Kathyra

"Kathyra?" Leliana's voice whispered against my ears, hoarse with smoke inhalation and too little sleep. "Kathyra, can you hear me? Can you open your eyes?"

Stiff, exhausted, I waged the war to open my eyelids. The oil lamp illuminated the former bard's features, casting even darker shadows underneath her eyes.

"Leliana." My heart lurched uncomfortably as I whispered her name. The conversations I had overheard during my drifting in and out of consciousness had only worked to make me feel what I had no desire to.

She is so beautiful, my thoughts betrayed me. Her spirit, her wishes for this world...to save, to heal, to preserve all that is right within the hearts of men. Even Cassandra could not break her. I doubt that anything could.

"You're shaking." Leliana moved the blanket aside and examined the piece of wood protruding from my side. "And you've been murmuring in your sleep for the last candlemark. I'm worried for you. Is there anything...anything I can do?"

"You've...done enough." I attempted to breathe deeply; failed as pain radiated through my body. "Please...you need...to rest."

Leliana smiled and her eyes veritably shone with light. "It is no crime for a physician to accept help, Kathyra."

"I know that." I attempted to smile. "But...I am done...with pretense. We both know...I won't...survive."

I want to go home...whatever eternity promises. I want to return to that.

"Kathyra..." I heard that tone again, that boundless, devastating hope, and I could not bear it.

"I'm tired, Leliana." The words meant so much more, and I knew that she, of all people, would understand their full intent.

"Rest, then." She whispered, and I felt the softness of her lips press against my fevered brow, so soothing and kind and reminiscent of everything I had fought for. "All will be better in the morning, Kathyra." She made a mother's promise to a child trapped in nightmares. "Go back to sleep."

I spend the rest of the day in the market, using the last of the coin to furnish my new home, to complete the dream I began building years ago. The sun is bright and I am too hot. I attribute the temperature to the light cloak I am wearing to hide the blood stains on my clothes. Sweat runs down my face and I feel dizzy. The wound from the guardsman's sword is burning like fury, a very bad sign, but hope forces me past the recognition of pain.

I cannot let Giselle remain in that prison, especially knowing that she is staying there for my sake. If this is love, I will be forgiven my forwardness. If this is love, then I am willing to and must risk everything for it.

The sun begins to set and I make my way towards the Chantry, wiping sweat from my brow, wincing as my hand brushes and rubs salt into the gash left on my forehead from the guardsman's sword. So much had changed in a single day, but never had I felt so strong, so invigorated, so determined in my goal.

I slip inside the Chantry doors just as the day turns to dark, listening to the familiar song raised by the sisters, the nightly prayer to the Maker. Certain that Dorothea is with them, I grasp the hilt of my dagger and linger in the doorway to the clinic, hoping to catch a glimpse of Giselle.

She appears, and I watch my physician as she moves from bed to bed, patient to patient. Even though I cannot see them, I know the kindness shining from her eyes; I know the comfort that her voice imparts. Yet, in her face there is a strain, a pallor...her calling has been distorted, and she drives herself forward only because she believes she must.

What little of the world I have to give, Giselle...it is yours. These words, this confidence of mine...all of it belongs to you, for you are the one who has given it to me. Forgive me for what I must do...please find it in your radiant heart to accept this measure of love.

I steal up the stairs, light on my feet, in spite of my injuries. The pain is as nothing as vigor courses through my body, as I meld the bard and the physician, the light heart with the dark talent, the pure purpose with the deadly skill. Careful, unseen, I make my way to Dorothea's rooms, picking the lock and slipping inside, locking the door behind me.

The opulence in the room disturbs me and disgusts me, from the plush carpeting on the stone floor to the pure gold of the candlesticks and bright silver of the wall sconces. The finest down comforter rests on the bed and I run my hands across the sheets, my frown deepening as I recognize the smoothest of silks.

What sort of woman is Dorothea? I wonder, clenching the hilt of my knife in an attempt to curb my anger and keep from setting fire to this place. No woman who truly follows Andraste's teachings could allow such luxury in her life. They are required to take a vow of poverty...this is...this is obscene!

I conceal myself behind the heavy damask curtains, cringing. Adding further insult to her title, Dorothea's curtains are embroidered with scenes from Andraste's life in the finest silken thread. The calling of the prophet by her Maker, the leading of the Exalted March, and calm acceptance on the Bride's face as she faced the pyre. Bile rises in my throat and I close my eyes so that I need not look on this travesty of faith.

Even I, a sinner, know that the Maker's Bride would not wish to be honored in this way. She was a woman of battle, a woman of light...a woman who despised the corruption of wealth and the domination of the weak by those who professed themselves kind, but made themselves into more powerful tyrants. Andraste fought for all freedoms...those of humans, elves...all mortals who walk this earth.

I linger with my thoughts, smiling as I hear the key turn in the lock, as the heavy oaken door swings open. Dorothea enters the room and I watch her as she removes her Chantry robes, watching as the firelight glints off of the rich colors and fabrics.

The revered mother dresses for the evening, for quiet meditation and peace and rest, uncaring that she has enslaved the most beautiful of hearts with promises of violence. Uncaring that she would let me be raped and tortured for the sake of a foolish contract and to keep her pets in line.

Dorothea stands before her roaring fire and pours what smells like fine brandy from a crystalline snifter into a goblet of the same material. A contented sigh leaves her lips as she watches the flames and indulges herself. I curl my hand around my blade, smiling.

Wait until the enemy is most vulnerable, Kathyra, Leron's voice rings in my mind, sickening and somehow soothing. Wait until they are deeply engrossed in their creature comforts, sated in their lusts, distracted by their vices. Then, and only then, should you strike.