And Then There Were None

Their blood is on my hands. It's not physically there, but I can feel it, and no matter how many times I try to wash it off, it sticks like invisible gloves. I have to constantly remind myself that I was not one who caused the explosion at the conclave. I was merely the result. It's not my fault all those lives were lost. Yet, I wonder if this is just a lie to make me feel better about what happened?

What are the shem calling me now? A savior? I see the look of awe in their eyes as I walk past. The Herald of Andraste, they whisper. She stop the breach from growing. A savior? Are they insane?

Did I really go beyond what was expected of me? I did nothing. The accursed mark on my hand did all of the work. It closed the rifts. It stopped the breach from growing. I'm simply the vessel it chose to possess, even though that was a poor choice.

I can't see the blood, but the mark has made its presence known. A green glow emanates from my hand, and makes me believe a foreign spirit is trying invade my body. As the days go on, it's harder for me to see the hand that once healed the sick and tended to the halla. Night is the only time I can convince myself I'm still me. When the moon shines through the window, and I angle my hand in way to catch the light, and this effect creates iridescent glow on the mark. It is beautiful, multicolored, and nothing like I have seen before. Squinting, I can see past the light and barely make out the black silhouette of the veins in my hands. It's an odd sensation, but seeing something normal like this shows me I'm not a monster.

I have been in Haven for a week weeks now, and I find there are faces I'm starting to recognize. Leliana, the spymaster, doesn't talk to me much, only when she has something to assign me. She gives me strange looks whenever I talk to her. The Ambassador, Josephine, is one I like to avoid all together. She talks too much about little pleasantries that I'm just not in the mood for. I did speak to Commander Cullen once, and after that, I find his gaze lingers on me longer than it should. This is not a surprise. People have always looked at me like this.

I suspect it's because I'm an elf but I look nothing like one. Apparently, we're supposed to be pretty, but I have must that missed that. I have stringy, flat straw colored hair that sticks to my face. Even by elven standards, my eyes are far too wide. People often say I look like a stunned deer. My skin is tan, which is odd for someone who avoids sunlight. And cold has done nothing but hollow me out even more.

There's a dwarf, Varric. He likes to ask me how I'm doing. I pretend that I'm just tired. In fact, I even smile, lifting my hellish hand into the air and say stupid things like, I'd be a lot better if there wasn't a mark here. He'll laugh with me but I think he knows I'm lying. Thus far, I find that he's the only one I feel comfortable at least talking too.

An elf, (I think his name is Solas?), is the one everyone told me kept me alive after the conclave. I remember thanking him once. He doesn't talk much so I like to be near him. There was a time he told me I had a funny way of viewing the world. Well, for a Dalish. He said, "You do not seem particularly interested in talking about the ancient traditions."

"It's silly to talk about Dalish traditions when there's a hole in the sky," I reply. "And what do I care for what you or the rest of the world thinks of my people?"

I think he said some retort but I don't listen. After a while, I start to tuning people out. It's hard to describe, but I like to be around others as it distracts me from my thoughts. However, I don't want to converse. Too much talking leads to thinking. Too much thinking leads to memories of things I want to tuck away into a locked chest and plunged downwards into the darkest depth of the ocean.

But even that doesn't stop the voices in my head. Hundreds of them. They don't ever go away. And it's worse when I try to sleep.

They're quiet at first, but slowly, they get louder and louder, and start beating against my skull like a steady war drum. I toss and turn in my bed. I don't want to think anymore—I want my head to be empty, filled with nothing but blank thoughts. I just want all of it stop. This is when I sit up, in a complete panic, with my hands gripping the sheets, body sweating, breathing fast, and heart racing. Immediately, I get out of bed and sit down at my desk. I light a candle and start to draw. It may seem childish, but it keeps my mind distracted. After a while, I feel my heart slow down and my breathing becomes normal. My eyes start to droop.

I go back to bed and it starts all over again.

I can't explain why I am acting like this. Is it because, even though I'm ashamed to admit it, a part of me is glad to be alive? It's selfish to say that. However, I still can hear the snow crunch under my feet. I can still eat and enjoy the taste of food. I still get remember my brother holding my hand and the smell of fresh rain from my homeland. I still get to experience life while the dead do not. Then there's a part of me, the little tiny part where the voices live, that wishes everyone really did think I was guilty. I would deserve it because I am the one who survived. And they did not.

A/N:

A one-shot with my Inquisitor I played during dragon age. This story takes place literally in the beginning, maybe mere weeks after the Inquisitor resealed the breach and stopped it from growing. I haven't really written anything for about three years, so my writing isn't the best right now. Still, hoped you enjoyed it! Maybe. I dunno.

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