`The fields burn.
The Renegades knew we were coming. They have to have known; there's no other explanation for the ruin before us. The valley I crossed a week ago was a war zone, but this is a raging pit of hell itself, burning from edge to edge. Every crop, tree, home and fence has been put to the torch, a staggering wildfire that challenges our advance simply by being. Even at the mouth of the crossroads tunnel the heat is oppressive, beads of sweat running down my face as I watch the fires rage.
To wait or to advance? It is a question that looms vast and fearsome over us all. Some wish to pull back, the Chevalier chief among them, wait out the flames. Others desire an advance, onward through the fire, voices such as Devehra's joining with others. We must go. If we do not, the Renegades will be ready for us. If we do, we will be burned and buffeted by such fearsome heat as to render half our number insensate… or worse.
It is my voice that breaks the stalemate, when all others fall silent. I do not speak because I want to; I speak because I must. I step into the loose circle they have formed, Hugo and Devehra and the Chevalier alike, and I speak my piece with a frown. All eyes turn to me, and I meet each of them in turn.
"The Renegades have played their hand." I declare, voice hard and surer than I should likely feel. "This will ruin them in the long term, unless they have some other supply we do not know of. They need to scavenge food from the valley."
I gesture to the walls of fire before us, cast shockingly bright in the gloom such a vast bank of smoke creates.
"Now, there is no valley," I continue. "Because they know we are coming. They are afraid. We must show them they had reason to be. But not now."
Whoever the leader of the Renegades is, he is a fool or a monster. He either did not know his force would choke and die without the pillaged fruits of the valley, or he simply seeks to kill and destroy without reason or sense. Either makes him easy to hate. I choose to believe it is both. I don't know him, as I don't know Mercadora or Gavriel. But I know now he can be beaten.
"The assault on the Witchwood must be made, however." I declare. "And it must be now. If we do not strike the flank, Captain Rylen will need to call a retreat, and the shock of the assault will be lost. The army needn't march through this valley; I and my brothers must."
The Chevalier protests, as I expected. His hands wave, his eyes grow wide with fear and desperation, his voice cracks as he pleads with me not to do this, not to go into the flame. There is a pain there, a terror, old and ingrained so deeply it would take a far wiser man than I to buff it out. But I cannot let him shift me, so I take his hand in mine and tell him softly that I must, that Andraste will shield me and mine.
I cannot know if that is true. But Hugo removes the uncertainty.
"I am, as you know well, Giroux, a mage of a martial alignment," Hugo says, patting the Chevalier's arm. "But you also know that my barriers are some of the finest ever borne by men. I would require some time to prepare, but I could ensconce our party in a collective shield that would fend off the worst of the heat, I think."
"You can do this?" asks Devehra, and Hugo smiles nervously.
"It has been some time since I delved into the experimental or theoretical of magic, but the principle remains unchanged from a standard barrier," he explains. "I would simply need to fold some spells to manage temperature into the weave of the barrier proper."
"If it will work, then let it be so," I tell him, placing a hand on his armoured shoulder. "I will gather my fellows."
I leave him to his experimentation, Devehra showing little hesitation in serving as a dummy for the tests. No doubt, being Dalish, she has a much healthier relationship with magic than most of our soldiers. I gather the seven Templars who agreed to come, and tally them one by one as they join my meeting.
Nathaniel, Marcher born and quiet to a fault, with short dark hair and darker eyes. Craichlun, young and bold and red of hair, eager to prove himself out of Knight-Captain Rylen's shadow. Lillian, of Antivan birth and Fereldan service, her heartwood bow on her back atypical but welcome in a company otherwise deprived of ranged combatants. Brent and Otto arrive as one, the former standing huge and strong at the shoulder of the latter like a vigilant blonde shadow, while Otto's aristocratic face twists in a sardonic sort of smile. Scarred and steadfast Velle, whose Orlesian pomposity and exotic estoc blade belies her noble blood. And Shartan, the lone elf with pale blue eyes, named for a nearly forgotten hero vindicated by the Divine so recently murdered.
These seven chose to follow me. Some, such as Velle and Craichlun, sought to challenge themselves. Otto sought an impression of me, and where Otto goes, I have learned, Brent follows. Shartan wishes to see the Herald fight with his own eyes, and by simply remarking upon my respect for his namesake I have accidentally earned his eternal devotion. Nathaniel is the eldest among their number, recommended by Rylen as a second in command. And Lillian follows because, she has told me in hushed whispers beneath a vast oak tree, a man she wants to kill may be among these Apostates; a mage responsible for the deaths of her parents, themselves both Templars murdered during the Rebellion.
I do not deny her this. Vengeance will give her cause to fight all the harder. I do not know these seven well, but I know they will follow. I know they will fight. And I know, should I do my part as well as they do theirs, they will win.
And what more could I ask of them?
"We go through the flames," I say, and each responds with general affirmative, unwilling to protest for pride or duty or loyalty. "Enchanter Demaret will join us, and provide barriers that will shield us from the worst of the flames and heat. But we must stay close together, and we must move quickly. The Witchwood awaits."
"And Apostates within," Otto says the words as a long chuckle, before clapping me on the back. "Be good to act for once, instead of sitting in the snow and waiting for the word to come."
"We are with you, brother," Shartan affirms, nervous fingers drumming on his sword's pommel in a steady rhythm.
"It's an hour across the valley, I thought," says Nathaniel, frowning. "Demaret might be good, but no mage can hold eight barriers for that long."
"He won't have to," Velle rolls her eyes, before pointing to the valley. "There are breaks in the flame, ditches to rest in. And should we follow the eastern edge…"
"That is the plan." I nod. "And there are nine of us, not eight. Dev… Scout Lavellan will be joining us alongside Enchanter Demaret. Ser Giroux will be remaining here with the bulk of our forces to strike the Templars when the fires die."
They all declare understanding and agreement. There is less uncertainty among the eight of us; we were all Templars. Trust between brothers and sisters in the Order is cemented early in our training. Each of them would die for me, though I do not know if they would let me do the same. I am the one with the magic hand, after all.
"We should brace ourselves before we go," Nathaniel notes, reaching down to his belt and taking a small vial of blue liquid from a pouch there. "Do any of you have a philter?"
"I do," Brent grunts, his first words since arriving, before reaching into the satchel bag hanging from his right hip and emerging with a plain philter of steel and glass.
Nathaniel takes the philter and slides the top cap off, before pouring the Lyrium inside and closing it again. He shakes it around, and the Lyrium begins to evaporate within. I've drunk Lyrium before, every morning now, soon after waking. However, although Markus remembers this particular ritual, I have not participated since even before the Conclave. Nathaniel and all the rest watch the blue fog build inside the philter, before he passes it to me.
"The first draft should be yours, Brother Venier," he says, nodding once. "You have partaken this way before?"
"Once," I admit. "After my initiation and knighting. I remember how it all goes, don't worry."
Fortunately, I do. There is a smaller valve atop the cap, which I open with a twist and a pull, before raising the philter to my lips. I take a long, lingering breath like you would from a cigarette, letting the Lyrium fumes fill my lungs and chest. It is a strange sensation, like breathing sweet-smelling static electricity. I pass the philter to Velle before slowly breathing out, bracing energy like lightning in my gut setting my heart racing. It slows, however, and I feel the comfortable warmth fill me. Lyrium, it turns out, is a hell of a drug.
The rest inhale and exhale in turn, and soon the philter is passed back to me. We do this for a while, taking sips of the fumes and exchanging the philter. Velle abstains first, after three, while Otto and Nathaniel seem happy enough to empty it together at seven draws each. I take five myself, to settle my nerves and bolster my Litany in the coming hours.
Lyrium. Precious, beautiful, dangerous Lyrium. So many ways to take it, once it's been refined and prepared. Most drink it, little chalices or sips from a philter. I've known Lysette to breathe the fumes as I just did, a slower, more relaxing way to take the morning supplement. Some eat it in small pressed tablets, though Markus recalls loathing the gritty texture of that method, and it makes your teeth taste like fire for a few hours afterward. I see a small circular bruise that is definitely from an injection on the inside of Velle's left wrist, when she passes back the philter to Nathaniel on her last round. Injection is the most intensive method; instant results, and powerful too, but dangerous. Too much, even by a few drops, can prove a fatal error.
But I drink, and sometimes I breathe. The power in the lungs and the gut, places from where the voice comes. That, I think, is best. Some say injections give one a resistance to the effects of magic, though I cannot verify such a claim myself. Others claim the tablets are more directly effective, solid Lyrium being less diluted than a prepared elixir. Whatever the truth, all Templars need it, and all take it, and in time, all will be addicted to it.
But Maker, I understand now why so few would want to quit. The power, the way it turns the Litany from a hindrance to an outright threat, the way it sets fire to the belly and puts steel in your arm, makes you stronger and faster… even the incremental enhancement is a difference worthy of note. It's what makes me able to handle daemons without the difficulties of the common soldiers, why mages fall like wheat to the scything edge of my sword. The rush, the martial superiority it gives you…
If I didn't know about the rest, the mental damage, the addiction, the agonies of withdrawal, I don't know if I would ever give it up myself. There is something terrifyingly desirable in that power, how high it places you. It feeds into the animal nature of man, that hungering predator hind-brain that tells us to kill what we will and take what we want because we are stronger than those around us. It is a blade that keens against the spine, a whetstone that hones that deepest desire for power, control, dominance. I breathe and I look at Velle and feel a savage wanting deep inside, burning. Take her, and she will take you, the whispers say. Kill the worthless. You are greater than they, more than they.
I feel, more so than see, why so many Templars fall. If Samson and Meredith and all the rest felt this famine, the ravenous desire that turns you to a predator at the peak of the food chain. But for now, I partake, because I need to be strong. Because these people, all of them here in this army, and throughout the Hinterlands, need me to be all I can. Otherwise their Herald is little more than they, and to be the hero they need I must be the strongest, quickest; most potent I can be.
I wonder if all Templars think the same way. I hope so. To strive to be one's best is a good thing, I think. To let it consume you… Samson. Meredith. The hateful hunger of the Red. Go behind me, I think of these things, and never dare overtake me.
"Ah…" Otto lets out a long sigh as he places the empty philter back in Brent's outstretched palm, before leaning against the larger man's side. "That settles the nerves some. Who's ready to slaughter some misbegotten mage filth?"
Craichlun and Lillian both punch the air, the former riding the Lyrium high longer than the rest of us. He's younger than even I, which is saying something. I would have rejected him from our group, were it not for Rylen's personal commendation and a few words in private about his apprentice's unique talent in tracking. He may be the edge we need to seek the Apostates in the Witchwood out with all necessary haste.
"It's a long road ahead," Lillian notes, looking toward Hugo with a frown. "And a single mage to carry us across… is this the only path?"
"It is either this or wait for the fires to die," Otto replies, shrugging. "Besides, have you no faith? If Andraste wills it, we will cross the field."
"Well said," Nathaniel agrees. "We will follow where the Herald leads."
And soon enough, they do. Demaret casts his barriers with a twirl of that black staff, his free hand closing into a fist and beckoning the gentle blue light to engulf each of us in turn. He places the last on me, and Beck whirls about my arm in delight as the echoes of the Fade mantle my shoulders and fall about me like a robe of cool water. The only one of us who does not take well to the spell is Brent, who constantly rubs his arms as if trying to wipe away the phantom sensation.
"Reminds him of winter," Otto murmurs to me, as we check our armour and weapons before the final push. "But he's strong."
I must agree. Brent is imposing, and he keeps his nerves well under check as I draw that longsword I took from a dead man under a fallen bridge, running the flat along my forearm and feeling cool steel rasp against my bracer. Lillian presses a hand against Brent's shoulder, whispering something to him that seems to put steel in his spine. Nathaniel steps up beside me, shield on his arm and sword in hand, and takes a deep breath.
"Ready?" he asks.
I say nothing. I simply raise my sword, and beckon the party forward. We advance in a staggered single-file column, weaving between the largest fires. The first few steps are the hardest; the heat is thunderous, and the cooler air at your back actually seems to beckon you away from the fire. But once one truly steps into the flames, when the heat is all around you, beating on you from front and back and both sides, you forget about turning back. There is only forwards, onwards, deeper into the depths and towards the other side.
The valley is a long march, and a hard one. The heat is hammerblow heavy on our small company, none suffering more than the out-of-shape Hugo, who must pause a moment several times to take a break. I cannot begrudge him this; he is holding up and refreshing eight barriers under literal fire for several hours going. We afford him several short breaks, in which he steadies himself and the magic surrounding us.
Were it not for the barriers, we would all die here. The heat is oppressive with their chill presence; without them, I cannot imagine how the strength would be sapped from our limbs, leaving us crawling and choking amidst the smoke and death around us. Amusingly, the smoke is hardly a concern; the barriers filter the air around us, though the exact function of that bit of arcana I leave for Hugo to keep a secret. All I know is this; the barriers are remarkable, far beyond the rudimentary walls of force Markus has seen thrown up by young mages in training time and time again.
Lillian passes around a waterskin again, and I take a long drink as we rest in a small divot in the earth, which Otto notes must have been a pond before the fires caused all the water to steam away. The dry, brittle mud beneath our feet cracks and shifts with every step. Brent sinks an inch each time he moves, and Lillian seems passively amused by the way he frowns at his boots whenever he yanks them free. Nathaniel settles against the pond wall beside me, his helmet off his head and dark hair shaken loose. He's damp with sweat, we all are, though Beck cools me gently with little passing motions under my jerkin.
"Can't be much further," he says. "We'll be at the wood soon. The mage is flagging."
"He has done much," I reply, before patting Nathaniel on the shoulder. "And he will do more. We leave him to rest at the entrance of the Witchwood, I think. Shartan can guard him."
He eyes me after that, and I know the suspicion in his gaze is born not of anger but of caution. Shartan is not one of his personally, the two come from different circles, but he is a brother. Racial tensions endure in the Order, but rarely do they surface. I shake my head.
"He is the only one who will do it without complaint." I explain. "Velle and Craichlun hunger for battle. Lillian has her hunt. Otto and Brent will not part ways. You are my second. Shartan will do it, and he will be honoured that I would entrust to him the life of our ally. Then, as we begin the true battle, they can join us in glory."
The older man nods at that, satisfied by my answer. Otto watches from across the pond, eyes narrowed. He is the least trusting of me, I think. He was so very nearly a Captain before the rebellion, before the Order began to collapse. I don't know if it is jealousy or spite that drives him to scowl now, and I am not certain I care. He follows, without complaint, and when we enter the field he will kill our foes. I can demand nothing more of him.
In the centre of the empty pond, a seated Hugo lets out a long sigh, before using his staff to climb to his feet. He raises an open hand, and tugs on the Veil again, enshrouding us in a renewed barrier. He stumbles then, but draws a deep breath before any of us can go to him, the silverite blade of his staff firmly planted in the cracked earth. He shrugs off Velle's hand, giving his countryman a shake of the head in reply to the unspoken offer.
So we carry on, into the fire.
True to Nathaniel's estimate, it is less than an hour later that we come to the end of the flames. The last hamlet burns, but we skirt around it and step away from that conjured field of hell, back into the open air. Hugo lets the barriers fall and we each of us feel that heavy coolness fade, allowing us to draw breath unhindered. Craichlun claps Hugo on the back, the heavyset man coughing once in reply. The air around us still shimmers with a heat haze, but the worst of it is at our backs as we press on, turning towards the gnarled trees of the Witchwood. I lead, as is my duty, Nathaniel taking the rearguard. Hugo walks in the centre of our loose diamond, protected by seven Templars.
The Witchwood is a strange place. It is cold here; not cool, but cold, winter's chill in the air. Our breath fogs before our faces, and I see Velle shiver when she thinks none of us are looking. Otto looks almost refreshed by the change of climate, grinning as he tries to blow a ring of steam from his mouth. The rest manage, I think. Lillian tests the string of her bow with a gentle twang, nodding in a satisfied sort of way.
"Hugo," I say, once we have entered the woods themselves, and are yet to see a single apostate or mercenary. "You should rest. Rejoin us once we've dealt with the Rift."
"Are you certain, Ser Venier?" he asks me, leaning heavily against his staff. "It is impossible to say what sort of foes you will meet ahead."
"Daemons," retorts Otto, a hint of snark in his voice. "Hardly anything new."
"You will be of little use in battle if you can scarcely draw breath," I tell Hugo, ignoring my fellow for the time being. "Rest here. Shartan, would you guard him as we advance?"
The elf looks at me and nods once, a stern conviction in his grey eyes. It is good to see I had not miscalculated. He stands beside Hugo, his sword in his hand, and murmurs a few quiet words to the mage. Hugo stiffens up for a moment, before finally assenting to the motion, bowing his head.
"Good luck," he wishes us. "I will rejoin you as soon as I am able."
I nod, as there is nothing much to say. Our party, weaker one Templar and one mage, advances into the Witchwood. Otto and Brent take up the rear, Lillain and Craichlun in the center of the column. Velle stands beside me at the front while Nathaniel follows shortly behind us. The scarred Orlesian begins to speak after we are a distance away from Shartan and Hugo both, though her eyes do not cease their thorough searching of our surroundings when she does.
"You can seal the Rift?" she asks, keeping her voice hushed.
"I have done so six times now," I reply, unable to keep all the sudden irritation I feel at the question from my words. "You may have seen the fifth one. It was rather large before I humbled it."
"A shame it could not be closed all the way," she replies, her eyes flicking for a moment to the great green gash in the sky, visible here even through the dense canopy of the forest. "But I suppose it will be done in time. The smaller ones are less difficult?"
I bite back a witty retort and simply nod, which sees some of the tension leave her.
"Good." she says. "I have little interest in spending the rest of my life killing daemons. There is more important prey to be hunted in the days to come."
"Of what sort?" I ask, cocking an eyebrow.
"Mages, for a start," she says, before shaking her head. "Though I admit, that is rather obvious. Renegades as well. There is a war in Orlais, of course. The Inquisition cannot afford to be distracted by the Rift for long."
Ah. A patriot, and an extremist. Such intriguing company I keep in these dark times. Liars, thieves… for a passing moment, I long for Cassandra and Solas. At least those two I could trust to stand by me in most things. The more time I spend with my fellows, the more I realize just how out of my element I really am. Nathaniel and Shartan are the only two I would honestly trust in a fight. Lillian too, if I knew her better.
Damn it all. I even miss Lysette, as rough as our parting was. She didn't want to butcher innocents. Even if some among those innocents likely deserve butchery. I blink. That was dark. Thank you Markus. I shake my head, as the pair diverge somewhat. I can't afford to confuse myself as to who I am. Such things lead to inevitable trouble. Beck warms my arm, reminds me that I am me, and I smile.
"You are an odd fellow," Velle remarks, before pausing suddenly and raising a fist. "Hold!"
I stop, and behind us the others do the same. I see it before she can speak; flickering emerald light, between the trunks of trees ahead. The rift. I knew this was coming, and yet I wasn't ready until now. My hand goes to my sword, of its own automatic accord, and I close my eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. Step forward.
"Here we go…" Otto mumbles behind me.
"At your order, Herald." Nathaniel says.
I draw my sword, grip it in two hands and hold the blade level with my face. I breathe in, and breathe out. It is time now, I think. Time to lay aside these troubles and return to what I have learned I am best at. I smile.
"Forward," I say, and step toward the clearing.
The rift flares the moment I am near, my Mark pulsing. It is to my wrist that Beck goes, numbing the stinging burn of the Mark and steadying me. I raise the sword and charge as the first daemons begin to fall from that hole in the world. Shades, at first, hooded and hateful. I see Wraiths as well, forming about our flanks as green phantoms. A Terror bursts from the ground, and screams.
"Rebuke!" Nathaniel calls, and each of us speaks the words together.
The Litany of one Templar is impressive. Magic is weakened, daemons forced to be more real. But the Litany of seven Templars? The number holds no holy purpose here as it did in Marcus' world, but the volume and joined purpose is more than enough. Every syllable is a hammerblow, the daemons nearest to the speaker recoiling. Our swords begin to shine with inner light, the fire of the Maker in our blades and on our lips. I strike a Shade down in a single mighty blow, crying out a retort to its being, and the rush carries me to cut another clean in two, the latter still falling dead to the ground.
Each arrow Lillian fires is a sunbeam, splitting a Daemon's head or chest open. Craichlun's claymore whirls about his head, and he rips and tears in a slaying dance of Fereldan martial excellence. The Lyrium inside us burns, and it is a good fire that sets our blood to boiling. This is the pinnacle of that animal rush, and at the same time the truest demonstration of our discipline. As we are now, empowered by the Blood of the world and the Word of the Maker, we are as pure as men can be.
And with that purity, we smite the wicked. The Terror flails about in rage as Velle and Nathaniel trade turns striking at it, nimbly avoiding claws and bladed tail as they defeat it with a dozen blows. One arm falls limp, fading to smoke. The other melts away, split lengthwise. It wails with the same fear it is meant to embody as Velle's thin Orlesian blade and Nathaniel's heavier broadsword pierce it front and back, before it dies in a shuddering burst of light.
It is Brent's voice that makes the bassline along which we follow. He is unshakable, shield in hand and Chant in heart, the claws of daemons unable to so much as scratch the steel surface. He breaks one with an almost dismissive backhand, the pommel crushing it's skull into a pulpy mass, before his sword flicks out and parts another's breast. Otto circles about him, sword and dagger in his hands, fighting in a roguish sort of way that sees him kill and fade over and over.
And in a mere minute, sixty seconds of slaughter, the daemons all die. The Rift flickers, but it does not break as it must. We join our voices, ready ourselves, Nathaniel raising his sword high. Velle drops down, crouching low as the daemons come. Brent settles himself into a defensive posture, Otto almost invisible in the gloomy half-light of the woods. Craichlun rides this high, sword still spinning around him as he awaits the next thing he must kill.
Then, in a surge of heat and hate, Rage comes. An incandescent shape of magma rises from the damp earth, the grass about it burning to black ash in an instant. It opens a maw that drools lava and screams at us, surging forward. Brent goes in to check its advance, and shield meets burning hands with a surge of fire and light that makes me avert my eyes. More daemons form around us, Shades and Wraiths again, another Terror. Two Terrors. We are a beacon of faith, but light draws vermin.
We must ensure this was a trap, then. We are bait and blade alike. A Shade charges me and I cut it down where I stand. I plant my feet and let them come, before a cry from behind breaks our Litany. I glance once, and see Lillian falling, a vicious red line cut across her chest. Otto appears as if from nothing, driving dagger and sword both into the back of the Shade that struck her, but the fire is dying without her voice. We are staggered, Brent straining to block each flaming blow.
I turn my eyes to the rift. The daemons have the momentum on us. I must take it back, so I reach to the green fire and let my Mark touch the Fade, a strand of light joining my fingers to the black. My eyes widen as the pain ignites anew, fire in my palm and along my fingers. Beck battles it valiantly, my little friend's little crusade. Daemons scream as they realize in their simple, animal minds what I am doing.
"Go back," I whisper, before wrenching my fist away from the rift and letting the Veil spill out into reality, stunning the daemons with a surge of constricting energy. "You are not wanted here."
Velle bleeds as we counterattack. Our swords rise and fall, cutting and maiming monster after monster. I take one of the Terrror's heads off, before running to slaughter Wraiths before they can recover and rain fire on us. Brent batters the Rage daemon to the ground, before laying into it with his blade, now chanting the Litany of Refusal in a quiet, angry voice. Otto whispers his own Litany, one I think is Devotion from what little I hear of it, as he flits between Daemons, putting blades in backs with a grin of wicked delight. Nathaniel and Velle settle into the butcher's work, chopping and hacking and stabbing until the enemy ceases.
Craichlun rushes to the fallen Lillian, his sword planted firmly in the dirt a few feet away. I rise from my knee to which I had fallen, coughing once. Craichlun drops to his knees beside her, looking over injuries with a scowl. A Shade, shaking off the effects of the surge, rises up, ready to rush them. I cut it down from behind, letting it wail as it dies, before I walk towards the pair.
"Hold on, come on now…" Craichlun murmurs, searching the satchel at his hip, finding a bottle of green liquid I recognize as a healing potion. "Lillian, drink, please…"
He pours it into her mouth, one hand pressed against the bloody gash that parts her armour at the breast, trying in vain to hold the blood in. The cut is deep, and the bleeding only ebbs somewhat when she drinks as bid. Otto appears beside me, his swords coated in black ichor from the monsters.
"Cut's collapsed a lung," he notes, voice low. "She won't make it."
"I'm not the one who needs to know that," I reply, matching his tone.
"It's a slow death," he continues, and I can hear the remorse in his voice. "Seen it before. Be… better, to cut her loose."
I look at him, but no argument springs to my lips. He swallows, blinking back tears that surely are not there, and then walks to the pair. He kneels down beside Craichlun, and says something to the redhead that sees him shout a word of defiance. Then he offers the younger man a knife, a clean one from his belt. Craichlun stares at it.
By now the others rejoin us, and the Rift flares once more. As Craichlun clutches the dagger, and the rest form a circle, I am grateful for the distraction. I reach toward the rift and Beck once more encircles my wrist, easing the agony as I force reality to stitch back together. Behind me, Craichlun cries out once. I hear the slick sound of a blade parting flesh. My eyes close. Beck hums softly against my skin.
When I turn to face them again, as the rift sputters out of being with that final cough-like splattering of black goo, I see Nathaniel comforting the younger Fereldan, as Otto wipes his blade clean. Velle stands to one side, arms crossed, staring intently at the treeline. Brent kneels down beside Lillian's corpse, whispering the Chant in a smaller voice than I would have expected from such a large man.
She's dead. The cut is clean across her throat. Behind me, Craichlun chokes and throws up into the grass, as Nathaniel holds his shoulder kindly.
I hate what I must do next, but I don't have a choice. I clear my throat when everyone seems to finish what it is they're doing.
"We can bury her when we return," I say, gently. "But we have work yet to be done."
Craichlun tries to curse me, but his throat is raw from the bile and screaming. Nathaniel nods, though I see the disapproval in his eyes. I try not to think too much about how that makes me bristle. Brent rises, holding Lillian's body in his arms, and carries her to set her body among the gnarled roots of one of the trees. Otto finishes cleaning his blades, sliding each back into its sheath, and nods at me once.
And so we carry on, and I try not to think about the body behind us.