Leliana

The light through the windows is harsh, stark…terrifying. It gleams off of the white marble of the Hall of Justice in Val Royeaux. I walk toward the Divine's throne, hearing the echoes of my footfalls. Voices whisper in my ears, remnants of accents remembered.

I do not understand, I continue, driven to move forward, terrified that this dream will bring me what others have…knowledge that I do not want, truths that I cannot endure…death.

The light blinds me yet further and I lift my hand to shield my eyes. My throat is parched, skin dry, as though a desert wind blows against me. I grit my teeth and press forward, determined to see this dream to its end, for good or ill.

Though, if I am standing here, in the Divine's Hall of Justice, I cannot imagine that this dream will bring me any sort of comfort. Once, I called Val Royeaux my home. Now, it is a place of torments, both old and new.

As I approach the throne, the excruciating light bursts into a cloying darkness. The voices assailing my ears grow louder, though no more translatable than before. I blink away the darkness, attempting to find something to center myself.

A soft, golden light illuminates the throne and the figure standing there. I remember the waterfall of indigo hair, the glimmering silver eyes filled with ancient wisdom and grief.

Oh no…no no no no no. The Maker? Is this more than simple dream?

"What calls to you, my daughter?" the Maker speaks, and it is not in Salem's voice.

It is a voice that I have heard once before, in my first vision. Waterfalls of grief, flaming torrents of wrath, the deep roar of a dragon intermingled with the deafening crack of a glacier. It is the voice of a god and I fall to my knees, helpless to stand before the deity who has claimed me for her own.

Another shaft of light, this time a brilliant white, drifts down from the ceiling of stars, illuminating the tall, broad-shouldered form of Cassandra Pentaghast, fully outfitted in ceremonial armor. She turns to me and smirks, her full, crimson lips quirking upward in a look of utter disdain.

"The righteous stand before the darkness, and the Maker shall guide their hand." she intones, her solemn Nevarran accent grating against my ears. "Did you not once say these words, Leliana? Did you not once believe them? I am the righteous in the face of unfathomable darkness, and you have shown me nothing but enmity."

Cassandra? What in the name of all creation is this? I look to the Maker, hoping for illumination, for clarity, but her unnerving eyes betray no emotion, and look nowhere other than my countenance.

"You would consider yourself righteous?" I ask Cassandra. "You, who would have let your companions die, all for the sake of a mission debriefing! In what world is that righteousness!?"

"Tell me." Cassandra orders. "Once, you followed the words of the Chant of Light. You clung to Andraste's wisdom and your heart led you accordingly. You showed grace unto the poor, mercy unto the fainthearted, provided succor unto the ill, but never did you sacrifice more than was mandated, as is the Maker's wish. And now you have forsaken this path, and for what, Leliana? What has turned you from your faith?"

Is that true? I wondered, letting my eyes fall through my memories of my past. Could such terms describe me, in truth? So clinical…so cold…only giving what was demanded, and no more? Living according to a set of words penned and spoken by a woman who…who…failed? Surely…surely I was more…I remember my time at the Lothering Chantry as peaceful…was that because I did not truly live?

"I have." another pillar of light, cold and blue, falls from the sky.

It shines down on the form of a broken woman. Her wrists are chained with blood-colored steel, the crimson chains staked into the floor. She is dressed in rags, her body a latticework of scars in variegated hues.

Salem…

She looks so pale, so tormented, her strong, free spirit locked in a body that is chained to the ground, chained to her tainted blood. The scars on her body bear witness to the gravity of her sacrifice…all others would find her disfigured, ugly, but I…I have seen her endure every wound. I know their cause and their reason…and she is beautiful.

"The creature speaks?" Cassandra laughs, a bitter, harsh sound that echoes in the black austerity.

Still the Maker says nothing, standing between my heart and my duty, seeming oblivious to both. My skin seems to burn from the heated gaze of her eyes.

"I am the answer to your question." Salem replies, her voice low and pained. "I am the one who turned Leliana from her faith."

What!? No! Salem Cousland, seal your lips! You have done nothing but affirm my faith! You have done nothing but sacrifice, give of yourself, fight for those who do not have the way or the will, and you have taught me to do the same…realization strikes me like a blow to the face. Against all mandates set down by the Chant of Light. Maker's breath…Andraste's gospel is…cruel.

"At least you have the grace to not deny your crimes." Cassandra smiles, and it is that of a predator. She turns her cinnamon eyes to me, and they spark with a fanatical light. A light that once shone in my own gaze. "This is where you stand, Leliana. In the darkness, torn between the righteous, who trust the Maker to guide their hands, and that twisted abomination of magic and darkness who has stepped beyond our Maker's grace. Whom shall you choose, Leliana?"

I scrutinize the High Seeker. Her armor gleams, spit and polish, her bearing is impeccable, her profile noble. Every hair lies in place, smooth and shimmering like silk. She is everything that I once desired; all that once I aspired to. Grandeur, beauty, the trappings of importance.

I look once again to Salem, her battered body, the death sentence that she carries in her veins. She smells of copper, salt, and smoke…the scents of battle and death. Her hair is tousled and unkempt, her clothing the rags she mended a hundred times during the Blight. But her eyes are not the cold, metallic gleam of Cassandra's. There is such pain in the mesmerizing silver-blue, stories of hardships and scars and terrors unknown to man. Eclipsing that is her love…ever has it dwelt there, stronger than her swords, larger than her presence, more indomitable than her spirit.

Love. I caress Salem with my eyes; heart breaking as I realize I cannot free her from those crimson chains. Duty. I look back to Cassandra, the height of pride, the pinnacle of greatness…the Maker's chosen Seeker.

I look to the god who stands between then, daring to meet those silver eyes with my own.

"What calls to you, my daughter?" she asks again and I clap my hands over my ears, basking in the beauty of her voice even as the power of it causes me pain.

"You would give me the choice?" I ask, eyes torn between the triumvirate that splits my devotions. "You would ask me to choose between the woman who drew your eyes to me and the woman who stands for all that is goodness and truth, but who lives her life in a way that is reprehensible!? Moreover, would you even grant my desires, should I choose against your will!?"

"Is that not what humans have ever clung to?" the Maker questions, not unkind. "The hope of choice? Free will? Would you wish me to choose for you, Leliana of Ferelden?"

No! I scream, knowing that she can hear my thoughts. A thousand hells of no. But…panic infuses me as my eyes dart from Salem to Cassandra in an ever increasing frenzy…never have I been in control of my own life. How can I make this choice…

"I," Salem speaks and I watch her as she falls to her knees, brought low by her ever-tightening chains, "I will not fault you, dear heart. Follow the mandates of your heart. None shall take the power of choice from you," she repeats the words that she screamed at Cassandra the night the High Seeker came for me, "not even me."

"What shall it be, Leliana?" Cassandra demands, imperious, so different from Salem's gentle forgiveness.

I…I sink to my knees, confused and pained and so very, very afraid…I do not know…