"Wynne is dead."
Mahariel was still tightening her belt as she left Anders' small room; she'd left most of her armor behind; she could always send for it later, and she couldn't think of another instance when she'd need it anyway. But Delia's stark voice stopped her cold for the second time in as many days.
Mahariel turned around to see the mage on the left of Anders' door, the opposite side to which Mahariel had turned. The Warden Commander froze with her hands on her half-adjusted belt, and she turned slowly to face Delia. There were heavy tears in her eyes.
"What… happened?" She took slow, steady steps toward Delia, raising her arms to the woman, who accepted them gladly. She fell into Mahariel's arms and, through tears, began to speak into the flesh of Mahariel's shoulder.
"There was… an incident… at the White Spire, she - she gave her life to save - to save a templar!" Delia cried, muffled by skin and cloth, and Mahariel knew that that was not truly why she was upset, but she reached up and patted the woman's soft blonde hair all the same. The Dalish woman held back her own tears for Delia's sake, and let the mage continue. "How many more, Mahariel? How many more of use will have to die?"
Dozens, thought Mahariel. Scores. Hundreds. More, and more still.
But she didn't say that. Instead, she said, "Too many, da'len. Even if it is only one, it will be too many."
The mage was inconsolable, incoherent for a moment, and then quickly broke away from Mahariel, wiping the dampness from her cheeks with the sleeves of her robe. "There, um…" she cleared her throat, "there is to be a Conclave at the Temple of Sacred Ashes. I… bid your leave to attend."
"Of course, Delia, though I hate to see you go."
