Leliana;

[leliana]

I waited for something, and something died
so I waited for nothing, and nothing arrived

She is glad Adna is gone.

She is glad that she doesn’t have to be here, to witness this.

Not that she knows what it is—at least not at first.

She doesn’t recognize most things these days, stirring just enough to put on a mask of happiness for her daughter but encouraging her to spend her time at the playground or even dropping her off at Tephra to spend the day exploring with Magnus. The golden stallion often gives her a scrutinizing gaze but doesn’t pry, has learned a long time ago that Leliana didn’t open up when such private hurts wounded her.

Such it is today, her scaled daughter off happily trailing the battle-scarred stallion and she standing by the river, exhausted eyes tracing the spot where she first met Vulgaris, where they came together again, standing chest to chest—the feeling of home. It is empty now, hollowed out, and although she knows that she shouldn’t punish herself by being here, she can’t find it in her to leave, can’t force herself to go.

It, like the scaled wings that curve around her growing barrel, a reminder of him.

The only thing, outside of their perfect daughters, that she has left to cling to.

She doesn’t even notice when the scaled woman makes her way toward her. Only stirs when her voice breaks through the silence. The words barely register at first, and although she feels a sting at the thought of someone enjoying happiness, she can’t bring herself to be resentful. “That’s wonderful,” she muses quietly, blinking as she drags her gaze from the spot near the river to the woman before her.

As the mare comes into more focus, it feels like a gut punch.

The same lines. The same features.

If it weren’t for the feminine curves, she could almost trick herself into thinking Vulgaris was walking up to her. But it’s not him and although that is partly a relief, she finds herself aching all the same.

An ache that turns into a bitter anguish when the name cuts through her fog.

“Shiya?” she repeats the name as if in a daze, brow furrowing, wondering at how just a few syllables can drag the edge of a blade so deftly across her throat. She can feel herself bleeding out, she thinks. This is what it’s like to die. She draws in a sharp breath against the pain and then forces herself to look into the other’s eyes, searching the depths of them for an answer to a question she can’t force herself to ask.

For a second she is quiet, processing the words that at first had passed over her so easily.

He’s happier.

He’s smiling.

We’re expecting.

She should feel anger, jealousy, anything, but all she feels is agony.

“Why are you here?”

it's our dearest ally, it's our closest friend
it's our darkest blackout, it's our final end

@[Shiya]