"Burn it."
She had given the order. She watched the archers launching the fire arrows into the wood supports, bales of hay, anything flammable and the city of Amaranthine, the jewel of the Arling, burned. How many were trapped still alive inside the city? Not many, they told her. The city was lost, everything they said confirmed her fears when they arrived. Blighted, nearly everyone dead. Tactically it was sound. Cut this part of the darkspawn army off... The fort must be saved. Varel...
Retrospection was bad. Very bad. There was only really one way to turn it off. She poured herself another glass of brandy. Back into the mists, the moments of sobriety were becoming thankfully sparse. The rocking of the ship lulled her back into her reverie.
Varel, standing at the broken front gates to the Keep. Leading the charge that wasn't behind him. The enormous, plate armored ogre that picked him up and pounded him, smashed him like a child's toy. And she... her feet frozen. She just watched, unable to move. Why? She might have been able to reach that ogre and get him out of its grasp before it squeezed the life out of him. But she froze. When she finally got to him, the medic couldn't do anything. He died, his blood pooling over her hands. That stain that would never wash out.
She wanted to vomit. Her head always hurt as hangover merged into drunk and back again.
Another lover killed by her choices. That's three now, isn't it? Dairren, Alistair, now Varel.
The Grey Wardens wanted a report, of course. It hadn't been a friendly summons. They sent it with the man who would be replacing her while she was gone, probably permanently. Mistress Woolsey was going to step into Varel's shoes. She was to go to Antiva, the Grey Warden's compound there. And she would be explaining much. Why she burned the city of Amaranthine. Why she allied with the Architect. She knew there would be questions about her motives, about her relationship with Varel.
She poured out more brandy and slammed it down her throat. The burning felt good, it felt like the hand of divine retribution that should scourge her. It felt good to be away from the recriminations of the vassals. "Why did you burn the city? Why didn't you save my farm? Where were the troops when my family was being murdered by darkspawn?" There was no Varel there to prompt her. No Varel to twine her arms around at night and feel sheltered by his wisdom and warmth. It was like standing on a platform in the town square, naked, having every mole and blemish exposed to public scrutiny.
"They will tear you apart just as eagerly..." Wynne had told her after the archdemon, reminding her of the fickleness of public opinion.
Wisteria toasted Wynne, "And so they did", she spoke to her imaginary friend. "Just as you said they would." She grimly toasted Wynne's sage warning.
Even before the final darkspawn assault she learned how much some of her vassals hated her. They organized a rebellion of the commoners and attempted to kill her in her own keep. Only Varel had pushed her aside and the arrow had lodged in his arm. That time she didn't freeze. She launched herself at the attacker and all the assassins hiding behind columns in the hall. All the assassins and conspirators died. But seeing Varel hit tore her inside. She couldn't keep him safe. Maybe it was that self-doubt that caused her to freeze at the front gate.
Grey. That's what she wanted. The grey of unconsciousness, maybe even the black of death. What would it matter if she nipped off to the Deep Roads a few years ahead of schedule?
Finally the brandy delivered her to the only place she could find peace now.