Josie has outdone herself with the preparations – fine vintages are flowing, sourced from as afar as Tevinter; Antivan chocolatiers have supplied a surfeit of sweetness; Fereldan mead adds the taste of pale gold. Everyone wants to speak with the Inquisitor, who has ascended to the rarefied heights inhabited by the Hero of Ferelden and the Champion of Kirkwall.
At what cost? I have to bite back those words before I let them loose.
Instead I smile and say the appropriate things when needed. Vivienne should be proud of how well I'm playing the Grand Game. Who would have thought a savage Dalish elf could be tamed? Could be squeezed into a corseted gown and move, gazelle-like on impossible heels? They must be so relieved my vallaslin no longer mar my face.
I am poised, as taut as a bowstring. Few if any morsels of food pass my painted lips, and I sip sparingly of my wine. While I make eye contact with whomever I speak to, I can't help but cut glances across the Great Hall.
He won't come back this time. Stop fooling yourself.
In one of Varric's stories, Solas will be standing off to one side, a goblet of wine held carelessly while he watches. We'll see each other, he'll incline his head to indicate that he's noted me, and yet later, when I'm ready to retire, he'll be waiting to accompany me upstairs.
This is not one of Varric's stories, and the pain where my heart used to be is rivalled only by the steady throb of the Mark. Not song, stories nor dancing succeed one whit to take the edge off this pain, but I've become adept at wearing masks.
Dorian is the only one who sees right through me, and in one unguarded moment, he pulls his arm around me the way Solas used to, and squeezes me to him. I nearly lose my composure then and there. As midnight approaches, I begin my gradual sweep of the Great Hall, mentally checking off the list of people Josie insists I need to speak to before I retire to my quarters.
The group of musicians has engaged in a lively reel, of fiddle, drum and flute, and there is much dancing and gaiety, which gives me the opportunity I require to slip away. Cassandra and Josie are the last to whom I speak, and I finally let my mask slip.
"My Mark pains me," I say with a grimace.
My admission has the desired effect. Cassandra shoos off an Orlesian noble whose name escapes me yet who clearly wishes to be seen talking to me, and Josie puts her arm around me and guides me to my quarters.
"Shall I arrange for a healer?" she asks as we ascend the stairs.
I shake my head. "I just need to rest. It's been a long week, and I'm not yet recovered fully from…"
"I understand."
You don't.
Despair gnaws again. I should be downstairs; I should be allowing Cullen that dance I promised him. There are a dozen if not more things I should be doing, but I won't. I can't.
I can almost hear Sera berate me, saying something ridiculous like, "Be kind te y'self, y'know. You're runnin' outta spoons, quizzy."
I sit on the bed while Josie lights lamps, but when she goes to draw the curtains, I interrupt her.
"Leave those open. I'd like to see the stars."
The scar where the breach used to be is a nacreous reminder of a battle hard won.
"Are you certain?" Josie's frowning.
"Yes." My voice is small. "Please spread the word that I'm not to be disturbed this night."
She hesitates, and I can sense her suspicions churning. Will the Inquisitor do something monumentally stupid this? Does she possess the propensity for self-harm?
Would that I could.
How do I reassure her?
"Promise me that if there's anything you need, you'll call me. It doesn't matter that it's during the dead hours. My door is always open."
I nod, my throat thick, and begin to pull the pins out of my hair. She hesitates by the door, clearly conflicted, but if I give in and allow her to stay, I'll never let her leave and my kohl-stained tears will ruin her blouse.
"Rosala?"
"Thank you, Josie. There is no need to worry." I bite the inside of my cheek until my eyes smart.
The door snicks shut and I breathe out, cradle my face in my hands. It is over. The entire ordeal.
I rise and make my way to my balcony. The crisp, icy air chases my tears away, fills me with the mountains' vastness, the fathomless sky and its litter of stars.
The tips of my ears tingle, as does my nose. I shouldn't stand out here too long, but it's one of those rare, wind-still spring nights, and I aim to take advantage of this pause in the eternal dance.
I'm alive.
That alone is marvel enough. It hasn't been necessary for me to make the supreme sacrifice any hero can only make once.
Below, the denizens of Skyhold and her guests celebrate with shrieks of laughter. The music drifts upward, frenetic. People are clapping, whooping, and judging from the racket, thumping on the tabletops. They're all alive and face a less uncertain future because of what we've wrought. Would that I could draw comfort from that, because my despair keeps dragging me back to the obvious.
Damn you, Solas.
He's not coming back this time. Of course not.
His face when he picked up the fragments of his orb; I have never seen the man more unhappy than that moment, as if his entire reason for being had ground to a halt. What if I'd not turned my back on him for that instant? What if I'd tried to comfort him instead of reassuring the others that I lived? Would he still have slipped away?
In my heart of hearts, I know he would have.
Why, ma lath?
What we had was real.
Those words rise on a tide of bitterness. If what we'd had was real, then why leave?
Where are you now? Do you also gaze up at the stars and wonder about me? Do I at the very least share that much with you?
In my mind's eye, he wanders ancient ruins, a lone figure carrying only a pack and his staff, who pauses, perhaps with a sharp intake of breath as the venom of a particular memory strikes him. Creators, this sounds like the sort of story Varric would tell.
You didn't have to do this alone.
Whatever happens next, the Dalish girl has gone, a ghost flitting between faded aravels. Who is this Rosala Lavellan, with her Mark? Arrow-pierced, scarred, burnt, bitten? All in the name of the Inquisition. She hasn't bent or broken. She has become something more than the sum of her parts, and she will endure.
The tears flow freely then, their trails freezing on my cheeks, but I allow my sorrow to run its course so that I can mourn for all that has passed, so that I can empty myself. Tomorrow will be the first of many days where I must stand on my own, whatever may come.
By the time shivers wrack me and my teeth chatter, I make my way back inside, intent only on drawing a hot bath and somehow extricating myself from the gown Vivienne insisted would best display my modest assets.
I notice the pebble on my dresser precisely because it's an object out of place among the scattering of cosmetics and oddments. The stone is almost perfectly round, smooth and pale – river tumbled. It rests in the centre of my palm as if it always fit there. Why would someone leave a pebble there? I don't recall…
Oh.
That evening, skipping pebbles on the shores of Lake Luthias. I close my hand around the stone, allow my lids to flutter shut as I recall the scent of blood lotus and feel the water once against lapping against my toes.