"But he who dies in despair has lived his whole life in vain."
~Theodor Adorno
Not long, now. The stars whirl above him, darkness his one true companion. Never has it abandoned him, even as he goes beyond the comfort of mortal hunger and thirst. He closes his eyes, blackness pooling behind his eyelids, and the slightest uplifting of his lips indicates a smile. Soon, he'll be gone. Gone to the ultimate mystery, the place beyond death.
He hopes that he'll meet Hawke there, and that if he does it will have been a precious gift beyond his wildest dreams. But he doesn't expect to; he knows that he's not worthy enough to go wherever Hawke has gone. Hawke was a hero, a martyr to the people of Kirkwall. He's but Hawke's elven companion, insignificant, unmentioned, and unloved.
That isn't true; Hawke loved him. But he has no one now. The others, Varric, Aveline, Isabella, they're all gone. Ghosted away into legend and vanishing in the corporeal world. It hurts, all over, to think of them, but he doesn't mind as much as he did before. Pain is nothing new. He's beyond it.
They tried to comfort him in the scant seconds he had allowed them before they had scattered, taking their own paths to deal with their grief. He had spurned them, even lashed out, but here in his quiet vigil as he wisped into death, he appreciated it. Happy memories, happy times. Hawke. They spin around him, his mourners at his funeral. He's warm, comfortable. Blissful.
He sleeps.
The roots shift under him, seeking, pulling. He's heard stories of the fey things forests can do, and he's happy. The forest's going to absorb him, and it comforts him to perhaps think that his soul will nurture a tree or flower. He's pulled under, where his friend Darkness awaits. He smiles his weak smile, a smile that no one will ever see or acknowledge.
Cool fingers. Chill and pale, snow and fire. Black tendrils, drifting across white gauze, silver silk. The personification of the forest peers at him with the greenest eyes he's ever seen, and he's touched at the concern in them. He appreciates the forest cares for him, enough to channel its powers into an illusion of comfort, but wishes that it would leave him alone, now. He's ready to let go.
More drift into existence, their approach silent. Beautiful, specters of the forest, but lacking the luster of the being before him. The chill fingers turn probing, and he lets out a small breath, a gasp, all the energy he can spare. It hurts, and he retreats further into the darkness.
Elven words, a soft tongue. Musical. He closes his eyes, unable to understand, but hearing nevertheless.
Harel Fen! Loud, ringing. Too loud. It hurts his ears. Then, closer, softer, as if in confidence,
Na shiral suledin uth vir reth. Halam mahvir.
He ignores it. He wants his end, impatient now. He's lifted as darkness sucks him further downward at the same time, and the sensation is disorienting, overwhelming. He releases his hold on the world, cutting his bonds to the existence that had brang him so much pain.
He's free.