#received.

areina's memory of the fifth blight was mottled by childhood & distance, having been a young teenager & far enough from the epicenter of it to not see the destruction firsthand. she knows, of course, of what blights are. how terrible they can be, & that the title grey warden is something like a great equalizer -- & a great death sentence. the inquisitor had heard rumors of leiliana having traveled with the hero of ferelden, of said hero being dalish in origin. but still, it is a surprise to see idrilla mahariel in front of her.

Thought you guys might appreciate this gift my grandfather received. (US flag + His Naval Squadron)

two years. two years of wondering what she'd done, what had made things change so quickly. two years of bare-faced embarrassment, doing her best to clear her mind of someone who seemed to have not only painted murals on the walls of skyhold, but in the walls of her skull, too. two years of wondering if it was really him in her dreams, or some far-flung hope of her subconscious.

& it has been months of her arm deteriorating, lightning bolts up her bloodstream & that horrid brunt-flesh-ozone smell of magic rot. areina remembers that, somehow, it had been solas who'd kept her from dying the first time. perhaps, had he not vanished so wholly, she could once again be helped. (more than that, she wants to know that he is alive & well. perhaps she is hopeless, since her heart still laid broken, & she can't bring herself to be bitter.)

as usual, everything has gone to shit. qunari are trying to attack the inquisition, using eluvians of all things; orlais & ferelden are both pissed with her. her arm is rotting, her heart is broken, & now this. first, she'd simply been so relieved to see him, blind to what the surroundings might imply. & then, the truth, naked & ugly & gutted like a half-butchered animal. areina had realized, from the murals & the notes she'd found, the gist of it -- that the great dalish boogeyman was no such thing. that alone was earth-shattering. but to know that all the events since the temple were ultimately his fault? she's still trying to comprehend it all.

& then, in the midst of explaining himself. nothing prepared me, he says. her eyes betray her, prickling & watering as he continues.

"so you left." it isn't a question. "i still can't understand why. if ... if you hate this world so much -- i am of this world. it was a lie, then? how much of it?" is she truly so foolish as all that? so blinded by his smooth words & rare praise that she couldn't see how thin it all was? the tears escape, though her expression doesn't budge from the practiced neutrality he watched her acquire.

"it was not enough that you marked my hand, you had to do the same to my heart?" a huff of sardonic laughter, more bitter with her own foolishness than anything he had done. "you already had them both, vhenan. even if i do not have yours." is it not humiliating enough that she sits on the ground, clutching her fade-rotted arm in the dull pain that still tears at her sinews? must her still-rent heart be shattered anew?

green eyes narrow, teeth grinding together. is that a serious question? she scoffs, pushing heavy waves away from her face out of habit moreso than necessity. sure, it's been about a year & a half now, since the ... well, everything. most of the scars have healed up on the outside, barring the burns on her shoulders. but it isn't as easy as that. she can't cave in the skull of her own memories. not only does she not still have daniel's weapon, the memories don't really have skulls.

it's the one thing horror movies never quite mention: maybe the minotaur is dead, maybe she's out of the labyrinth, but she can't stop thinking of alternate routes through the walls. it irritates her, like a pebble in a shoe. she ought to be over it. she won. & yet.