She remembers the first time she realised she wanted to be a nurse.

She had, once upon a time, joined a surf lifesaving club at her mother's insistence; an easy sport, something for her to brag about at the country club. My adorable, cute little Clare, spending every Sunday at the local beach learning how to save lives, she distantly remembers her mother telling anyone who would listen proudly. She'd done it for a long time, the addition to her routine a welcome one. It was after her first year she'd learned how to do CPR, and gotten her First Aid certificate. At the youthful age of thirteen, she'd never put much thought into it, because when would she ever need CPR?

As it turns out, four years later was when she would need it.

It had been a clear day during the summer holidays, and Clare had been invited to go out with a friend's family for the day on their boat. Lacy had been a rather well off girl, someone Clare's mother approved of greatly if only for that small detail. She remembers the excitement, the exhilaration, laughing with Lacy as the wind tousled their hair, the salty air filling their lungs as the boat sped along the sea's waters.

Then, Max, her little brother of only seven years, had fallen overboard.

They had, before going on the boat, put on their sunscreen and lifejackets at the parent's insistence. Max, like any other child his age, had fought tooth and nail at that, insisting the sunscreen felt strange on his skin and that the lifejacket was too itchy. But Lacy's parents refused to hear any of it, rather sensibly. Max, of course, never gave up so easily, and had slipped the lifejacket off while his parents hadn't been watching, remaining at the back of the boat out of their line of sight.

She remembers the exact moment he slipped off the boat; they had just hit a wave, enough to jostle and throw them up quite a bit. Lacy's mother had looked over her shoulder to check if Max was alright a while after, only to begin screaming in fright when she saw his lifejacket and not him. Her husband had forced the boat around so quickly that she and Lacy had toppled over one another at the sudden movement. They had spotted Max a short distance away, floating motionless in the water, Lacy's mother crying hysterically at the sight. It was as her father pulled him back onto the boat, tears streaming down his cheeks as he gasped out he didn't know CPR - he didn't know CPR Gwen, I don't know CPR Gwen, what do I do Gwen - that she remembered herself.

She remembers her body going into autopilot mode, pushing the frantic parents aside, managing to gasp out that she knew CPR when their mother had screamed at her for trying to pull her away from her very possibly dying child. Hands placed at his sternum, she began pushing in a rhythm, reciting the lyrics of Stayin' Alive in her head just as she was taught. Thirty compressions, then two rescue breaths, with enough force to potentially break ribs, she recalls.

His stuttering breath after her second breath was, by far, the most relieving moment of her life.

Their parents had been outright hysterical - she would be too if her son had almost drowned, she supposed - and so had Lacy, throwing her arms around Clare as she thanked her, crying tears of joy. Her parents had turned to her then, thanking her over and over for their son's life, and that they would never forget this.

It had been the first moment in her life where she felt she had done something worthwhile.

Yet despite that, it had still been a rather strange moment for her. She'd been posted in the local newspaper for her actions, been hailed a hero at her high school, and had even been in her parents' good books for a while. She was frequently invited to Lacy's home after that, even when everything had calmed down.

It was during her final year of high school that she had been having dinner at Lacy's household, who she now considered nothing short of a second family, discussing what exactly they were going to do after graduation. Lacy, unsurprisingly, was set to go to college in order to take over her family's business one day. Clare, however, had no such plans. In fact, she had no plan at all. Lacy's family had been shocked when Clare admitted so, and had quickly supplied off a list of occupations they thought would suit her.

"What about medicine?" Lacy's father had laughed, a hint of seriousness in his voice. "You've already saved one life, after all," he continued, nudging Max, healthy and alive Max, good-naturedly in the ribs.

That conversation had stayed with her for a long time. She'd never really considered it before; she'd always supposed she would get a job in an office somewhere and stick with that. It was what her parents expected of her; her mother being a secretary before marrying and her father working in an office himself.

But medicine. Working to save lives.

She liked the thought.

And so, that's what she did. That's what she would do with her life; help save lives. Not quite intelligent or driven enough to become a doctor, but unwilling to give up nonetheless, she settled upon nursing, finding an unexpected passion in it.

That was what she wanted to do with her life, she had long ago decided.

She wants to laugh at her own hypocrisy now.

There was a hush about the manor as Voss and Elloril escorted her to the courtyard, the two positioned on each side of her, as though they expected her to try to escape. There were no guards stationed at the doors as they walked along the corridor, no slaves scurrying past, going about their daily business with their heads down. Even the familiar chirping of the birds and clicking of cicadas was absent. It was as though every living being within the manor had universally acknowledged what was about to happen, and had nothing to say about it.

She didn't register how the clicking of her shoes against the marble floor stopped, only to be replaced with the muted sound of walking on grass. She didn't register the assembled people she was walking towards - slaves and guards alike. She didn't register the wooden pole that they stood around. All she could register is a small, tiny voice in her head, that was growing louder and louder with each passing second.

This is wrong, this is so wrong, I'm scared, please just let me go home, this is a nightmare-

"Ah, Clare, there you are."

And then, she did register it. Everything, all at once.

She saw them, the people she had come to know over the weeks, guards and slaves alike. Saw how the guards kept their heads high, eyes like steel despite the hollowness that lurked beneath. Saw the submission and fear of the slaves, saw how they kept their heads bowed, as though simply looking up was all it would take to be the next victim. She saw the wooden pole they all surrounded, saw the dried blood no one had bothered to clean off.

She saw Elias, standing before her, a firm and unyieldingly hardened expression on his face.

"I am sorry this had to happen now, of all times, my dear," he said, his voice almost apologetic, gentle. As though this were a mere inconvenience to her. "Nasty business, this is. I had hoped to keep this away from you, but it has to be done," he continued. "You understand, do you not?"

She couldn't breathe.

No, she didn't understand at all. Not in the slightest. But she didn't have time to wallow in her own ignorance, not when she felt Voss' eyes on her, felt Elias' too, both waiting for her to speak against him for very different reasons.

She felt the veiled threat to his words. She felt it creep under her skin, scratching and itching and hurting and promising. She felt so many things at once she wasn't sure she was capable of keeping herself from bursting at the very seams.

As much as she tried, she couldn't manage to plaster a fake smile on like she had so many times before when she had to lie to him. She couldn't manage a lot of things right now, least of all that. No, all she could do was whisper a small, defeated, utterly pathetic, "I understand, sir."

And just like that, she felt herself crumble.

Look at you, losing all your morals because you feel threatened, something sinister and angry whispered in her ear. You're no better than your parents.

She didn't need to look up to see the expression of something akin to triumph on Elias' face.

I hate him, she realised with sudden clarity. I hate him, I hate him, I hate him, I hate him -

"I am glad we have an understanding. Please, take your place with the others," he replied quietly, gesturing to a place amongst the assembled guards and slaves where Elloril and Voss stood, a vacant spot obviously made for her. She could scarcely force her legs to move, not when that tone of pride in his voice gripped her insides, burning hot and angry. But she did, had to, when Elias yelled out, "Bring the elf!"

No one, least of all the slaves, dared to look in the direction of the estate's doors opening once more, two guards stepping out as they carried the willowy arms of her, hair a matted mess and covered in bruises and open wounds, all purple and red and black -

She watched, the air in her lungs suddenly tasting like poison, the grass beneath her feet feeling like burning coals, as the guards forced her front against the wooden post, forcefully bringing her arms up, none too gently, to tie her wrists to it. When they finished, they stepped back, the woman slumping down in defeat, too exhausted to even hold herself up. From Clare's position amongst the others, she couldn't see her face, couldn't look upon the eyes of the woman she had indirectly sent to an early grave.

"The crime committed here today is a grave one," Elias began, eyes scanning across the small crowd gathered. "I generously brought in this woman, scavenging in the wild, to give her a better life amongst us. She repaid my kindness by attempting to kill my apprentice," he continued, his words that painted him as a messiah making her want to vomit. "The punishment for such treachery is death."

No one even looked remotely surprised at his words, ruthless and malevolent as they were. Not even the woman who his words were so scornfully directed towards stirred at his false proclamations, at his announcement of her fate - instead, she remained hunched and impassive, her only movement a small trickle of blood that slowly made its way down her right arm.

This is hell, Clare tried to reason to herself. I died in that explosion and I'm in hell.

She had to be, otherwise what kind of reality was she living in?

"Strip her," Elias commanded, his words stirring confusion in Clare's gut amongst her overwhelming anguish. What would the purpose of stripping her be, she briefly wondered. To humiliate her further?

She didn't have to question for very long as a guard, young and trembling at his knees, stepped forward when another nudged him forth, hands reaching for the end of the woman's tunic and tearing them open with a vicious rip. It didn't take much effort on his part; the pathetic excuse for clothing already having several large tears in them where her cuts, some that Clare noticed were already infected, bled freely. She did not flinch at the sudden contact, at the inevitable, biting cold she would feel on her wounds as they were exposed to the chilly afternoon air.

This was not the woman Clare had seen when they first met, fierce and angry and determined. This was not the woman that had tried to kill her; angry and desperate for retribution. No, this woman who bled before her was broken, a shell of what Clare had so briefly managed to glimpse at.

She felt an hand grip her wrist, and it was only then that she realised she had tried to take a step forward.

Don't, Voss' lips moved to mouth at her.

She almost didn't obey.

Almost.

But like the coward she was, she forced her tears back in and stepped back into line, where they all watched with varying faces of muted acceptance and terror.

When Voss had first told her what the fate of this woman would be, she didn't want to think about how exactly Elias would kill her. She assumed it would be a quick death, perhaps a beheading or a public hanging - people had watched those in the past, after all.

Now, as she watched a slave step forward and hand Elias a whip, its tipped jagged with what looked like claws sewn into the leather, she could see what a fool she had been for considering that he would allow her such a mercy.

She couldn't breathe.

"Close your eyes, my lady," Elloril whispered beside her.

She didn't.

Instead, she watched as Elias held his arm back and reeled in forward in one quick, cruel motion.

The crack of the whip against the woman's back sent the birds from the trees flying. Even the animals were unwilling to watch the scene unfold before them, she thought without a trace of amusement. The claws sunk mercilessly into her back, tearing her flesh as Elias reeled the whip back to him. A few slaves made an almost strangled gasp at the sight, while some soldiers simply flinched.

Yet the victim of Elias' cruel work did not utter a sound.

Even after the second whip, she did not made a noise. Not a gasp, not a whimper, not a yelp.

Even after the third, she did not.

Even after the fourth, she did not.

After the fifth, Elias was clearly displeased. His movements became forceful, angry, desperate for a sign of something -

Clare couldn't see the skin on her back anymore.

But after the seventh, her resolve broke. But she did not make noises of pain.

She prayed.

"O Falon'din," she managed, her voice only a hoarse whisper, "Lethanavir, Friend to the Dead -" another whip, yet all she let out was a strangled grunt, "- Guide my feet-"

"Silence, rabbit," Elias hissed, resent, hot and furious and so cruel, clear as day in his eyes.

"Calm my soul," she gasped out. Clare could hear the tears in her voice. She reached out, blindly, searching for something, anything -

She felt Elloril's fingertips graze her own, and they interlocked fingers.

Elias' face went red, the first time Clare had ever seen him flustered, and something she could have sworn was madness creep into his expression. "Be quiet!" he boomed, putting all his strength into his next movement.

The crack of the whip did not silence her.

"Lead me to my rest," she whispered, her prayer finished.

And then, nothing.

Silence spread throughout the courtyard, the feeling of Elloril's warm fingers squeezing her own the only thing keeping her rooted to the earth. She couldn't feel anything else, could only stare at the torn open back before her, skin mercilessly peeled back by the bladed whip to reveal bits and pieces of muscle, the rest concealed by ruined flesh, blood freely dripping from the open wound.

Not even bile could rise up in her throat at the horrid sight. She was frozen, shaken to the core, mourning for a woman she didn't even know; whose death she was partly responsible for.

And yet despite this, Elias did not allow them even a moment to process it all.

"May this be your first and final warning," he said, the threat hanging in the air as thickly as the stench of blood. "Disobedience will not be tolerated."

Elloril's fingers shook against her own, to which Clare could only manage to gave her hand a comforting squeeze. I won't let that be you, she tried to convey.

She squeezed her hand back.

Elias' eyes gazed over the crowd assembled before him, seemingly pleased at the differing levels of fear across all their faces. "You are all dismissed," he ordered, casting the whip to a nearby soldier carelessly as he turned and walked back into the estate, two soldiers loyally trailing behind him.

For a long moment, no one moved. They all stood there, connected to one another through what they had all just witnessed.

It didn't last.

The soldiers were the first to go, slowly dissipating one by one. Then, with a final glance at the dead body before then, the slaves went, leaving in pairs or small groups.

Then, only she remained.

She stood there and stared. Didn't move, didn't blink. Her ears were ringing, something was buzzing in her head. You could have done something, why didn't you do anything, why didn't you help her -

She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Clare," Elloril gently whispered, her hand shaking her shoulder, "Let us leave."

She didn't.

Instead, she walked forward, eyes remaining firm on the deceased woman before them, gently prying off Elloril's fingers on her arm. As she got closer, she noticed that flies were already starting to swarm around the open wounds, to which she angrily shooed away.

Those thoughts, buzzing and angry and vengeful, only grew louder as she approached. You could have done something, why didn't you do anything, why didn't you help her -

And yet, with some clarity, she told herself, you can do something.

"I can fix it," she murmured, voice empty, her hands hovering over the slumped body. "I- I can heal it."

She forced the magic forward, forced it upon the woman's body, urging it to do something. But it didn't. Her skin remained broken, her body still bled. No matter how much she pushed, no matter how much she tried, nothing would happen.

"Why?" she gasped out, and it was only then she realised she was crying. "Why won't you work?!"

She urged herself closer, fingers gently pressing against the open wounds, frantically forcing her magic upon it, but nothing. She stared at her own fingers, now coated in this woman's blood, so useless and disgusting and -

"My lady-"

"I can fix it!" she yelled, desperate, her tears blurring her vision. But she didn't let it stop her as she pushed her magic further, trying for something, anything, please -

"Clare," someone - Voss, she realised - said, grasping her wrists and pulling them away, his movements gentle - more gentle than she deserved. "She's dead. There's nothing you can do."

She's dead. There's nothing you can do.

Dead.

Nothing you can do.

Dead, dead, dead, dead, dead-

In the back of her mind, she registered someone gagging, only to realise it was herself as firm hands directed her numbed body to the side where she unceremoniously emptied her stomach contents, gasping and heaving as her tears, still free falling from her now blotchy face, began to mix in with the mess of green and yellow chunks. She coughed, her breathing rough and uneven as she retched once more, yet nothing came.

She couldn't bring herself to feel repulsed by what she had just done, staring at her own puke with an almost impassive expression. No longer could she feel the blood on her hands, smell the sour odor of flesh and vomit that once suffocated her, hear the flies buzzing around her, vengeful that she had interrupted their fresh meal.

She felt nothing but a disconnect from her own body.

"-are? Clare?" A voice asked, gentle and feminine and Elloril, hands reaching to sweep her hair from her face. "Please, my lady. There was nothing any of us could have done."

Where was the comfort in that?

She closed her eyes, searching for something. What could she possibly say to herself to make this better? Why should she try to make this better? She had just witnessed a murder, plain and simple, and had done nothing to stop it.

But still.

"He didn't break her," she whispered, "She didn't stop when he told her to stop praying. She died a free woman."

There was a short silence. Then, "She was a free woman until the very end, my lady."

It was a small comfort.

But still.

"We should go, my lady," Voss gently pushed. "No one should see you like this."

She briefly registers him kneeling down next to her to grasp her forearm and pull her back up to her feet, guiding her back to the estate. As her feet meet the marble floor once more, she casts a final glance at the woman whose name she did not know, who died free and braver than Clare could ever be.

There was nothing any of us could have done, Elloril's gentle voice echoes in her mind.

But still.

Time, Clare quickly learnt, was not swayed by grief and turmoil.

As she laid in her bed staring at the canopy, waiting for answers that would not come, time passed. As she continued her lessons with Elias, her only fuel her own hate for the very man who taught her, time passed. As she stared at the decomposing body of the nameless woman who no one dared approached to even bury, time passed. As she stared at the landscape beyond the bars that entrapped them all to Elias' estate, time passed.

And with that time, she grew vengeful.

"Dodge, Clare, you must remember to dodge! Your shields do not make you invincible," Elias sighed, exasperated and clearly annoyed.

Oh, I'll give you something to dodge, she thought, huffing angrily. Days had passed after the incident with little disturbance, and Clare had spent most of her time sparring with Elias' guards while he looked on from the sidelines. He'd demanded that his soldiers not go easy on her, and she had bruises and scrapes to show for it. The first day of sparring, she'd managed to break her nose after getting a particularly nasty hit to the face, which she'd spent over an hour resetting and healing. It hadn't been a pleasant experience, and it made her concentrate all the more afterwards, which she was sure what Elias' intention had been. Pain was a hell of a motivator, it seemed.

She stared at the guard she was fighting today; Elias always had a different one for her each time. Today's victim was a man with scruffy blonde hair and squinting eyes with bulging muscles, accentuated with a few jagged scars to show he meant business. In the back of her mind, Clare briefly wondered what she'd done to piss Elias off enough to have her fight a blonde Arnold Schwarzenegger.

She didn't have time to deliberate Elias' motivation, however; not when he was advancing on her once more, wooden practice blade raised and ready to strike. She barely managed to dodge his hit as she scrambled to the side, throwing a pathetic excuse of a fireball his way. It missed him, instead grazing a nearby tree which Elias, with a quick flick of his staff, quickly handled. She made a small sound at the back of her throat as the guard swung his blade once more, too quickly for her to dodge, hitting her square in the stomach. The impact forced the air out of her lungs, coughing pathetically as he began to advance on her once more. She grasped her staff and tried for something, anything, but she wasn't fast enough. He delivered a swift blow to her leg, forcing her to the ground and losing her concentration.

"Fuck!" she swore, her knees grazing the ground harshly.

From behind her, Elias tutted. "Language, my dear."

His words, condescending and uncaring, only made her growl and force a sneer upon her features. She surged forward on her hands and knees, reaching for her staff. Her opponent swung his leg forward to kick her arm away, but he'd been too late. Gripping the lifeline of wood and magic in her hands, she turned on her side and swung it with all the force she could muster, both physical and magic.

She wasn't entirely sure what she did. She just remembered feeling blind rage, that god-awful rage that had festered inside her like an infection, and swinging her staff at the man. Its tip grazed his side, the magic burning his skin and burrowing its way deep inside. He dropped to the ground, a scream at his lips, which he silenced with a gasp as he clutched the wound.

Clare was quick to force herself up despite the exhaustion and bruises wearing at her, hurrying to his side to assert the damage he'd done. But before she could take so much as a few steps, Elias' voice interrupted. "Don't, Clare. There is no room for mercy on the battlefield," he hissed with a click of his fingers, eyes glancing towards a pair of guards that he had stationed to the side. "Take him away."

The pair raced to the scene, grasping him by his forearms and dragging him away, around a corner and out of her vision. She resisted the urge to run after him, apologise, offer to heal his wounds. Doing so would only merit a punishment for herself and him.

I sound like Voss, she thought with a snort, rubbing her neck. Her body ached, and there was nothing more she wanted than to fall into a fitful sleep in that moment.

Elias seemed to sense her exhaustion, giving her an appraising smile. "You did well today, my dear," he said, eyes drifting over to Voss before she could even respond. "You, escort your mistress back to her chambers. Have her dinner taken to her chambers tonight, she needs the rest."

Clare felt her eyes widen at his words. It was a generous move on his part; one she didn't expect from him. "Sir?"

"You have been working hard, my dear. You deserve a reward," he simply said, seeming to glean what she was about to ask. He smiled at her once more, baring his teeth more like a wolf than a human being. "Rest well, my dear. We have such important business to attend to tomorrow," he continued, with a meaningful pause. "You will be going home soon."

With that, he turned on his heel with a flurry of his robes, walking away back to the estate.

Clare remained rooted to the ground for a few moments, deliberating his words. She'd be going home soon, he'd said. She definitely hadn't expected that, not when he hadn't even indicated he'd come anywhere in his research recently.

"Clare," Voss said gently, pulling her out of her reverie. "Shall we go?"

She cleared her throat, a flush rising to her cheeks. "Yeah, sorry," she replied, following him back to the estate's looming doors and beyond.

She barely even remembered getting to her room and passing out on her bed, but here she was. The world around her had a strange green tinge to it, and felt far too real to be any normal kind of dream; Clare knew almost immediately she was in the Fade for the first time in… well, weeks. What surprised her even more was that this realization comforted her.

This time, she was in the courtyard. A gentle breeze brushed past the tree's leaves, tousling her hair, yet she couldn't feel a thing. She drew her toes into the dirt, the sensation of grass against her feet never coming. She breathed through her nose, yet could not feel the air reach her lungs.

For some reason, this all comforted her.

"Guilt is a strange thing," a voice - her voice - said from behind her. She almost jumped at its sudden appearance, but remained still. She had expected this, sooner or later - its presence here, in this place. "It eats us alive until we wish we could not feel a thing."

Clare clenched her jaw, eyes remaining on the sky, where a flock of birds flew overhead. "I should have done something."

She could almost feel the being tilt its head at her, pondering her words. "Perhaps," it replied. "But your slaves were right to stop you."

The words struck her like a physical blow - well, one particular word did. She turned to face it, so quick that she should have felt whiplash when her braid hit her face. "They're not slaves, they're my friends," she hissed, fists clenched at her side.

It was easier to make its frame out, this time. There was a definite feminine quality to her, the green hues that made up her body coming together to form sharp edges and lines to show her someone. It was as though she were trying to look through a green-hued, fogged window at someone.

"They are your slaves before they are your friends," it - she, Clare decided. She would call it she - replied sardonically. "They are not truly free, and we both know it as such."

She didn't want to admit she was right. "They should be."

The being only hummed. "Yet you do nothing to help them. To truly help them. Why?" it asked, slowly approaching her.

Clare swallowed. It felt like her most self-deprecating thoughts were coming back to her. "I… I can't."

"Hm?" it replied, floating around her. She felt dizzy. "Tell me the truth. I want to hear you say it."

Clare's throat closed up at her admission. "I…" she closed her eyes, squeezing them shut. "They don't want my help. Besides, I… I can't risk upsetting Elias. He's my only hope of sending me home."

"And there," it sighed, finally coming to stop in front of her, "is the truth."

Clare could only sag in shame.

"Listen to me, girl," it said, voice commanding yet soothing all at once. An odd combination to hear after being with Elias after all this time. "The only one who can send you home is me, and me only. You truly think the magister will help you, send you home?"

It felt like a punch in the gut, hearing her say that. She'd suspected, of course. She'd been here for weeks now, and yet Elias still refused to provide no admission on how he was going to send her home, only dangling it above her head when she became too restless. Yet he'd made it abundantly clear she had no hope finding help elsewhere - not when she didn't even know where the nearest civilisation was.

But hearing this being in front of her admit that she was the key to getting her home? That was new.

"Then why haven't you?!" Clare demanded, suddenly growing angry. "I've been here for weeks, jumping hoops for Elias! Training every day for magic I won't need when I get out of here! Send me home!"

There was a brief pause between the two. Surprisingly enough, the woman didn't seem disturbed by her brief outburst; as though she had expected it. "Because you are here for a reason, and the magister served a purpose," it replied. "He was correct about one thing: you would not have survived out in Thedas by yourself. But you are stronger, more aware of this world now. You are ready."

"Stop talking to me like we're in Star Wars, for god's sake! What am I ready for? Are you telling me you kept me here on purpose?"

Despite not quite having a face, Clare could feel the approval roll off the woman in waves. "Yes. I did. And now, it is time for us to go."

"Are you saying what I think you're saying?" Clare asked, scrunching up her nose. "Are you telling me to escape?"

"I am," it replied. "The magister has been using you for a purpose, for a plan - and that plan is about to reach its fruition. He is in fool; he can see her anger, your want to escape. And he is going to act upon it in a way you cannot fathom. You must escape, or face the consequences of becoming the very thing you hate the most about this world."

She felt herself go very, very cold. "He's going to make me -"

The world shook around her before she could reply, cracks of something spilling through the sky. "We are out of time," the being replied, backing away from her. "Escape at all costs. Follow the path laid before you."

She was fading, too quick, too fast - she needed answers, she needed something - "Wait!" she called. For some reason, only one question came to mind. "What's your name?!"

Amongst the sharp outlines of green smoke, she could make out a mirthless smile.

"Call me the Hearthkeeper."

She awoke to green eyes.

"You're awake!" Elloril gasped, stepping off her bed away from her. "My lady, you had me so worried! I tried calling your name to wake you, which always works, but you would not stir, so I tried shaking you, but nothing! I had thought you were-"
"Elloril," Clare interrupted, turning to her, eyes determined and prepared. Now is the time, her voice whispered in the back of her mind. You know what you must do.

"I'm going to run away tonight, and I want you and Voss to come with me."