Let the blade pass through the flesh,
Let my blood touch the ground,
Let my cries touch their hearts.
Let mine be the last sacrifice.
Andraste 7:12
Magic courses through her veins, twisting, pulling, tearing at the Fade. Branwen laughs. Adrenaline and magic fill her with a reckless fury, ice and lightning dancing from her fingertips. Red Templars swarm her, and for a second, to her companions, it looked as though she'd be overwhelmed.
But then, they see that their worry is for nothing, and she's sending rogue Templars up in great gusts of flame and ash. She's everywhere at once, or so it seems, pulling Haven's inhabitants back from danger, defying death itself. Flissa is saved from a burning building, Threnn is rescued from lyrium-riddled warriors, Lysette protected from poisoned men. Minaeve and Adan are shielded from fire and Harritt saves his family hammer.
She is a deity of fury and revenge, blood-stained and righteous in her wrath. Not for the first time, Solas thinks that if she had been one of the People, one of the first elvhen, she would have been worshiped as Mythal had been, a goddess in her own right. Branwen is stained with blood and has ash in her hair and in that moment, she is the most beautiful thing Solas has ever seen in his life.
"Hey, Chuckles! Duck!" He barely has the chance to move out of the way before Varric has crossbow bolts–courtesy of Bianca–raining down like hail.
Bran glances around at her companions. Sera is tightening her bowstring. Vivienne is putting her healing skills to use with the injured soldiers. Varric is nursing a broken nose, Iron Bull and Blackwall are muttering heatedly about strategy with Cassandra; Solas is pacing, a frown marring his brow and Dorian is leaning against a pillar as though it is perfectly normal for a fucking Archdemon to drop out of the sky. Commander Rutherford motions for her to join him and Leliana–they're discussing evacuating Haven's refugees, if it's even possible at all. When Chancellor Roderick tells them of a secret way, a pilgrim's path, the Herald can see the flicker of hope in the eyes of her advisors.
"Cullen, can you get them out?" He nods.
"Yes." He pauses, brows drawing together. "We'll need time, though. Leliana," he addresses the spymaster. "Get people moving as quickly as possible. We need as many people out as fast as we can manage. Women and children and the wounded. My men and I – "
Branwen interrupts him. "No. I'll keep this–whatever the fuck it is–busy." Her eyes harden, as does her voice. "I don't know if this is an Archdemon–Maker, I hope it isn't - but if this boy is right…" She looks to where Cole kneels beside the chancellor. "If this thing islooking for me, if it'll buy you all time to get out safely, I can keep it busy. Grab its attention. Keep it from noticing you lot."
Her heart is pounding and her skin is going clammy but the words on every Trevelyan banner ring through her head. Modest in word, bold in deed.
The ex-templar shakes his head. "We can't risk losing you, Herald. You're the only one in Thedas who can seal the rifts, and if you die…" He trails off, distressed. Solas steps forward.
"I will go with her," The apostate sends a wolfish grin in Bran's direction. "Two mages are better than one, in my experience. And besides," he tilts his head to the side, a small smile playing upon his lips, "as I'm sure we all know, the Herald is not exactly known for her… Subtlety."
Branwen makes an indignant noise. "You wound me, ser," Her hand flies up to rest against her breast in mock offense even as a small smirk appears on her face. Dorian sniffs dramatically.
"I'm rather put out that you haven't asked me to come with, my dear. I do believe I'll join you. I find that I'm in the mood for wanton slaughter."
One by one, Branwen's companions come to stand beside her. It's nigh overwhelming for the young woman; these people, this ragtag group of apostates, rogues and warriors, in the span of a few short months, have become more of a family to her than her own ever was. She coughs, a pitiful attempt to dislodge the lump in her throat.
"Well, then," She looks to Cullen. "I'm sure I'll be fine."
He acquiesces reluctantly. "As you say, Herald." Bran winces at the title. It still feels false, a mask that will never, ever fit.
Leliana shares a glance with him, some invisible communication passing between the two. She turns and begins delivering orders in an unwavering voice as the commander walks with the Herald to the chantry doors. She's the last one out, and before she passes over the threshold, he catches her by the sleeve. "Herald–Branwen–could you do me a favor?"
She's startled by his use of her name, and nods. Cullen rubs the back of his neck, eyes landing on anything that isn't her. "Come back alive, would you?"
She laughs softly, a different, more serious sound than her typical jovial from-the-belly chuckle. "I promise nothing, Commander. I will try, though." She smiles and squeezes his arm as she passes by him, her touch burning through his clothes.
Cullen wonders if he's just sent Thedas's one hope to her death.
Branwen's cackles border on hysterical as she sets fire to the ground beneath Knight-Captain Denam, firelight reflecting off of the lyrium embedded in the monstrosity's flesh. Sera fires arrow after arrow–as does Varric–while a seemingly endless stream of corrupted Templars pours into the clearing. Blackwall's shield protects the two archers; Cassandra's keeps Branwen from harm.
The behemoth falls, flesh rent and smoking and blood dripping from mortal wounds. The group is allowed a moment of respite before a shriek rips through the air. A great shadow descends upon them. Dragon. Hello, gorgeous. Bran begins running. "Go, run, get back!"
Crackling flames spew forth from a gaping maw; a roar shakes the very earth beneath them. The fire–Liquid gaatlok, Bran later comes to describe it as–knocks them off their feet with an explosion that far surpasses the one that had followed the closing of the Breach. Her world goes white.
Bran's vision returns in increments, and she's pulling on the Fade and scrambling to her feet before it even registers in her mind that she's alone. Where are they?
The magister snarls and throws Bran. She hits the trebuchet–The distraction!–with a painful thud!. It feels like something in her chest snapped. How strong is this Corypheus? How am I supposed to fight this?
Copper floods Branwen's mouth as she bites back the scream lingering on her tongue. Her wrist aches where the darkspawn magister gripped her, the back of her skull throbbing from impact with the trebuchet. He–it–is talking, and she struggles to focus.
"… cannot suffer even an unknowing rival to live. You must die."
She sees a flare go up from behind the magister, and Bran edges towards the trebuchet's release. Keep talking, keep talking…! The creature before her seemingly does not notice. Her fingers wrap around the catch. A savage smile, more blood and bile than teeth, spreads across her face. "Your arrogance blinds you. Good to know."
She yanks on the trigger, and a boulder is launched directly at the mountain that towers over Haven. The magister and his dragon turn as one to follow its trajectory; it silently hits its target. Then, a low rumble begins. Bran takes the opportunity to throw herself off of the trebuchet. She's simply too exhausted to manage a Fade-step.
The rumble becomes a roar. Snow crunches beneath her feet. Cold seeps through her clothes. The roar is everywhere and everything, echoing in her bones. Bran finds herself wondering, Has the world always been this white?, and then –
Blessed, blessed darkness.