lyrium-infected and other enemies. Corypheus. Qunari. Fen'Harel.
Sometimes she manages to close the breach, other times she dies too soon. Sometimes she dies in the attack on Haven. Sometimes she makes it to Skyhold but dies elsewhere pursuing red templars or red mages, pursuing Corypheus, Wardens, Dragons or hundreds of the other dangers out to kill her.
There's just one constant.
Even if she makes it to when Fen'Harel cuts off her arm, makes it past the inquiry, keeps the inquisition or dissolves it – she dies.
She doesn't know how, doesn't know why. One moment she goes to bed or walks down the rampart, visits friends and the next she blinks awake, hand restored and aglow, back in the dungeon in Haven.
Fen'Harel talked about the Elvhen, the people the ones who were real to him – unlike her, unlike the servants, unlike the shades he barely noticed wandering this world. They'd been immortal.
But not like her.
Never like her.
There was no one like her.
No cure.
She didn't know if it was enjoyment for gods she didn't believe in, if it was just something wrong with her mind, if it was even happening anymore. Maybe she was stuck in her mind. Maybe this was the Envy demon's fault, the one who'd replaced Lucius. Or maybe it was actually happening and the time magic at Redcliffe was responsible.
She didn't know anymore.
Didn't care anymore.
These people in front of her, talking to her, at her, were shades of the real thing.
These weren't her friends.
This was not the Varric who had laughed and given her a title, a home in Kirkwall, had given her the key to the city.
This Cassandra was not the one reading and laughing about romance novels with her, not the one teaching her and consulting her – trusting her – when she had a crisis of faith.
This Cullen was angry, and in pain, desperate but not trusting – not yet. He wasn't the one who blushed and exclaimed any time she asked embarrassing questions – or reminded him of streaking across Skyhold for losing the game.
These people, although she loved them with all her heart and would walk across hot coals for them into the gaping maw of a dragon – they didn't know her, didn't feel the same.
They had left for the Hinterlands, and yet no one had thought to ask her name.
She wondered if she could make it to her death this time without them even knowing to call her anything but 'Herald' or 'Worship'.
Although she didn't lose them – not really – every time, she did lose them every time. Back to the blank, angry faces lacking any fondness.
It's fine.
She's used to it, by now.
She doesn't reach for them anymore.
Doesn't ask about Bianca or Hawke. Doesn't ask about the Fade. Doesn't ask about the Seekers or Faith. Doesn't ask about Templars, Diplomacy or anything else.
She doesn't need to engage. She will lose them again, anyway.
What is the point of all this? What is the point of loving, of connecting, only to have it torn from you, again and again?
Distance is easier.
She's not sure what's real anymore.
She wakes up and isn't sure if she's already searched for Hyndel and the potion or not. If she's given the woman her dead husband's ring back. If she returned the Druffalo home. Recruited Blackwall. Been to Valammar. Doesn't know which reiteration of the same old story this is.
She fumbles her life through, makes detailed notes of the previous days each time so she can keep track, can remind herself in the morning, what's next.
They follow her orders, she tells herself.
That's all that matters.
She doesn't need anything more. She knows where to go, what to do; so long as they follow her where she leads, what does it matter? They are roused at dawn and driven until late night, when they collapse into their bed rolls. There's no more bonding, no evenings spent joking. She issues orders, not requests.
As long as it gets the job done, it won't matter, she reminds herself. It never does.
Sometimes someone will say something and she will blink back to awareness, to engage with reality when it's new and something she has to think about rather than follow a script by rote – although she's silent this time around, uses words sparingly, only when needed – and therefore on their enemies or soon-to-be-allied, not her companions unless it's to tell them what to do.
She still cares for them. Loves them.
They get upgrades on their weapons and their armour which make the fights almost laughably easy.
She makes sure there's a plethora of small cakes ready for Solas – and no tea.
She ensures Varric's tab is paid and contacts his publisher to intimidate them into making things right. She writes to Bianca.
She contacts Daniel and asks him stay away from the call to the castle.
She contacts everyone who can make her companions – her friends – lives a little easier, but she doesn't tell them. Doesn't talk to them.
She loves them.
But it's from afar.
They don't need to know. She doesn't want to connect. Doesn't want the banter and comfort from Varric, the indulgence in Solas' voice when he plies her with stories – remembered or from the Fade – the hours spent with Cassandra.
There's little she can do for The Iron Bull, once he joins, but she takes care of the Chargers, as much as she can – as much as they let her.
She loves Krem, Skinner, Dalish and everyone in his little crew.
Only once, after her first Death, had she thought an alliance with Qun would be more important, would stop this, would stop them from coming after her.
Not ever again.
The Chargers had died.
And the Qun had its Hissrad back; the Iron Bull gone, even if she hadn't known it then, hadn't known it until the poison on her breath, the impassive 'sorry, Boss', before the axe swung for her neck.
The Breach is closed.
The supplies, as much as she could get, are in the chantry, safe.
Dorian and Cole at her side, back with her, as she fights the red templars, downs behemoth and monsters made of man, one after the other, without pause for breath.
It doesn't matter.
It never does.
It always ends the same.
She rescues them, she always does – quick, efficient, and bundled into the chantry. Cole managed to get to Rodderick after her request and he is injured, but not fatally so – not this time around, at least. There are times she was too late or someone else got the Chancellor before he could reveal the summer path. Sometimes they found it in time – most times she buried Haven and the people within it. Those were the days where she took the knife to herself – they were rare, the lifetimes ended by suicide, but there are some things she cannot bear.
Of course, she has to anyway. Look at them, the next time around, remember that she buried them, that every man, woman and child died there, terrified, crushed and suffocated. That she survived and none of her companions, her friends, did.
She waits for Cullen's usual plan of burying Haven – them included – under an avalanche, until the man at Cole's side speaks up and the rescue is in operation.
She leaves Cole to tell them her plan. Barrs the entrance to the chantry to make sure her companions don't follow her – although why would they? They don't know her.
They have yet to even know they don't have her name.
She's the Herald of Andraste to them.
A symbol.
A religious figure.
… A martyr.
It shouldn't be a surprise that she's headed towards her death.
Cole is with her.
That's okay. He can read her, knows all he needs to know and he can disappear, make sure he's not one of the ones she has buried with the avalanche. Sometimes her friends don't all make it past Corypheus, past the dragon.
This will not be one of those times.
Cole nods, eyes hidden underneath his large hat, but not refuting what she thinks.
Fighting is easy, by now. She has decades upon decades of experience. Has fought these very behemoths and red templars so often, she can predict their moves and thoughts before they make them.
It's as easy as breathing.
But then she stumbles and something new happens. Something different.
And when the avalanche takes her, pushes her down into the mine, she is curled around a green glowing orb.
Solas' orb.
This had never happened before.
Sure, she'd gotten better at mastering the magic in her hand, manipulating the fade energies, controlling it, but her stray thought of pulling the orb back to her, the way Corypheus had pulled at her hand, shouldn't have worked.
It had never happened before.
She thinks she remains there longer than she intends to because the storm is in full progress before she even sets out; icy, howling winds pushing her to and fro.
Still, hunched over, she continues on, arms tight around the precious bundle in her arms.
She doesn't know what to do.
She will be unconscious when they find her. She normally is.
But no one can take the orb from her.
It's Fen'Harel's. She doesn't know what he's capable of if he thinks they're taking it from him, but she also doesn't want to find out.
Keep it? Return it? What happens from here on out? Will they attack Skyhold now that she has the orb?
She doesn't know.
For the first time in a long time, she is frightened.
Her own death ceased scaring her a long time ago – by now she's been subjected to most methods anyway.
Drowning remains her least favourite; the Storm Coast was hazardous and she hadn't expected the Dragon's tail to launch her quite so far. She had been dazed when she hit the water; the rest hadn't helped.
In the end, it comes to her, and it's easy. She is awake, barely, using the magic in the orb and her hand to keep herself warm and aware. As expected, Solas is immediately aware and drawn to the energy he recognises.
She doesn't think she's exchanged more than a few words with him.
"Fen'Harel," the apostate stiffens, eyes wide, "I return what is yours." She hands him the orb.
"Please take this with you."
She stretches out her hand – wondering whether he will take less of her arm this time around and then dismissing the thought. It doesn't matter. It never matters.
"This might kill you," he says, back straight, shoulders tight, eyes glacial and fixed on her.
She shrugs.
"Doesn't matter," she tells him honestly. It doesn't.
Maybe it's the variable that's needed. Maybe she needed to give him the orb so he could have his power back. Maybe now she can die peacefully.
It's just ironic that this is the one lifetime where no one will even know her name. She will just be the Herald of Andraste, a nameless, faceless, nobody who appeared and disappeared just as quickly.
She wonders who will lead the Inquisition this time.
It doesn't matter.
There's a reason she didn't announce her return.
A reason she didn't enter the camp.
A reason she met Solas outside of its boundaries, amidst the ongoing storm, invisible from any patrol.
She has no intention of going back. Has no intention of going anywhere, really.
She just wants it all to end. To be over. To be gone. For the pain in her head, the constant repetitions, the constant loss and never-ending pain to just stop.
It sounds peaceful. Calm.
She longs for it. Has longed for it for so long.
She doesn't know how old she is anymore.
She responds better to Herald and Inquisitor than her own name now.
She lost who she was a long time ago.
She's forgotten how to laugh, how to smile. It's the same old tired lines, the same old jokes, over and over again.
She's just so tired.
"You're the Herald," he tells her and she nods.
"Yes," she tells him, "I am," because by this point it is more her than her prior name ever was.
"There will still be work left for you."
She knows – she, more than anyone, knows just how much work there is left to do.
"There is," she reaffirms.
He huffs, hands still outstretched.
"Then why?"
She shrugs inelegantly.
"It's yours, not mine to keep. Never was. You can have it. If you need me to cut off my arm, I can do that." She shrugs, indifferent. She's done it so often now, it's familiar. She knows how to live, eat, cook and fight one-armed. Not that she will be alive long enough this time.
"Do you care so little? You know I'm Fen'Harel, the betrayer."
She blinks, a little curious that he seems so outraged she doesn't want to fight him, but ultimately it doesn't matter.
"I know," she confirms again.
"So why? Do you care so little for all your friends?"
This, of all things, draws a tired laugh from her – just a momentary sputter, amusement disappearing as fast as it always does, but his eyes had time to widen, surprised.
"No one even knows my name," she tells him with a shrug, a little bemused that even cautious Leliana has yet to investigate her past, to focussed on the future to even think to enquire. Nor has Josie, the diplomat, signing and sending letters on her behalf without even a passing thought to her name or family.
It's alright. It doesn't matter – not to her, but it's still interesting and a little funny.
"You don't reach out to us either," Solas responds after a pause, defensive.
She sighs, wondering how long he intends to draw this out. She is still shaky, near unconsciousness.
But just a little longer, she reminds herself. Just a little more and he will have the mark back, and his orb and power, and she can finally let go.
She's said goodbye so often, in so many different ways, to all of them, this doesn't even register anymore.
Still, she sighs, arms tightening around the orb to make sure she doesn't lose hold of it during the next windy gust.
"You recently woke from Uthenera. You killed Felassan for believing in Briala – in the people here. You're a Somniari. A Dreamer. You created the barrier between us and the fade. You are neither liar nor betrayer – you are the freer of slaves and sought only to help them. You see no one here as people, but rather as faded constructs. You dislike tea and love the tiny Orlesian cakes."
She shrugs. "Varric's crossbow is named after his lady love – who, to me, appears to just be stringing him along. He is fiercely loyal and the best friend you can have. Cassandra was visited by a spirit of faith, curing her from her self-induced tranquility, even if she doesn't remember or realise it. She loves romance novels and is silently hoping for Varric to continue. She is fiercely passionate. I can tell you about every member of my Inquisition, from your spies in the servants, to the unaffiliated servants to the highest-ranking. Like that Leliana has a nug called schmooples."
Once that would have drawn a smile, however tired, from her. Now, there's nothing.
She just wants it over.
"I don't care, Solas. But this is yours."
She doesn't pause this time, depositing the orb in his hands.
She waits patiently as he cradles it before absorbing the power, eyes flashing before he looks at her. Impatiently, he reaches for her hand and pulls the anchor from her; it resists, tries to latch on, but she detaches and forces it on and the two of them work together so within moments, that, too, is absorbed back by Solas.
Free.
She wiggles her left hand. It's the first time it's not aching. The first time in a very, very long time she can see her left palm again. She forgot she had that little scar by her thumb from handling a knife at three years old. Or that smaller one nearer her wrist.
"Thank you," she tells him and turns to leave.
"Where are you going?"
"I'm going to be free now," she tells him, relieved, shoulders relaxed. When had she last felt this at peace? She can't even remember.
She leaves him – them – behind, walks on into the snow, the darkness.
There's no more magic to keep her upright now. Nothing to keep her warm.
That's okay.
She needs to be further away, though, needs to make sure no one stumbles over her accidentally, hunting or anything else.
No one ever found the mine shaft again. That seems like a good spot to die, she thinks, fingering the blade at her hip.
It won't take much she knows. Her body has already stopped shivering, her vision is going in and out, her breathing laboured.
It will all be over soon.
She will be at peace.
Finally.
No one will mourn her, no one will find her body. She will remain just one of the many buried at Haven. One of many who died.
She still carries the wounds from the fight with the red templars and Corypheus with her.
Even exhausted beyond measure, it's easy to add two cuts to her wrist to the mess as she stumbles. She doesn't make it to the mines, but somehow ended up on the reverse summer path and is now inside the dungeons under the chantry.
She stopped shivering a while ago. Her breath doesn't steam the air anymore. Her hands and fingers are blue and she's almost certain her lips and ears look the same.
That's okay. This will be a good spot to lie down, she thinks, as her knees give way and she falls down.
She doesn't even feel the impact when her head hits the ground.
"Ser Tethras?"
Varric blinks up from the fire, hands still clasped around the bundle of paper in his pocket, unsure if he wants to reach out to his friends yet or not.
"Solas?" He asks; there's something different about the man. He's holding himself stiffer and there's almost a hum around him, like Fenris, a taste of power.
He wonders what changed.
"What's the name of our Herald?" He asks and Varric grins.
"Hedgehog," he tells him, "prickly and silent on the outside, but very squishy inside. Who else would run around to bring a ring to someone or coax a Druffalo back to its farm."
Solas gives an absent smile but shakes his head.
"No, her name, I mean."
And this time Varric pauses but there had never been an introduction – prisoner, amnesiac, liar, to Herald of Andraste and Hero. It had never come up and Varric was so used to giving out nicknames, he hadn't thought to ask.
"I don't know," he confesses, surprised, in low tones, realising it hadn't even occurred to him that he didn't know.
Solas nods curtly.
"I already asked the advisors," he confesses with a side-nod at the surprisingly quiet tent, the arguing having stopped – and now Varric knows why. "No one even asked her name."
Varric winces.
Yeah, that's… that's not great.
"Shit. No wonder she never talked to us."
Solas nods solemnly, staring off into the distance, back towards Haven, before heaving a deep sigh.
"I better talk to the Advisors. I believe I know a safe place where the Inquisition can grow safely," he finally says, at length, before stepping away.
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