I suspect you have questions…

Those words rattle around in my head for days, for weeks after the catastrophic hunt through the eluvians. That evening in the ruins has haunted me since my return, my resignation, and withdrawal, burnt across the inside of my lids so that every time I close my eyes, I see his face.

I can still taste his kiss, and feel the impression of his hand holding the one that is no longer there. An old, old wound has been ripped open.

Ferelden has what it wants. The Inquisition is no more. Let the Qun overrun southern Thedas once they're done with Tevinter. They are nothing in the face of Solas's ire. I cannot unsee that macabre crop of statues in the elven ruins nor forget how my foe turned to stone even as she tried to spear my vhenan. The storm is coming, but my work here is done.

Only a fool would stand against the Dread Wolf.

# # #

We are granted a sun-drenched valley, a title in the Hinterlands – just rewards for services rendered, or perhaps a way to buy our retirement from involvement in politics. The manor house is modest – red tiled-roof, ochre-painted walls, a wraparound balcony – perched upon a hill punctuated with sentinel cypresses and overlooking terraced fields and pear orchards. Bumblebees nudge against nodding irises. A wisteria weeps purple blooms. Antivan roses offer splashes of deep crimson. Like blood, but sweet. Pretty as a picture. Cullen has his horses, plays the minor noble. He smiles, talks about children. Mercifully my womb doesn't quicken – perhaps a legacy of my time as the bearer of the Anchor. I am barren, in more ways than the obvious.

I learn to cope with the missing arm; though I'm not whole, I'm alive. The pain isn't physical. I lie by omission, pretend that by the time I confronted our enemy, Solas had fled, and my malfunctioning Mark took off my arm in a final explosion.

How much longer until the Veil comes down, I don't know, but black wings bring ill whispers from further afield. The remnants of the Grey Wardens are mustering. A high dragon has been sighted in the Western Approach.

This is not Varric's storybook ending, not truly. I know; I'm part of the quiet conspiracy of elves. Whether I'll live to see the return of these glory days Solas dreams of, that remains to be discovered. I survived the explosion in the Temple of Sacred Ashes, didn't I? In the meanwhile, I enjoy what sunshine there is. I say the things that make Cullen smile, because his happiness takes the edge off my despair and lets me pretend that all is well with the world.

Let another hero rise out of my ashes if they have the will. This is where my tale ends.

At night, I'm not alone. My human husband clasps me to his chest as if I'm the most precious, fragile doll. His heartbeat steadies me, guides me into my dreaming. He is glad that I can sleep, and sleep I do – often well past sun-up.

And oh, such dreams where I wander the Fade and behold wonders untold. Graceful glass spires and tumbledown monuments. Arches held up by memories of times gone by. Vir Dirthara calls me, and I answer her siren summons, spend hours paging through forgotten tomes and learn such secrets never to be spoken of in the waking world. In the Fade I am whole, with a left hand that can grasp and flex.

I know no pain.

I'm surrounded by echoes, lost voices and sighs, but there are occasions when I feel a shadow brush my own and I'll glance up from a faded volume. Blue skies gleam between broken archways that jut like teeth. The surface of a nearby eluvian ripples, but stills even while I watch.

I'm never alone.

# # #

Author's note: Thank you to all of you who've read this story and offered their favs, PMs, follows, comments and kudos. So often, writing is a solitary occupation, especially for this relatively obscure author of dark fantasy who often feels as if her novels plunge into the Abyss after publication. To know that you have enjoyed reading this fic has filled my heart with gladness. You have my deepest gratitude for having come this far.

"Ma Vhenan Suledin" was born out of my mixed feelings upon completing Trespasser. If and when I invest myself in another round of DA:I I suspect I'll probably step right back into the black hole that is the Solavellan romance. It's simply too delicious, however much anguish it causes me even to consider our sad elven apostate.