Her existence had narrowed to the cold, the pain, her blood, and her magic.
Where before she closed rifts, the Herald, now she ripped open the Veil, the maleficar.
and in return were given in hushed whispers the secrets of darkest magic
She coughed up blood into the snow, scarlet on white. The Elder One. She must focus. She must… Corypheus.
those who had once been mage-lord the brightest of their age were no longer men but monsters
Her mark, the Anchor, had been a mistake. A mistake, paid for by the Divine's death.
and took from the Fade a measure of its living flesh and placed it apart from the Spirits
Every step was agony, the snow and the wind and the dead fires and the endless mountain.
She was dying.
here lies the abyss the well of all souls
Cullen. She needed to get to Cullen. He wouldn't let her die. Such pain in his eyes when she went forth to meet the Maker and his Bride.
in your heart shall burn an unquenchable flame
She was done. Spent. She stumbled, falling to her knees, too weak to catch herself on her hands. Would he blame her or himself?
o Creator, see me kneel for I walk only where You would bid me
"There! It's her!" Cullen.
stand only in places You have blessed sing only the words You place in my throat
"Thank the Maker!" Cassandra.
my Maker, know my heart take from me a life of sorrow
His arms, around her, cold metal, warm leather, soft fur, the too fast thump thump of his heart under her ear, her hip and thigh and side cradled to the solid wall of his chest, his breathless, lecturing, babbling voice somewhere above her, around her, inside of her: "Don't die, Meera, you can't die, I've got you, you're safe now, safe, I have you, I won't leave you."
She slid gracelessly and gratefully into the dark, consumed.
lift me from a world of pain judge me worthy of Your endless pride
OoO
OoO
When Meera was small, a tiny thing with a sweet baby face, her father would sweep her up in front of him on his horse and take her for a gallop. He called her dragon because she had fiery red hair to match her quick temper. "Like my gran," he'd tell her, lifting her high into the air to make her giggle. She loved him with every muscle and sinew and thought, her Da, the center of her world. She was his pride and joy, his little dragon, and her world was perfect.
She was eight, her hair darkened to auburn, when he stopped taking her on horse rides. No matter how much she begged and pleaded, he told her she'd gotten "too big for nonsense". So she went for gallops alone on the pretty little mare he'd given her for her birthday. She was content.
She was nine and outpacing both of her older brothers in their lessons when he stopped coming to listen to her recite. She overheard him tell her mother, "She talks too much. Thinks she knows everything." She thought this a high compliment and set out to know more. The more she knew, the more she could be a help to her father.
She was ten and entering an awkward stage of chubby childhood when she was barred from the practice yard by the authoritative weapons' master. "Ladies do not need to learn the sword," her father told her flatly when she protested. Meera didn't want to be a lady, she wanted to be a Templar and serve the Maker. Uncle Hemlen taught her the Trial of Swords and so she practiced to be worthy, sure her father would see sense.
She was eleven and bossy and prickly and in love with the idea of magic when her oldest brother, Hayder the heir, told her she would go to the Chantry. "Good! The Maker and his Bride will be pleased by my service as a Templar, protecting all of the mages!" After her father took his leather belt to her, after he made her unable to sit for three days, Meera did not cry. She worked harder, longer, promised herself she would be better.
She was twelve, her body already starting to bud into womanhood, hips and breasts promising the lush woman she would become, practicing the Trial of Swords in her mother's garden when her father sent her sword skittering, jerked her up by her arms, and shook her hard enough to make her teeth clack together. When she tried to kick him, scared and ashamed and so angry, he threw her, straight-armed; her back hit the stone of the wall with a sickening crunch.
He advanced on her, fists up in a fighting stance, his mouth in a rictus of distaste. He was on her before she could stand. Using her tunic, he lifted her so that his hand could crack across her cheek, open palmed. Her head rocked back. She saw stars and felt blood fill her mouth. When she spit it onto his boot, her father slapped her again.
She shoved him back a full step with the force of her rage, without words, without touch, only magic.
When he stumbled, she wrenched herself out of his grip. "You...will...not...touch...me."
She did not sidestep when he came for her again, his eyes strangely empty.
She reached for the place inside of her where she believed in the Maker, gold and molten and pure. She pictured a shield before her, wide and tall and bright, the power of her faith.
The very ground between her and her sire erupted, burning hot and high, the feel of her fury and her pain and her loss, an impassable wall.
Her father took her to the Circle that very day.
She was sixteen, her temper wild and untamed, her magic flaring and sparking and dangerous. The Ostwick Circle shoved her into the Fade to be Harrowed or die in the attempt. The Pride spirit looked like her father: a short man, built like a bare-knuckle brawler, barrel chest, thick, heavy hands, shrewd eyes, a thin, unsmiling mouth.
It told her it loved her. That she was beautiful. That she made him proud.
"My little dragon."
When she stepped out of the Fade, rising to her feet in the middle of the Harrowing chamber, ash sprinkled like diamonds in her hair, Meera knew two things:
She was a mage.
She had nothing but her faith, because her Da had abandoned her long ago.
OoO
OoO
Cole, the young boy who was not a boy, who had come because the Templars song was wrong, discordant, and had stayed because the song of the Inquisition was beautiful and terrible and just, listened to the Herald as she slept. No one saw him because no one was supposed to see him. He sometimes would leave to check on Roderick, the sad, angry, lonely man who'd led them up the pilgrim's path to safety, but mostly he stayed by the Herald. And listened.
She sounded like blood and death and only the faint flicker of hope when they first eased her onto a cot in the healing tents. The hope was a thread connecting her to the big blonde man everyone called Commander, the one who came and went from the tent most often. He sounded like wrath and anxiety and affection under a thin layer of the old Templar song, the one Cole loved. It was fraying and edged in needles, though, and Cole had to give his attention to the Herald.
The healers who came and went were blue and green and gentle, their songs easing under her skin to knit bones and slow blood, to mend frozen flesh and soften her pain. Their magic called to her magic, a symphony of lyrium and, strangely, cinders.
"Orange and bright, burning. Like faith, like love, like hate, two sides of the same face."
The rest of the Inquisition joined her song as they came and went from the tent, their notes both complementary and in opposition to her own:
The Seeker was the measured beat of the drums of war, the pure note of conviction, and the steady warmth of friendship. When she spoke the words over the Herald, their faith rose to a crescendo, bathing Cole in its light.
Madame du Fer sounded of woodwinds, high and pure and harsh, and the tang of censure. Her magic was winter but it burned as the Herald's burned, twisting together to push all that would oppose the Inquisition before them.
Red Jenny, Sera, who could not stop fidgeting added the clash of cymbals and the sweetness of anticipation. She spoke words like weapons, rapid fire and pleading, and the Herald calmed her with the song.
Bull had an exotic, foreign sound, as if many voices sang one deep, resonant note. Behind it lay respect, a stalwart shield, scattered with the sounds of his Chargers.
Varric was the stone, slow and ponderous, with echoes of another melody, buried deep, hidden, and the promise of retribution, swift and sudden. His song both pushed against and attempted to join with the Seeker's song.
Solas's sounded old to Cole's senses, the whispers of the Fade layered with grief and deception. The Herald caused Solas's song to falter, her own stronger, more pure.
Lady Josephine brought a whirl of music and laughter and bright intelligence, a feast for the senses. Underneath, where it matters, she was the painful weeping of hope.
The Warden who is not a Warden. He was still waters and dark pools, a careless whisper in the wrong ear, wind blowing away the past. He sang of hope with Josephine's voice.
At first, Cole thought Leliana had no song. In his head she wears the shape of a nightingale, a lovely bird with a heart-breaking song.
As the Herald thrashed on her cot, as some memory picked apart the edges of her melody, he turned to Leliana, who sat next to the Herald, expressionless.
"She sounds like rage, cold and bitter. The memory of him hurts her, inside, where it matters."
Leliana turned, tilting her head to study him. She gave no hint of surprise to see him, even though Cole knew she did not remember him.
"Sounds like?" she asked.
He nodded, eager. "Yes. I listen to her song, their songs."
When Leliana said nothing, he rushed on. "You don't sing. She likes it when you sing."
Leliana winced, a barely perceptible movement of her eyes. Cole frowned. "Song is buried, crushed by the weight. No singing in the Chantry, girl."
The sharp blue eyes narrowed on Cole's face. Before Leliana could speak the angry words, the Herald whimpered, shaking her head. "No, no, no, please!"
Cole touched Leliana's hand and then the Herald's, something like a plea. Giving in, Leliana reached out and took the Herald's hand into hers. The woman on the cot stilled, her features relaxing. Leliana sent Cole a look, mingled surprise and regret and sadness.
"Your song is like her song. It hurts you, inside, where it matters." When Leliana sighed, closing her eyes, Cole relaxed, let himself fade.
"She likes it when you sing."