This was a bitch to write – fun, don't get me wrong, I love to write – but a bitch nonetheless. I wanted to challenge myself, so I wrote a bit differently than usual – at least in a few chapters. I hope you will enjoy this. If you are not familiar with my other stories, I'd recommend you at least read Redemption: an Awakening Tale. Otherwise some things might be confusing. In any case, enjoy! And I'd like to hear what you think, so don't be shy (criticism, too, but only if it is constructive, don't just write me and say it's horrible – at least tell me why you think so). ~artemiskat

I. MELISENDE

I feel like a doe wandering an endless forest. I am trapped. I munch on roots, berries, on any plant sticking out from the ground, anxiously biding my time. For I know that one day I will find a hunter's arrow lodged in my neck, piercing through my rough hide skin, and pouring forth my guts all over the forest bed, drenching the green brown floor with a pool of my tainted blood. The arrow will kill me, once and for all. The long, dark sleep of eternity will come for me. It is a sweet thought, a dreadful thought; I don't know which thought scares me the most.

Aldous taught me how to read and write. The kind, grey-bearded old man was in love with wisdom. He could recite the history of my family from before the founding of the kingdom. He knew every Cousland, their every deeds, their every misfortunes. He took great care of the scrolls and tomes gathering dust in the castle's library. Me, I'd always been more inclined to wield a sword in each hand, not a pen.

But that was before.

Mother called Aldous a sage. I never agreed with her before now. Back then, he was just my tiresome tutor, my jailer holding me back from the liberty of the castle halls. He droned on and on about things I did not really care about while I itched to play at swords, to take a swim in the stream by the castle. There was one thing that he said that, amazingly, I have not forgotten through all these trials I have faced. Aldous told me that writing could be a balm to any wound, a release of feelings better let free, lest they fester and boil the insides before erupting into a hideous, uncontrollable mess. Mother had given me a pack of bound vellum, all empty. I had been very cross, complaining to the poor old man about its uselessness.

"Why couldn't mother have given me something useful, like a sword?" I said with a pout, pushing away the book of empty pages. "Fergus always gets what he wants."

"A diary is a wonderful gift. The pages are empty, waiting for you to fill them with whatever you want. Imagine the possibilities." The old man said with a look of wonder on his face. I had ignored him then. But now…

An empty book, waiting to be filled is just what I need. There is no one I can talk to, nobody to confide in. I've no true friend left in the world. A million years ago there were many around me to confide in: mother, father, Gilmore, Alistair, Leliana, Wynne, Tristan, Anders, and even Zevran, among many others. Now, many of those faces are gone, nothing more than memories. People I will never see again in this lifetime. Others are far away and I'd be lucky to ever meet them again.

My grief is overwhelming me. The guilt is tearing at my heart. At times I find it hard to breathe. I just want to roar away everything that has happened. But I cannot do that. The past is unchanging, but the future is yet to be determined. And so I have turned to this empty book, before I do something I might regret, like turn instead to the wonderful world of ale and spirits.

I have done that before, after the Blight ended, when I saw a man I loved dearly marry a woman I admit I despised. Alistair and Anora. It had been too much for me. I came home and acted like a fool, undeserving to bear the Cousland name. I locked myself away and drank and drank myself into oblivion. Then, Tristan, my commander, my best friend, gave me a chance for redemption. I found it, though it almost went wrong when I found a Howe in the Grey Warden ranks. Nathaniel Howe, the son of the murderer of my family. But we came to an understanding for the good of the order, and then we became friends. Not long after, we became something more.

Now I have muddled all that. My best friend is dead and I have hurt more than one man in the processing of my grief. The hardest part is, one is oblivious to it all and the other is Maker knows where when he should be home, that stubborn elf. I have ruined everything.

I, Melisende Cousland, am a liar and a cheat, and the biggest fraud to walk Thedas.

Aldous, you fool, that was supposed to make me feel better. Yet all I want to do is drown myself in some ale and take a really long nap. I guess I need more practice, right old man?

Let this diary be my sword of truthiness, my escape from the mess I have created. It's not messy yet, but dire bunny, you know it will be. As my father used to say, rather fondly I like to think: where there's trouble, there's Melisende.