The giant statue, the flaming sword, a warrior stomping on the Arishoks severed head. That's not me, the candles gathered at the base, the extra layer of noise as work on the new chantry continues into the night. She stares up at it, frowning, taking in the idol she has become, Champion, the monstrous bulk of the armour and helm in stark contrast to the tight leather she had worn that day. Her stomach aches at the memory of the sword lifting her above his head, the arcing scars still tender after all these years, a twist of pain rips through her as she remembers her shock, her horror as she realised she had wanted it, that she deserved it, that it might finally wipe her mother's mutilated face from her mind.
Aloft and helpless, bursts of lightning convulsed through her as she struggled to focus, to remain present, to survive; not against the external threat but her own desire for all this to end. To sink gratefully into death, wanting to grab hold of the sword with both hands and finish this, to pull it through her, to rip the runes free from her armour and be cleaved in two. To stop feeling.
Her vision had cleared as she was slung to the ground, a wet and panting rag, not dead. The blood pooled around her faster than she'd expected, the effort to lift her head up from the seeping mess that was her body took her breath away. She scanned the room, the impassive qunari; her friends cheering encouragement, blind to the truth, the noise ringing like shouts at a dog fight. He, however, had seen it. She was sure. His face betrayed his abject fear; she knew that expression; it was what she saw reflected back in their cloudy eyes.
Crumpled, destroyed, a discarded toy for the qunari, getting to her knees near broke her soul, again.
Crumpled, destroyed, a discarded toy for a love crazed mage. Not again.
Crumpled, destroyed, a discarded toy for the darkspawn. Not Again.
Crumpled, destroyed, a discarded toy for an ogre. NOT AGAIN.
She refuses to see that expression on his face, NOT HIM, she refuses to leave him lost and alone, survive, and, Maker, she loves him, and Maker help she discovers the extent of it, and Maker help me it cast everything else into shadow.
Love forces her left hand into her stomach to hold the hot wetness in. It guides her right to her pockets; throwing every phial, every bomb, every spur into the ground between her and the beast. Growling, gasping for breath she pushes herself upright, knowing if she falls the qunari will cut down everyone in this room, they'll destroy him. All because of her pride, her ridiculous pride.
Her hands must have wandered to her stomach again, his arms wrap around her from behind, his hands lay on top of hers, locking fingers.
Her memories of the duel are vague after that, she remembers thinking to keep out of reach, to wait for his back to be exposed, whether she managed that... she only has the stories to rely on. What she does remember is his face; the relief, the joy, the tears as she looked up at him from her bed. Her body weakened; some wounds beyond healing, but alive.
And now this statue, this thing that looks less like her, and more like a Templar.