It was a fool's gamble. Lavellan knew that before she proposed it -- there was nothing to guarantee her safety, no chance of a grand rescue by the remnants of the Inquisition, and many ways for it to go wrong. Someone could kill her, the obvious plant, and she'd never get close enough to Solas to make it worth it. But she'd grown sick of dreams haunted by his presence and yet always gone when she turned, of the heavy weight of fear that she might fail in her quest to change his mind. Saving Thedas requires saving Solas, pulling him back from an end that will no doubt destroy him. Her heart will not let her entertain what her mind knows to be true -- that saving Thedas may require her to kill him if she cannot.
So she does what he should expect by now: the unexpected, and joins his ranks. Lavellan means to be discovered, means to be dragged before Solas so that he can deal with her himself. Risky and foolish and more likely to fail than to succeed, but what choice does she have?
I think I would have preferred a knife, Lavellan thinks, in the moment between consciousness and unconsciousness, blackness swimming over her vision before she falls. The surprise doesn't fade when she begins to come to, half expecting in that last wavering moment to have met a rather unfortunate and, honestly, underwhelming end.
Batting away the burlap from her face, Lavellan groans as she struggles to sit, head still swimming. "You really know how to show someone a good time," Lavellan mutters, trying to squint against the dappled light, made too bright by being throw into a sack and that little matter of being unconscious. At least she's not dead -- even as the figure in front of her blocking out the light wavers and solidifies into a shadow that is hauntingly, achingly familiar.
![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
timeasmymeasure
no subject
Date: 2017-03-05 11:56 pm (UTC)So she does what he should expect by now: the unexpected, and joins his ranks. Lavellan means to be discovered, means to be dragged before Solas so that he can deal with her himself. Risky and foolish and more likely to fail than to succeed, but what choice does she have?
I think I would have preferred a knife, Lavellan thinks, in the moment between consciousness and unconsciousness, blackness swimming over her vision before she falls. The surprise doesn't fade when she begins to come to, half expecting in that last wavering moment to have met a rather unfortunate and, honestly, underwhelming end.
Batting away the burlap from her face, Lavellan groans as she struggles to sit, head still swimming. "You really know how to show someone a good time," Lavellan mutters, trying to squint against the dappled light, made too bright by being throw into a sack and that little matter of being unconscious. At least she's not dead -- even as the figure in front of her blocking out the light wavers and solidifies into a shadow that is hauntingly, achingly familiar.
Well, it's nice to know her plan worked.