The Reign (Tarja)

They dragged her through the streets of Minrathous, her bare feet barely scraping the stone roadways. On every side of her the crowds screamed and threw flowers or rotten food. Andraste was too weak to lift her head even if she had wanted to; her lank and tangled hair curtained off her face and obscured her vision. She could not look at them, though she wanted to. Her heart was too heavy, and to look upon those that mocked and condemned her was to show them the love she had for them, and the forgiveness that she bestowed upon them even in her final hour.

She was blessed, because she stood in the face of wickedness and did not falter. Even as they shoved her against the rough wooden stake on the raised platform in the city center, she knew the Maker's will was written in her blood. She managed to lift her head and look upon them all: the corrupt, the ignorant, the just and unjust. The Maker filled her heart with pain and pity and a vision of the future. As she looked out upon them the sun shone and blinded her until she could truly see.

On the distant horizon stood the Black City; long had its shadowy gates haunted her dreams, and had of late begun to haunt her waking hours. Its towers were stained with blood and corruption; its gates were forever shut, and would open to no one. She listened for the voice of the Maker, for His reassurances and His blessings, but the heavens were silent. They'd speak to no one, not even her.

Andraste blinked and saw waves and sand; another land of freedom. Was this a dream within a dream? Was this the Maker's last gift to his earthly bride before demanding her sacrifice?

The vision faded into reality: the angry shouts, the screams, the sobs. So much pain. Maferath stood at the base of her podium, face grim and unreadable. She did not begrudge him this betrayal. She forgave him, as the Maker asked all to forgive. There was no hatred in her, even as the archon stuck the torch into the brush at her bound feet. There was only love, even as the flames leapt up around her.

Flames blazed and smoke choked her, and there was real, physical pain such as she'd never known possible. But still there was love inside of her. She screamed until her throat was raw and she could not breathe, only choke on the heat and smoke and pain and still: there was love.

Her only hope was that her cries might touch their hearts, that hers might be the last sacrifice. That love would shine free, forever. That her legacy would be one of peace and love and forgiveness.

Andraste's screams were more than Hessarion could bear. He watched her writhe against the chains that bound her to her pyre of shame. Her skin reddened and bubbled and grew black in places and though the smoke that billowed up surely choked her, she still would not die. Pity moved his heart and he drew his sword.

Her eyes were still open when he took a deep breath, approached the flames, and drove his blade though her heart. Her screams stopped; her eyes drooped. But in them was gratitude.

And love.

Always, love.