div style="text-align: justify;"Alexius and his son left the room, so Mordred found herself alone with her fellow /
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Mordred remained motionless, her sword stuck in a crack in the stone, her face radiant covered with a mask of blood. Straight as a shaft, Mordred looked around for the look of approval from her companions. She scanned those grim and tired faces, searching their eyes for approval. Cassandra, who had remained at Blackwalls side, did not get very upset, too tense to let herself go, even if for a while. The grey warden instead seemed lost in analyzing the room, from how his eyes leaned curiously on the furniture, it seemed that he had never visited such a beautiful building. Such a curious attitude, certainly Mordred had often imagined the warden together with others of his rank to celebrate in the presence of lords in some pompous palace, yet Blackwall seemed completely lost. When he found Mordreds gaze he smiled, bending a corner of his mouth into a grimace and she puffed her proud chest /
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Her heart was throbbing frantically, her hands were trembling slightly, when she was yonguer she had never perceived so much emotion, the spasm at the end of the battle, the serene gaze of her companions, the joy of being able to finally rejoice free. She had won once more, she had taken the victory and brought it to herself as a mother does with the infant. It was hers and hers alone and the lust that had pervaded her, was now coming out painted on her face by a wide smile. She had not felt any fear when she had found herself together with Dorian projected in a distant time, because she knew that she could count on her companions and in finding them still faithful to her, although tired and sick, she had felt that flame becoming more and more /
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Here the companion concept was a concept foreign to her, outside of her uncle who had always treated her like a daughter teaching her the art of the sword and the pugna, she had never found others ready to fight at her side or willing to listen to her opinion. Instead they were there for her and with her, they had protected her, they had sacrificed themselves to allow her to win and they had never doubted. Certainly they were not always favorable to her choices, but they did not impose themselves, they did not crush her, they simply argued. They believed in her and knew that she could really paint the sky /
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The very idea that her own presence in the world would have changed its fate made her feel useful. Her father would no longer have to look away, leaving the room once she entered. She would no longer look softly at that mans shoulders, not anymore. His father would finally learn how his daughter was actually strong and skilled in battle. She had defeated Alexius, brought back some stability in Fereldem. He would have enjoyed, drunk on her health by treating her as an equal, while once again telling her story. He would even pass her the goblet dripping with beer, bringing to mind old war anecdotes, together like a real family. She would become that child she had always wanted to /
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Clutching the hilt firmly in her hands, so as to feel her skin twitch on the metal incisions and the knuckles turning white, Mordred rested her forehead to catch her breath. The blond hair fell to encircle her forehead, creating a veil over her eyes and concealing them from prying eyes. On the other hand, not even Leliana could have forgotten the bloodshot look of the Herald of Andraste. Hers must have been the face of a virgin of battle and not of a mad woman. How could she stay calm, though? The very idea of being able to please her father could have made her scream for hours and hours without stopping. When she had sent her on a diplomatic mission to guard her cousin and her uncle, she found herself unprepared and immediately thought that there were no other relatives to be assigned as the head of the guard. Her astonishment had been such that when her father had joined her in the family library, while she was reading a tome that her uncle had advised, she was staggered in her chair and had to exploit every bit of balance to avoid falling to land. The news had certainly left her stunned, but she had not felt any euphoria, certainly the mere idea of being able to spend more time with her uncle cheered her up, but she certainly did not see in that diplomatic mission that prominent opportunity that she so sought after, as said before she was certain that her appointment as head of the guard was linked to the absence of other /
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The pugna is not made only of iron and blood, many are the colors that paint it. You will have to be ready to face your enemies in fencing and words, her uncle Robert had told her, giving her a wide and sunny smile and ruffling her hair. A gesture that Mordred lacked, from many moons. When her mother passed away because she was ill, her uncle Robert had gradually gained her trust, first with small gestures. For example, he stayed outside her room every morning to wish her a good day. Robert realized that he had fully gained the girls confidence when, confined to bed due to a fever, he saw a confused and worried Mordred appear in the room. From that day on they spent more and more time together. He read stories to her, talked with her about the most heterogeneous subjects and combed her hair like her /
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Mordred squeezed her eyes tight, knowing what the image that would have appeared before her would have been. The body of her uncle, charred, dying. He told her to escape with a last faint sigh, while the soldiers surrounded her. She had led her uncle and her people to the council and survived, she had led them to death. Drops of blood dyed the stone, with a rhythm that was fast and then slower. She had injured her nose when Alexius had thrown her against the wall, not that it touched her much. She was used to pain, besides the nose was not broken at all, however the complete inability to breathe without being forced to emit noisy gasps irritated her. She tried to bring her mind back to brighter thoughts, because her uncle, seeing her so triumphant, would certainly have been torn between euphoria and fear and she would have just wanted to see him smile. When he disappeared she cried, aware that she had not protected him, but above all because she had not been allowed to attend the funeral. She had not been allowed to say goodbye to the remains, no reminder had been left to her and so she had arranged herself by building a small altar, just for him. Every night before bedtime she combed her hair looking at the mirror resting on the altar and in doing so she sang one of her uncles favorite tavern songs that he often sang to let her sleep,/div
div style="text-align: center;"emMakerbr /
Have you left me here/embr /
emTemplebr /
Sacred Ashes/embr /
emTragicbr /
Mark upon our land/em/div
div style="text-align: justify;"once finished, she placed it at the side of her uncles painting and thanked him. It was not the Creator thanking, in her mind she imagined that the hand moving between her long golden hair was her uncles. Now all that was left was her father, the battle that had just ended was a mere consolation of what had already been lost. After all, however, she had something to /
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As if she had been shaken by a spasm, the images of the battle followed one another in her head so quickly that they seemed blurred. She needed to think of something else, an escape from that dark room where her mind had hidden. In renewed strength and with the memory of the battle just ended, the breath, which had resumed a calmer rhythm, became rapid again, like that of a runaway stallion. She would not have failed to embroider here and there in her story, of her wounds and of how, despite the fact that her blood had started to run, despite her glance had become vitreous, she continued to hold her sword firmly in her hands. She might even have written a book, Varric could have helped her and who knows she could have drawn the illustrations herself. There was more to that victory, something she had longed for. There would be no more face to face with her, her father would have kept his head high, he would have looked her straight in the eyes like a real man and he would have loved her. He would have been proud to point to her as his daughter, she would no longer be the son who was never born, the heir to unwanted femininity. And then even her uncle could find /
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She looked up slightly, the braid of hair that crowned her head lowered a little, a few tufts left their ranks, fleeing here and there, first on the seraphic face and then on the shoulders, while the mane of long golden hair gushed from the center of the neck. She pushed her head away from the iron, inhaling noisily with her nose, feeling the taste of blood and mucus in her mouth, but she also perceived another taste. Something she knew well: fear. Fear of not being loved, of having yet another failure. With her eyes closed, still hidden by the fringe of her hair, Mordred wondered if her desires would really be fulfilled, if defeating Alexius would be enough to re-evaluate her name. Dorian approached her, that man had taught her how many falsehoods had been said about the Tevinter. He had proved to be a priceless ally, even a friend. Mordred had always carefully weighed the words and was not lacking in intellect in defining Dorian as a friend of her. Although he had leaned against her for a short time in battle and he was surprising speaker /
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- Well, Im glad it ended in the best way. - Dorian took a break, steps of soldiers invaded the room. As drums of war, they grew stronger and closer and closer. One by one the soldiers of the royal escort entered the room. - or not..br /
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Mordred remained motionless, unable to think linearly. With mechanical moves she turned the sword knob on her palm, then thrust the blade into the case on her back. The weight of the weapon helped her regain an upright posture. The hero of Fereldem would finally see it. She knew her, she had admired her deeds and had even met her several times with her mother. When her life was still that of a girl, the queen of Fereldem had visited her, or better said, had brought her regards to her family. She was a young woman of extraordinary beauty, tall, sinuous, her bronze hair well kept in a bun, her voice calm and wise. That seraphic face carried some of Mordreds best memories with her mother. At that time, she hadnt found the words to even ask her a question, but now the outstanding questions were a lot and Mordred wanted nothing more than to be able to compare. She would have challenged her in a battle of witty observations and profound reflections. How she could sustain the death of her own dear, how she had managed to find love in such dark times, what she had tried to carry such a burden on her shoulders. Mordred bent in a polite manner, they had taught her at an early age what were the right moves to turn to the rulers. With her head bent, Mordred peeked, to find only two large boots. Male shoes and certainly not worthy of a queen. Without having received any consent, she brought her head up to meet the sole glance of /
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The voices that she had been able to doze all over the battle exploded in laughter as the king turned his gaze elsewhere. He conversed with increasingly bright tones with the first enchantress, regardless of her. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. She heard himself called, she could hear hysterical laughter in her head. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. It was not possible, she had not failed, not this time, not before the king. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. So why didnt he speak to her, where the thanks were, where the words of comfort, but above all where she was. She could feel the anger growing, the blood growing thicker in her mouth, she could not forgive him, she could not forgive any of them. That the wizards had hid the hero of Fereldem, where she was, how she could continue to fight without knowing what to do, what to feel. Was it right to wake up in the evening, hot and frightened with a boulder on her chest? Was it right not to be able to sleep pursued by thoughts of death? Was it right to crave the caresses of a man once a servant of the Creator alone?br /
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Mordred reached the conclusion of being trapped and in doing so she let the anger speak for her, the wizards turned out to be traitors. She would never have helped them knowing what they were passing on, they had taken the trouble to conquer Redcliffe, to spit on the kings face and once again to get them to hold a complete and not lame victory in their hands. It had been theirs,not her fault. /
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- The Inquisition needs magicians. - Mordred turned a steady and icy gaze on the sorceress, hoping that the latter would not /
- And what would be the terms of this agreement? - once again, she forced herself to remain calm. Simulating a peak of fatigue, she scratched her nose between her fingertips. Actually what she was thinking about was how nice it would be to close her hands around that small, dull /
-Certainly better than those proposed by Alexius,- Dorian answered. - because the Inquisition is better than him, right? - again she found herself at a crossroads betraying her honor or a friend who had just been conquered. Which was the right choice? Perhaps little was left of right and wrong, but the idea of dismissing Dorian saddened her. She had never been selfish in her life, yet the anger she felt was throbbing in her hands was leading her to paths never traced. In search of comfort she turned to her companions, finding nothing but opposite ideas, if for Cassandra the magicians had to be checked for Blackwall they had to be treated as allies. Allies? Mordred let out a lopsided smile, the very idea causing her acute attacks of vomit. Now anger was subsiding, giving way to pure despair. In her most intimate dreams she had hoped to see the hero of Fereldem speak to her wiping away the web of thoughts of her mind. Still turned off, Mordred turned her gaze to the emptiness beside the king and he in return seemed to darken. He seemed to suffer from the absence of his wife and the reasons were very obvious, after all he loved her. Love, a feeling foreign to Mordred if not bound to the family environment. How could she understand it? could the desire she felt turning to Cullen be defined as such? Sighs, blushes, that spasmodic search for contact even for a few /
- You and your people are no longer welcome in my lands. - from the emptiness around the king, Mordred returned the attention to the latter. The turn had suddenly /
It was clear that the only solution was to keep the wizards under the inquisition. Her cousin had come to the conclave to put an end to the abuses to which his peers were subjected, but he knew in his heart that magic could be too dangerous. So what to do. Silence fell in the room, she was the one who had to decide which plate to sit on. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. The voice called her again and she was out of breath. Her head would burst, she just wanted a little air, a few seconds to be alone. All that desperation, that sense of slippery defeat and betrayal were lapping her piece by piece. She just wanted her uncle next to her who could shake her hand, she just wanted to be comforted and cradled. She just wanted the Hero of Fereldem to tell her that she had been able to accomplish her /
- You will surrender and you will submit to the inquisition - those words sounded so strange from her mouth, it didnt seem like her voice. No, it looked like something else to have her talking. In the enchanted look of the enchantress, Mordred found her cousins, he seemed betrayed. But they needed protection, control, they certainly couldnt..br /
- We shouldnt have accepted the magisters help, but ... - the sorceresss voice seemed to break in two. She had betrayed them, but they had done the same . Mordred. It wasnt her fault, she wasnt the real traitor Mordred. span style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. Shit, she wouldnt be able to shut her up. If on the one hand Mordred tried with all her strength to silence the voices that continued to call her frantic, at the same time she tried to quiver the desire to hit the first enchantress. The way she insisted on wanting to talk, to look for a confrontation that she would never /
- The sky is open. We are all in danger - she raised her voice a few tones, wanting to put an end to that useless conversation. - there is no more room for failure. We cannot close it without you, but we would be foolish in putting any trust in itbr /
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Once again a heavy silence fell. While Alistair continued with his monologue, everyone looked at her with eyes of mercy or disapproval. The only eyes that Mordred saw, however, were those of her cousin, the face of those who have been dead for weeks, greenish skin, glazed eyes. He was talking to her, begging her to let him style="font-size:8px"Mordred/span. Wasnt that what he had always wanted? Freedom from the Templars and the Circle, the inquisition would have offered more to the magicians, they would no longer have to rebel. If it was really what he wanted why he was staring at her, he was pointing her, he was crying. The wizards were a threat, they had betrayed all of them, how could he not understand it. Mordred. Her movements became mechanical, her voice completely missed. Mordred. He could not have lost, not entirely. So why span style="font-size:16px"Mordred./span span style="font-size:20px" /
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- Thats enough!br /
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Lying on the bed, Mordred let out a scream. She was out of breath, her cheeks were red as if she had spent the night crying. Her memories were confused, she remembered dragging herself out of the room, nothing more. She levered her arms to get up, the battle horn had been placed on the chair, the boots flung to the ground in a confused way. Her long golden hair was loose to form waves on her back and on the sheets. Someone knocked on the door, her emerald eyes darted into the room, but tired and tired they did not find the strength to force themselves to find the brush or a mirror. Thus, fatigued and deprived of all enthusiasm, Mordred levered her knees . Perhaps she had woken Vivienne from her sleep of beauty, certainly she would soon show up at her door to remind her that the Templars would have been the most appropriate choice. Perhaps Sera with gifts of all sorts and forms, ready to celebrate the capture of the magic threat. With one hand on the knob of the door and the other to caress her hair Mordred opened and that sight made her turn pale and immediately /
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- Are you OK? - Commander Cullen was at her door and she had loose hair, broken fingernails and a probable cerebral hemorrhage in place. She looked away, wandering into the interior hall of the /
- Im sorry I bothered youbr /
- I wasnt bothered, I was worried - Cullen, who was leaning against the door with his palms, stepped /
- Ah. - she spontaneously caressed her hair with greater insistence, unable to calm herself. - I am fine, thank you. It was just a bad /
- I understand what you are talking about, when the Circle was besieged we Templars were forced to torture of all sorts, terrible visions haunted me for many moons. If I can ever support you, come and talk to me. - with a nod of the head he greeted her and made the act of leaving. - Ive never seen you with loose hair, its very beautiful. - Before she could even answer, Cullen disappeared without turningbr /
- I was hoping that two awkward lovers would be enough for a whole life - Mordred didnt understand if Lelianas words were addressed to her or simply to herself. She closed the door and leaned her head against the wood, just a little, the time for a sigh. A few seconds to accept being awake. She turned to the bed and collapsed again on it to help put on her boots. She had thought that this brief conversation with Cullen had been her reward. Although she still had a strong sense of unease, there was not much more to do. She had chosen the help of the magicians, she had obtained it or rather conquered it, but if this had been enough to close the sky, then it would have been enough to compensate for every unhealthy emotion she had felt. When she finally felt free, she opened the door and strode to her co-workers. Maybe her choices hadnt been the wisest, but the sky t have closed by itself. Only she could save the whole world, she the Herald of Andrastebr /
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