•◊•
Spirit of the air, lift my essence quietly,
So high above that gathering, and from this cold world be borne.
Your song will be my guide, if it please thee that I might spend eternity at your side.
•◊•
As I traveled, south and east, toward the Ferelden Valley, the weather turned bad, and frigid winds blew from the south. I had always considered the Spirits to be my friends, but there were times in those early days when air was an enemy to me, one I feared above all else. He chapped my skin and parched my throat. leaving me with a thirst it was difficult to fully quench. He stung my eyes and forced me to turn away as I squinted through the hand I put up to shield my face. His icy fingers snaked through the rough weave of my clothing, which had grown threadbare during my travels.
This last discomfort, at least, was eased when I stole a cloak from a woman in Nevarra. She was a friendly woman, with plump arms and ruddy cheeks, a woman who worked the earth, who toiled and struggled and sweat for the life she had scraped together. And I stole from her, without a second thought. I snuck away early in the morning, having enjoyed the hospitality of her warm fire, and hot stew in my belly, and a rough blanket over my legs while I slept near the hearth. I snuck away with her warm cloak wrapped around me, a garment that had taken months to weave and was probably intended to last the rest of her life.
Now, I suppose others would say the woman was blessed. That her hovel was a holy place where the Chosen One had slept. That this god they have come to worship would smile on her, filling her life in the next world with pleasures, by virtue of the fact that her cloak warmed the shoulders of his prophet.
I have no doubt, however, that when she awoke on that autumn morning, she had naught but curses for the woman who had stolen away with a serviceable garment, two loaves of freshly-baked bread, and a hunk of white cheese.
I don't regret it, though. I did what was needed to survive.
In spite of the cloak, as I drew closer to the Waking Sea, the cold seeped through to my skin, and I knew I would not survive once the snows began to fall. I was fast approaching Emerius, but had no desire to seek shelter there. It seemed unlikely I would remain at liberty long in that city. The Magisters in Emerius were, by all accounts, even more corrupt, more out of control than those in Tevinter.
Emerius was the center of the Imperium's study of blood magic. Mages who lived underground worked tirelessly to unlock secrets that were surely never meant to be unlocked. Blood magic was rampant, the blood of hundreds, perhaps thousands of innocent slaves spilled each year to further these efforts. The tunnels beneath the city literally ran red with the blood of murdered slaves.
No, Emerius was no place I wanted to go. Not until I was ready to lay waste to everything the Tevinters had done there.
So, given a choice between taking shelter in Emerius through the winter or freezing to death, I chose a third option. The Deep Roads would take me into the Ferelden Valley, at least that's what I had heard, so I made my way through an ancient metal gate, and followed a dank tunnel that reeked of age far beneath the earth.
The Deep Roads were like nothing I could have imagined. A vast network of tunnels carved by dwarves out of living rock. It was obvious that the Blight which had so recently raged on the surface had affected those below the ground, as well. Remains, moldy and skeletal, littered the passageways away from the cities the dwarves called "thaigs." And navigating underground was nearly impossible. It was difficult to keep my bearings, to know which direction was which, to decide which tunnels would take me where I wanted to go.
Food, too, was scarce. I had brought with me as much as I could carry, things I had stolen, mostly: apples from barrels in barns that were untended at night, as well as potatoes and onions and carrots. But these things went quickly, and I had to sustain myself on what I could find underground. Occasionally, I came across bands of dwarves who could be persuaded to part with some of their provisions for a bit of coin, or other favors. Mushrooms were relatively easy to find, and meat turned out to be plentiful, once I became so hungry I overlooked my disgust of the creatures who stalked the underground, and forced myself to sample their flesh. They were strange, reptilian things that walked on hind legs and chirped like birds, but had horrible maws that gaped with pointed teeth. Cooked to a crisp, the meat was surprisingly palatable, although to be honest it was never something I would crave once I left the Deep Roads. And, fortunately, it was easy enough to keep my water skin filled, from fountains of dwarven construction that appeared to operate by magic, continually providing streams of the freshest, most delicious water I had ever tasted.
So, sustenance was available, but it was still not easy to provision myself, and some days I spent more time trying to feed myself than I did traveling. I had nearly decided to give up, to throw myself upon the mercy of the next band of dwarves I saw traveling, and beg them to help me find a way aboveground, anywhere at all. I no longer cared.
But then I heard it.
Singing.
Faint at first, but so compelling that I began to move in its direction without being fully aware that's what I was doing.
Singing.
It grew stronger, and more and more beautiful, and though I drew closer and closer, I could not identify its source. It hardly seemed that one person's voice could carry through rock and stone the way this voice did. I sensed that I was still far away from it, and yet I could hear it clearly, almost as though I was hearing it with my mind rather than my ears.
Singing.
I followed it deeper and deeper into the earth, not caring that I was being taken ever farther from the surface. I knew not if I was moving toward or away from Ferelden, toward or away from anything resembling civilization, toward or away from any life I had ever known. Then again, the lives I had known reeked mostly of slavery and servitude and the yoke of constant unspoken threats. Certainly nothing so appealing that the thought of finding something entirely new seemed a bad thing.
Down I traveled, meeting nothing along my way other than a few stunted creatures with withered skin and grinning mouths filled with pointed teeth, stinking of a darkness I had never smelt before. Darkspawn, I supposed, who were easily dispatched with spells. There were spiders as well, but their signs were easy enough to recognize, and avoid. I saw no dwarves, and certainly no other humans.
Finally, I reached a place that was different than the roads I had traveled to get here. The architecture changed, no longer the blocky, geometric designs favored by the dwarves, but something else entirely. Graceful columns that stretched upward, images carved on their capitols. There were statues here, as well, a multitude of statues which were unlike those of the dwarven Paragons I had seen in the Deep Roads above.
Lyrium was here in abundance. Veins of blue ran through the rocks, as well as huge crystals which poked out of rocky outcroppings, illuminating the vast spaces with their cold, watery light. But there was something else here, something I had never seen before. Something I can only describe as red lyrium. It, too, grew out from the rocks, its glowing red tendrils snaking up around the columns, like the bloody roots of some ancient, injured, unholy tree. It gave off a glow that looked sinister, causing everything nearby to appear tinged with blood. It had magical power at least equal to that of the blue, perhaps even surpassing it. And there was something about its appearance - the way it almost seemed to grow in an organized fashion - that made me wonder if it hadn't been cultivated intentionally. The place had the look of a garden that had been allowed to go to seed. Yet it left me feeling uncomfortable, unclean almost, and I did my best to avoid coming near it.
Everywhere I could smell the traces of magic, and see the wonders it had wrought. But how was that possible? Surely, this was built by dwarves - no other people had ever lived beneath the ground, as far as I knew - but dwarves had no magic, had no ability to access the Fade. So, what was this place?
There were no darkspawn. No inhabitants of any kind. It was an eerie feeling, as if I were the only person left in all the world. For all I knew then, I might have been the only person left. Perhaps the Magisters had discovered a way to destroy the rest of creation, and I was the only one to survive, safe here, beneath the ground. It didn't seem like the worst possible fate.
Here, the singing was, strangely enough, more clear than ever before, but softer, as well. Not the blaring sound I had expected, considering how far away I was when I first heard it. But it was gentler now, calmer. Almost as though it knew I had nearly arrived, and had no more reason to call loudly to gain my attention, or twist itself into seductive strains to bring me close. I had come, and I would find it, and we both knew the finality, the eventuality of that. Nothing would deter me from finding the source of the singing now, even if it fell entirely silent.
It did not fall silent, though. It continued, and I followed, and finally I found myself in a room with a vast staircase leading down. As soon as I entered, the singing ceased, becoming a comforting hum that washed over me in waves. I had never felt so calm before, such a sense of well-being, of not-quite-joy, but of something far better.
Of peace.
I descended the stairs, finding myself in a room containing little but two structures that could best be described as altars, at either end of the room. Each of them held a single statue. The one opposite where I stood was red, as if it were made from the red lyrium. It appeared to represent two people, one of them looking out, and the other who could only be seen from behind. This statue dampened the peace I was feeling, and I wanted nothing to do with it. Not even to step close enough to truly examine it.
Instead I turned to the other altar. There, I found a statue of a woman. She wore a flowing dress over the slight swell of a belly which appeared to be carrying a child. In one hand, she held a sword, but it was not raised overhead as if in anger, but held at her side, as though she would only use it to dispense mercy. Or perhaps justice. I had no idea who this woman might be, but I loved her. It was she who had called to me, whose singing had guided me through the tunnels and the caverns and brought me here. The statue glowed a blue so intense it nearly hurt my eyes to look upon it. Lyrium. Beautiful, perfect, amazing crystal blue lyrium.
I picked it up, reverently, in my hands, and felt a burning burst of energy course through me. Only later did I remember that lyrium is deadly to touch. But the statue did not kill me, did not seem to harm me in any way. Far from it. I felt safer, more powerful, more alive than I had ever felt before. And the statue was pleased as well. I could feel her satisfaction, a faint, whispered voice in my head. I knew that now it was time for me to return to the surface, and I knew that I must keep the statue with me, always, but that I needed to be very careful about who I shared its existence with.
I made my way out of the Deep Roads, and with the whispered voice to guide me, I found myself back in Ferelden with no trouble. By now, the winter snows were melting, and I felt as though a new life had started for me. A new life in which nothing would be allowed to get between me and what I intended to do. For I intended to bring down the Imperium. And now, I knew I had the power to do it.
•◊•
Maferath was the perfect incarnation of a barbarian. It was his visage - tall and broad, his hair wild and beard matted and unkempt - that mothers in Tevinter used to frighten their children into behaving, into going quietly to sleep at night. "Be good, or the barbarians from the south will carry you away," and the children knew without being told that being carried away by barbarians always ended badly.
When Maferath and I were wed, I had no illusions that he loved me. And of course, I didn't love him. But we respected one another, which is a far better foundation for a marriage than love. Love falls apart and crumbles so easily. Or so I told myself, time and time again, having never experienced such a thing for myself.
This was better. A joining of equals. I wanted his power; he found me beautiful. He knew I intended to bring Tevinter to its knees, and I knew he wanted to rule the south, which was where I intended to start. Well, ideally, he wanted to rule everything, but the south was feasible. And I remembered Lilura's words, her admonition that I never allow myself to become a slave to any man. Certainly, Maferath would have happily controlled me, as was the habit for most couples who married in our clan. But I would not allow this, and, to his credit, he never chafed against my independence. Well, not until the very end.
We were well suited for one another, truth be told.
At first, our lives were simple. I bided my time, knowing that someday I would strike back at Tevinter. My husband's army marched slowly, inexorably north, waging his battles against the Imperium, and occasionally against other tribes in the south.
War, as it turns out, is easy. No, not easy to survive, nor easy to stomach, nor easy to bear.
But easy to wage.
We began in Ostagar, which fell more quickly than I could have imagined possible. The Tevinter city had never been much more than an outpost, despite its grandiose architecture: its sweeping bridges crossing over the deep chasm, its tower stretching so high I got a crick in my neck from watching the birds circle the tip of its spire. So confident was the Imperium in their control over all of Thedas that they took inadequate precautions, which my husband was quick to use to his advantage.
From Ostagar, we crossed Ferelden on the Imperial Highway the Tevinters had so generously built, almost as if they meant it for our convenience. I doubt they could ever have dreamed their great work would be used against them, but once we began to march, we moved north at a rate I found astonishing. The highway gave us access to all Tevinter settlements, large and small. Some of the battles were bloody, while some involved nothing more than the beheadings of the few people in charge. Maferath swallowed up the south in bits and pieces - a strip of coast or town here, an entire valley there. As we went, our numbers swelled with people who were grateful for their freedom and happy to join what appeared to be an easy conquest for spoils.
And as we conquered the south, my life . . . happened.
I had a son, with golden hair and eyes the color of honey just like my mother's. And then I had another, red-haired like his father, a child who didn't reach his first birthday before being carried away by the plague. A year later, I gave birth to a third child, another son, blonde-haired like me. Him, I tried not to love, for fear of how much it would hurt if I lost him, but I failed in that miserably, and loved him perhaps the best of all.
It was not an ideal childhood for them - their father a warlord and their mother a warrior queen - but I did love my sons with a passion so fierce it scared me at times. When I sensed some danger to them, I felt I was no longer a human woman, but was channeling the spirit of the one of the lions that stalked the foothills, with their amber-colored fur and their unblinking eyes, and their twitching tales. I was poised to attack, with tooth and with claw, at anything that dared threaten my boys. So few things dared.
Sometimes I wish I could have been a different sort of mother to them. A proper mother, and not a warrior. Given them a home, rather than a life as part of a constantly moving army camp. I did my best, though, and trust that they will believe the best of me, no matter what they are told when I am gone. They loved me, and know I loved them, and when they learn what their father has done, they will know the truth of it from the betrayal they will see in his eyes.
More than anything, I hope that someday they will find happiness of their own making, happiness away from the stench and the smoke and the tragedy of constant war. That, certainly, is my wish for them.
Through those early years my greatest struggle was keeping my children alive; a life following an army is not an easy one. But it was not just the struggles of daily life that wore away at me. I was also driven by an itching, burning need to move north and face the Imperium. To fulfill the destiny I believed was mine. So, during those early years I also struggled to keep myself from going mad with worry and impatience, as I waited for the time when we could move north and face those I considered my true enemies.
To calm myself, and my sons, I sang. Songs of joy and loss and hope and death and yearning. Songs of the past I lamented, and the future I hoped to create. I was indiscreet in my singing, allowing others to hear my songs. At the time, I thought it was a blessing, as people began to seek me out to hear them. Only a few at first, but after a time I realized that half the camp followers were there on my behalf, rather than following Maferath for his might and his wrath. They sought me out, sought out what they perceived as beauty in my songs, and I swelled with pride to have this power on my lips. Little did I know they did not believe the power came solely from me. That they began to believe a god who remained hidden in shadows had chosen me as his vessel. That they saw me as an extension of some divine will, something beyond my comprehension and control.
And perhaps this was true, in a way, but I am certain my power did not come from this "Maker" of theirs, but from another source altogether.
Because the other thing that sustained me, that kept me calm when I might have been too overwhelmed or terrified to continue, was the statue. I loved her, and I trusted her completely. I trusted her to guide me, and to keep me safe. I also knew I needed a better way to keep her safe, to keep her hidden from those who might grow jealous, who might wish to take her from me.
Inspired by the sword in her hand, I decided she should be worked into the handle of a blade that I, myself, would wield. Of course, since I could trust no one else to handle her, this required me to learn the art of smithing.
This was a challenge. Not the smithing itself, which is physical work, demanding and sweaty, but satisfying. Nothing beyond my capabilities; I was physically strong from years of labor in Tevinter, as well as the time I had spent traveling with the army.
The challenge was finding someone to teach me.
None of the smiths associated with the army would let me come near their forges. Smithing was man's work, they said. I wasn't strong enough, I was too delicate to withstand the heat, too weak to wield a hammer. A woman's will was not capable of controlling the metal. All these things I knew to be untrue, but I could not force knowledge from those who were determined to withhold it.
Finally, I met a dwarf who had left the underground to become what they call a "surfacer." He cared not for human convention, for rules about what women were allowed to do, and what they weren't, and he agreed to teach me. Karhok first taught me to work hot iron, to learn its nature, its secrets, the way it behaved under the hammer, and then to forge steel, and learn its secrets as well. He taught me which metals were soft enough for the core, and which were hard enough to hold a sharp edge and point. I learned to gauge the heat of the metal by its color, knowing when it was exactly right for being hammered. The things he taught me went far beyond smithing; the beauty he saw in the metal was like poetry, and he shared that with me as well, not in the things he said, but in the look in his eyes as he stood at his forge. At the rhythmic pounding that sometmes sent me out of my body and soaring far across the Fade.
Karhok taught me that beauty lies not inside of things, but in the feelings one has towards those things. In their meaning, in the joy of creating, or expressing what was in one's heart. It was one of the most beautiful things anyone had ever taught me, and certainly, I knew what he felt at the forge was the same as what I felt when I sang.
I practiced by forging the first swords that were put in my sons' hands - sparring blades with dull edges - as I learned the craft I needed to forge a sword of my own. Finally, not long before Maferath marched on Amaranthine, I wrought a sword of silverite, the statue embedded within the handle. It was the most beautiful weapon I had ever seen, and I knew it would guide me to victory. I had no reason to doubt. I had Maferath's army behind me, an army that grew in number with every mile we conquered.
Amaranthine fell like a sapling under the claws of a bear, snapping so softly it barely made a sound. The battle was over nearly before it had begun, and the largest port in the south was now ours.
This, for the first time, felt like a true victory over the Imperium. The loss of Amaranthine would hurt them as nothing before had done. Now, we had truly taken the south.
We boarded the ships we had captured, the bodies of our enemies strapped to the figureheads. I thought it bad luck - weren't those carved goddesses supposed to bring good fortune on the voyage? And would reeking corpses offer us any measure of grace? But Maferath disagreed with me, and thought it sent an appropriate message of the death we brought with us, death to the Tevinter Imperium.
With that, we crossed the Waking Sea, and for the second - and the last - time, I sailed away from Ferelden.
•◊•
Emerius was our first real challenge, and it very nearly bested us.
We had the advantage in that the arrogant Tevinters never expected us to arrive, and most of our ships entered the harbor before they were able to raise the chain meant to keep us out. But the fight itself was bloody. I witnessed magics there the likes of which I had never seen in Minrathous, the likes of which I could never have imagined. By the end, we had broken the Imperium's hold, but at an almost unimaginable cost. We'd lost three-quarters of our soldiers. And here, while there were thousands of souls liberated by our victory, only a small percentage of them were fit to join our march. Slaves in Emeritus lived in something called a "Gallows," and the name's relation to a place of execution was more fitting than perhaps had been intended.
So, much weakened, we camped in the hills near the city, a place called Sundermount, and watched as the flocks of birds overhead grew steadily larger in number.
In the past, I always loved watching birds circling on the currents of wind high above my head. Hawks and vulture, ravens and gulls. But here, so near the carnage of the battlefield, there were more birds than I had ever seen before, and the knowledge of why they were here - to feast on the soft flesh and eyeballs and viscera of the dead - made me resent their presence. It seemed a constant reminder of how narrowly we had escaped our own deaths.
We tried to find a way to proceed. Maferath argued we should be finished. We had done enough, we'd shown the Imperium we were not afraid, we had dealt them enough of a blow to prove our point. Better, now, to retreat back to Ferelden, to the south, to the lands we could hope to hold.
But I was displeased with that plan. We had dealt them a blow in Emerius, but rather than satisfying me, it had given me a taste for blood I wanted to sate. I wanted to deal a death blow. I didn't want them to fear me; I wanted the whisper of my name to be the last sound that would come from their dying lips.
I argued, and cajoled. Finally, I appealed to his pride, to his ego. What would they think of the Barbarian King who ran away from his victory?
Finally, that argument held sway, and he agreed we could continue. How that would happen was still a bit of a mystery. Our numbers were greatly reduced, and morale was lower than it had ever been before. But I was determined to press head, no matter the consequences, no matter the cost.
Even so, huddled around a campfire, shivering in spite of the warm summer air, I was afraid. For the first time, truly afraid.
How arrogant does that sound now? Afraid for the first time? Had I really been so very sure of success until that moment? But honestly, I had been. Things had been easy at the start. No one really tried to stop me as I left Tevinter; no one who posed much of a threat, at any rate. And once I found Maferath, no one dared challenge us. And I had the statue, whispering to me in her comforting voice, telling me all would be well, that my cause was righteous, and I needn't worry about the details - things would happen as they must.
So I shivered into the darkness, the darkness not only of the night itself, but also the darkness in my heart, darkness caused by fear which threatened for the first time to overwhelm me. I willed myself not to be afraid, willed myself to continue, convinced that my mission was just.
And then, just a few nights after the battle, in the hills near Emerius, as we sat around our fires trying to plot strategies on our maps, not sure how to proceed with such reduced numbers, a group of men entered our camp. We had no warning. No guards had sounded an alarm. They merely walked past, and suddenly, there they were.
They were elves, looking exhausted and worn, armed with a hodge podge of weapons and armor that had clearly been scavenged and pieced together from whatever they could find. Knives made of broken glass, swords made of metal ripped from farming tools. Bows fashioned from broken barrels, and arrows whittled from wooden crates. They were pathetic, but their leader held his head high and proud, and in his eyes, I saw something of myself reflected. This man wanted what I wanted. He wanted the Imperium to suffer.
His name was Shartan, and he and the elves who followed him were also escaped slaves. It took little convincing for them to agree to join us; that is, after all, why they had come. And there were more elves, he promised, more who would join, as soon as they were liberated from their Tevinter masters.
In this dark night of my soul, Shartan's arrival seemed to herald the breaking of dawn on the horizon. I wanted to see this daylight, I wanted to feel its warmth on my face. I wanted to free myself from the darkness that had settled into my heart. So I turned to the thing that had comforted me in the past. Comforted me, and those around me. Brought people to my side, and held them close with a loyalty that seemed unbreakable.
I sang.
I knew the others would listen, and I could see from their faces the songs touched them in some way. They were inspired. And I realized that this, perhaps, was the gift I could give them. In the past, I had thought of this as a power I held over them, the power to draw others to me and keep them close. But now I saw that perhaps it was not about me after all. Instead, it was my gift to them. The gift of my voice, the gift of beauty in this darkness and cold. In this place that stank of death, as would all the places into which we would go, even before battles had yet been fought. The gift of life. The gift of peace.
Some of the songs came from the sword, and some of them came from my own heart. I know not which were more powerful. To me, in a way, they were one and the same. The sword was a part of me, now, and as long as I held it in my possession, nothing would be able to stop me. So, I sang the songs that were born in my mind, in my heart, in my body.
I sang.
More than anything, I sang of home. Not a particular place, but the very idea of home. The place a person felt safest, felt warm. A place to lay one's head down at night, to lay in the arms of a husband or wife. Where the sounds were familiar, and the smells. Where everywhere you looked, every scene before your eyes was layered on top of a thousand other times your eyes had beheld that same view. Memories on top of memories on top of memories, so tightly packed that no particular moment stands out, but instead you are wrapped inside of a blanket of memories and nowhere has ever felt safer.
Unless, of course, it is torn away from you. But I didn't sing about that. I sang only about the warmth and the pleasure of home.
To the humans, of the place they wished to return once this war was at an end. For Shartan and his elves, of the place they hoped to find in the future. And for myself? For myself, home was such a fragmented idea, I wasn't sure whether to look into the past or the future. Perhaps home was something I needed to find inside myself. Or perhaps home was a place I'd tasted once, long ago, for the last time.
So I sang. And for a while, it seemed as though all was right with the world. In spite of the fighting and the blood and the death, I was able to find beauty, as well. Beauty which sustained me, and allowed me in turn to sustain those who followed me.
With renewed fervor, we surveyed the land, choosing our targets carefully. We started in Cirane, on the outskirts of the Imperium, where slaves outnumbered mages. With each victory, our numbers swelled. And with Shartan at my side, it seemed we were truly unstoppable. I realized perhaps we had a chance, after all. That victory was truly within my grasp.
•◊•
The Imperium, of course, did not intend to sit by meekly and allow us to ravage their lands. They raised an army. But I found that, with my sword in my hand, my powers were greater - far greater, orders of magnitude greater - than they had been before. Greater than I could have imagined even had I chosen to call upon the powers of blood.
I could bring lightning down from the sky, not just a few bolts, as I had seen many Magisters do before me, but could command an entire raging thunderstorm. I once caused a flood through a mountain pass, washing away two legions of Imperium forces in little more than the blink of an eye. With a wave of my arm, I caused wells to dry, rivers to stop flowing, sending the land into a drought wherever I desired, all without the stink of blood magic. The lives of no slaves were spent for my efforts.
So it came to pass that the crops meant to sustain the Imperium's forces withered and died, while those grown for the use of my own people grew more lush and plentiful than ever before. The roads we wished to travel were dry and clear; the paths ahead of the Imperium were washed out and muddy, impossible to pass.
I became aware, gradually, that my followers had begun to whisper that I was being guided - that they were being guided - by the hand of some unseen god, this deity they called the Maker. For it was no secret it was me they now followed; only a few of my husband's most loyal soldiers still considered themselves in any way part of Maferath's army. I suppose it was understandable. I, too, would have given my loyalty to a woman with the ability to control the weather and cause crops to die on the vine, rather than a barbarian whose war would long have been at an end without the inspiration provided by his wife.
The Old Gods had turned away from Tevinter, and in their wake, the people needed something else to believe in. But I was uncomfortable with the suggestion that I was connected with this Maker of theirs, a being about which I had no knowledge. Was it some ancient deity who had been worshipped in secret for centuries? Or a god newly forged by people who felt abandoned and needed something - anything - upon which to hope?
I suppose I can't blame them for reaching out, although the choice of this remote god who neither showed his face nor spoke with his voice, seemed utterly unsatisfying. Then again, who was I to judge? I still worshipped the Spirits of my youth, as well as an unknown goddess whose name I never have known. Either way, there was nothing I could do to stop what they were saying, and the thought I was somehow blessed in this manner made them happy. I supposed it would do no harm, even though I knew my success had nothing to do with this Maker, but that my powers came from the goddess whose statue I had discovered in the darkest depths of the Deep Roads.
At any rate, I kept quiet about these concerns, and northward we went. Always winning, always dealing a fatal blow to those who opposed us. If our forces were spread thin in our wake, it hardly seemed to matter. Was I inspired by something divine? To be honest, it mattered not to me. I believed I was unstoppable, and for a while, it was the truth.
I called it my Exalted March, which was incredibly arrogant of me. There was nothing exalted about it, other than that I wished it to be thought of so. It is true that my intentions were good, and what came of the war I waged did accomplish something good. I refuse to believe otherwise. The elves were freed, and able to live lives of peace. And Tevinter was driven from the south. Maferath, Shartan and I, for at least one moment in time, believed we could do anything. The Magisters bowed before us, armies fled in our path.
But then they regrouped, as of course they would. A Magister is not a person who admits defeat. It is not possible to become a Magister without believing in your heart no one will ever best you. So, of course, they regrouped. With a new strategy to replace the one that had failed.
Even so, I doubt they would have succeeded had not something else happened, something I could never have expected. Something I ought to regret, but know in my heart that I never will.
•◊•