Once again, I've taken a look into the mind of a PC who's had to make one of the most gut-wrenching decisions in the game. The decision left my stomach in knots, and this story is my way of working it out. I've also given a nod to the only companion who does not judge the PC for many of the decisions s/he is forced to make. My thanks to those of you who've read, reviewed and put me on your favorites lists. Those things mean more than you know.
Shiara jammed her towel into her mouth and grabbed her knees attempting to roll herself into an even smaller ball of misery. What had Alistair and Leliana expected? Killing a child was unthinkable, but using blood magic? The very magic that had corrupted the Golden City and birthed darkspawn? The corrupted, foul magic of the Tevinter Imperium? The magic that enslaved people's minds and killed slaves by the hundreds? The magic that had twisted itself into Cullen's mind and tortured him until he was a bare shadow of the man he'd been? The magic responsible for the deaths of almost every child in the Tower? No! That had never been an option, and Jowan should have kept his suggestions to himself. He knew her better than that. Blood magic was no solution. Alistair had said it himself, two wrongs don't make a right.
Muffled sobs shook her body as she wrestled with the agony of what she'd had to do. What on earth did Alistair think the Templars were going to do with a mage child who'd already been possessed? At best, they would have made him tranquil. At worst, they'd have killed him. Shiara always prepared for the worst. Did they really think this was easy? Did they think that duty had no price? Did they truly believe she felt nothing as Isolde pleaded for her son's life?
She had maintained her customary self control; mages lacking in control were short lived in the Tower. Only Zevran, skilled as he was at reading people, had seen the shadow of agony pass over her face as she looked down into Isolde's tear-stained face. "What if it were your son?" Her son, the son the Chantry had taken from her, possessed? Violated? Her dark-haired boy with his mind under the sway of a demon while he knew what was happening? Her blue-eyed child destroyed?
She bit down on the towel and tried desperately to breathe. There were too many questions, too many insupportable possibilities, too many agonies. She heard Calen whine at someone who'd approached her tent, and she held the towel against her mouth more tightly in an attempt to further silence the sobs trying to escape her. She'd heard no footsteps, but that didn't mean there were none to hear. She had been too busy trying to keep herself from being torn apart to listen for footsteps. The tent brightened briefly as someone parted the flaps and entered. A hint of spice and leather made its way across her face. Zevran said nothing. He simply lay down behind her, curling around her body protectively and putting one hand over hers as it desperately gripped the towel muffling her crying.
She uncurled just a bit.