Do I contradict myself?
Very well then I contradict myself,
(I am large, I contain multitudes.)
Sweet Maker, all those torches. We are dead. We're all dead.
I should've kissed her. Would she remember in the morning? It doesn't matter now.
The Herald will save us. Won't she? She can use the mark. They can't hurt us if Andraste walks with us.
What's that over there – a… boy?
Cole had been seen. Good. He had to let himself be seen or there would be nothing he could do. The panic was tangible, alive in the air as the soldiers closed ranks on him and wrap his arms behind his body.
"They are coming. I know who they are!" They need to understand. They need to listen. Their voices swell, arguments stacked upon their discordant thoughts, but Cole just needs them stop and be for a moment.
The doors open and a man is down the steps and in amongst them, barking orders, demanding answers.
It's all falling apart. Why? Who are they and why now?
The man's face betrays none of the fear his mind reveals. Cole knows he must persuade this person, that his plate mail and the fur on his shoulders and his bearing signal him out as above the rest.
"The Templars are coming! I have seen them," he struggles against the metal arms of the guards that hold him, but they do not let him go.
"Who is this boy?" The man, tall, blonde, armoured, demands.
"You must listen! "
"Stop this!" Another voice, and Cole follows the sound.
When he first sees her, he does not realize how dramatically his life is about to change. How she would be the one to change him. She is an elf, his mind registers; her cheekbones are high beneath expressive almond eyes. His gaze is drawn to her naturally, and he is unaware of all the future implications of this moment, is instead lost in the present-ness of it all.
She is pretty, like the setting sun; her eyes contain the light of a star just before it vanishes beyond the horizon. Her frame is slight but curves in ways he know men think about, and her dark hair glistens in the torchlight that burns around them. She moves quickly, is at his side in an instant, pulling guards away. Deferentially, they step back: she commands respect from them, it seems.
But her thoughts are what arrest his attention; they are loud, multitudinous, and different from the din of the soldiers.
He's only a boy. What are they thinking? - Stupid. Reckless. How could I have sanctioned the celebration? – This will not be how it ends. Not after all we've done.
With a glance at their leader, the man with the fur on his shoulders, the guards fall away and she is left face to face with Cole. Cole looks down into her eyes – he is surprised to find that he stands a little taller than her. From her presence, from the force of her in his mind, he would've thought her… well… bigger.
"Herald, please, let me handle this." Why is she always like this? It's like she wants to get herself killed.
The man in the armour moves closer, tries to get between the woman and Cole, but he will not let that happen. Cole reaches out and clings to her arms because he understands suddenly that she will listen.
"You must listen. They are Templars. Samson and the Elder One will be here soon!"
"Herald, we cannot trust this boy." The man stands angrily at their sides, is vying desperately for her attention. "For all we know the Templars may have sent him!" Always trusting. First that crazy elf, then a Tevinter magister and now what? A daft boy who can't string a sentence together? Why is she so damnably trusting?
"The Elder One needs to be here. He needs something." The words tumble out of Cole's mouth before his thoughts catch up to him. Stop. Cole. You know they do not like it when you tell them too much. You know that you make them nervous.
But not her. Somehow she is already processing his warnings as fact – the Elder One. Already? But Orlais is standing. What have I done wrong? She meets his eyes levelly. She is not unsettled by his prescience.
"Cullen. Give me a plan. If these are Templars, many of our men won't stand a chance."
"My lady." The man, Cullen, reaches out as if to touch her, then lets the hand fall. So much risk. And always on her shoulders. "I can go with you."
She shakes her head. Now is not the time for heroics. "We need you here, Commander. Fall back to the town with the villagers and less experienced troops."
This is why there are rules to govern hearts and blades. Cullen nods firmly, sense returning to his amber eyes. "Take this contingent and secure the trebuchets, Herald. Once those are operational, we may be able to cripple their forces before they arrive."
She nods. Looks back at Cole. He warned us. How does he know so much? The question battles in her eyes before the slightest shake of her head sends it skittering off. He is helping. The rest can wait.
Inwardly, Cole beamed. Helping. That is all he hoped to do.
"Keep him safe, Cullen." And then she is moving, bounding off into the snow and shouting orders over her shoulder. "Blackwall, Bull help Cullen defend the gates and organize the retreat. Vivienne, can you marshal the mages?"
Behind them on the stairs into the town, her companions wait. Cole knows they are loyal to her; they watch her with an anticipation that denotes their relationship before Cole even needs to venture into their minds. She is the leader. They will do her bidding.
They are unique and strong-willed, the lot. Men and women in armour and robes, battle ready. Their thoughts compete, jumble over each other.
This place was never defensible. What were they thinking to tarry here so long?
Is this to be our last fight? I have not done enough to redeem myself. These stripling lads will fight and die here.
"Sera, Solas, get on the walls and lend aerial support. Cassandra, Varric, Dorian – you're with me."
This is not how it is meant to end. The orb remains in his hands. This cannot be allowed to pass.
Oh lovely. So flattered that she chose me. I simply can't wait to face certain death. Again.
She can do this, can't she? If anyone can save us, it will be her.
And then they were all moving, like ants in a hive, released to do their queen's bidding. A gauntleted hand wrapped around Cole's bicep, and he found himself in tow alongside the big Commander. The man was yelling orders, mind racing, and Cole glanced over his shoulder. In the distance, the woman and her companions disappeared over a snowy ridge, weapons at the ready.
When they passed through the gates and into the town, the thoughts exploded. Uncertainty and fear, doubt and hope and stacked feelings upon feelings that made Cole close his eyes and breathe in deep.
Shut it out. The cacophony. Shut that out, just for a little bit.
His mind acceded, and he let himself focus on one person at a time.
Cullen, next to him, face stern and words brisk. But his confidence gave the townspeople purpose, Cole realized. Gather your loved ones, stay in your homes – words they could act on, and for that clarity, they were grateful.
The bigger man released Cole. But the boy stayed by his side, recognizing that this a person who could make use of his help, if only he would listen. Two women scurried towards them and Cole let himself reach out with tentative tendrils of his mind, tapping into their thoughts.
Oh good. Cullen is here. The Herald must be out there then. She will find away. A dark face framed by dark hair – her expression is concerned when she reaches the Commander.
The other woman is tall and her face is cold, eyes judging. Who is this boy? We do not need more liabilities, especially now of all times.
"Josephine, Leliana." Cullen came to a halt. "This is…."
He looked down at Cole. The boy looked up at him. What did he want?
"What's your name, lad?"
Oh. That. They needed names.
"Cole." He met the tall man's eyes. Cullen grew uncomfortable, cleared his throat and looked away.
"Yes, well. My soldiers found Cole outside the front gate. He warned us that the army is made up of Templars. Samson leads them."
How did you end up on this path Samson? You could have been someone so much better. Cole does not understand the regret in Cullen's mind.
"Is the boy correct?" The red-haired woman is hard, like glass. I pulled back my scouts. Foolish sentimentality. I could have prevented this. "How can you act on the intel of a stranger, Cullen?"
The man opened his mouth to respond, but then a shriek ripped through the night, drowning out all their thoughts and screams. Dark wings and a shadow passing over them. Cole knew what he would find if he looked up.
Archdemon. Like the one from the Fade.
The horror that resonates through the townspeople is so strong it nearly drives Cole to his knees.
"There is no way the Herald and my men can stand against that." Cullen looks back, and the two women met his gaze with terrified expressions of their own.
"We must retreat to the Chantry. It is the only building that can withstand such a beast." Cullen started to move, drawing his sword. "Take the boy and organize the people. We fall back to the Chantry."
"Where are you going, Commander?" Josephine calls after him.
"I must warn the Herald and my men."
And then he is gone, and the women are doing their best to restore order. Around them, flames begin to consume the town.
Help. They need help. Cole is scurrying then, away from the women, ignoring the shouts they throw after him. They will organize the villagers. Start the retreat. Cole will help those that cannot help themselves.
He's up a ladder and into a building on fire, pulling slats of wood of a red-haired man.
"Who… what?" A boy? We're all fucking dead. Herald of fucking Andraste my ass.
He needs something to believe in. Not Cole, but something bigger.
"The Herald sent me." The words are firm in Cole's voice. He doesn't know what they mean, but he knows that he sees a change in the man's face. Is it hope?
Then they are out the door, the man's arm heavy on Cole's shoulder.
"Uh," the man stares at him. "Thanks." And then he is gone, limping away.
There are others, in the flurry of raging red Templars and frightened cries. He cannot save them all; he cannot hold off the Templars that scurry over the walls like so many spiders, honing in on helpless flies.
He sees Cullen again; he is holding the front gate open, ushering his men through. Overhead, a noise like splitting souls rings out. The archdemon is hungry. Cole cannot help it; his gaze is drawn upwards and the colossal creature fills his mind.
It is death, he realizes. Death personified, a beast larger than any normal dragon, it's wings veined with bloody dark lines, it's mouth a yawning maw of teeth and gore.
"Come on!" Cullen's voice brings him back to himself. He is standing in snow and soot, the fire of the building behind him uncomfortably warm on his back.
Why is she always the last one? It is the Commander's thought, and then she is back. The one they call the Herald. She's in and the front door is closed. Her companions form a ring around her, and she turns to Cullen for guidance.
Haven is burning. Her thoughts make Cole feel empty inside. Sadness, a sense of failure that he wants desperately to extinguish.
Don't you know that you give these people a reason to live? He wants to shout the words at her, to remove the hopelessness he sees in her expression. Around her, her companions look equally bleak.
"Gemstone, we're running out of options." The dwarf, stout and cynical, radiates worry. We aren't prepared for this shit.
"We are falling back to the Chantry." Order. We must make order out of this chaos. The Commander, expression grim, is trying to be a leader.
The woman by the Herald, tall and stern, seizes on the Commander's words.
"We will help organize the retreat." It cannot end like this, it cannot end like this, it cannot -
"There are people trapped in the buildings." He realizes they can help him. Help him save those that he could not. He walks forward. "You must search the buildings."
The Herald meets his gaze and he does not need to read her mind to see that he has given her purpose.
"Let's go," and then they are moving, up the stairs towards the tavern. Cullen watches them go before turning to soldiers who wait by his side. He gives them brisk orders, and then starts to march himself.
"Come on, boy." Cullen takes his arm again. "You're not safe out here." As if on cue, a red Templar spews through the wall, and Cullen's sword is out. The Commander fights with the able confidence of someone who has done this his whole life. The Templar charges, but Cullen parries and pivots on his heel, sweeping his sword out and at the creature's legs.
Crippled, it falls to its knees with a horrible cry; Cole covers his ears. Its thoughts are anguished, violent, betrayed. It's the Knight-Captain. The thing is dying under Cullen's blade as the Commander hacks at its shoulders, its neck, relentless in the destruction he creates. Knight-Captain Cullen. Can't he see who I am?
Can't he help me?
With a strangled sob, the Templar shudders and dies.
Cole breathes a sigh of relief as the dead thing's agonized thoughts leave his head. The Commander proceeds without a backward glance at the crippled mass that once was a man.
"Stay close," he says as he passes by Cole, wiping viscous blood off his blade.
As they move through the town, marshalling villages into the stone building at the apex of the hill, Cole hears a noise. A soft mewling.
He pulls away from the Commander's side and hefts a piece of splintered wood out from against a building where it lies. Two green eyes glow out of the dark at him.
"Boy, what are you doing?"
The creature in the cramped space makes a mewling noise.
Her damned cat. The Commander's thoughts are loud; he directs them at himself. Cullen, this shouldn't be a priority right now.
But then the man is at Cole's side, kneeling in the snow.
"Come on," he coaxes gently, hand out. Cole watches him, perplexed. What made this man, all firm orders and uncompromising decisions, soften so readily? "Come on you blasted thing."
Slowly, a fuzzy heard emerges and Cole sees that it is indeed a cat. A small, skittish thing, afraid of the flames and yelling that that have enveloped the town.
It gives an inch, peeking forward hesitantly, and the Commander takes a mile; he grabs the thing by its scruff and thrusts it into Cole's arms.
"There. You take care of that thing." And then they are moving again, Cole trailing along, the warm ball of fur oddly still in his arms.
He looks down at the cat and it looks back up at him.
Take care of it.
He smiles. "I will take care of you. Don't worry."
The cat blinks up at him. He cannot tell what it is thinking. He wonders why.
Then, they are inside the Chantry; he ducks passed the Commander who holds the door for him and another straggled bunch of villagers. Cole can feel the energy in the building; it thrums through his veins, a nervousness that cannot be quelled, thoughts that overwhelm each other, reflecting pain, uncertainly, blind wistfulness.
She will save us.
He exploded – the blood, his eyes, he's gone, gone –
I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade
For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light
Cole lets the undulations of the thoughts roll over him. Sweep him away as he cuddles warm life against his chest.
"Ssh," he whispers gently to the cat. "Be still. Here." He lets the animal crawl beneath the folds of his cloak, and it perches itself on his shoulder. Claws dig in to his skin, but Cole does not mind. Keep it safe, he'd been told, and that was something he could do.
When he finds the dying Chancellor, he realizes there is more he can do. The Herald is back with them now, exchanging heated words with the Commander.
"We can choose how we will die – not everyone gets that's choice." Cullen's voice is intense, pitched low as he holds the Herald's gaze with his smoldering eyes. He does not want the townsfolk around them to hear. Inside, he has given up. What more could we have done? She doesn't see it, not yet. How do I tell her that it's all over?
The Herald is shaking her head, refusing to compute the Commander's words. Her thoughts and her words are in sync.
"No. There must be a way."
The Chancellor, leaning against stacked sacks of grain, gurgles. He is choking on his own blood.
"He knows!" Cole strides forward, shifts one of the dying man's arms over his shoulder. He hefts the older man towards the Herald, knees buckling under his weight. "Roderick can help." Cullen and the Herald turn uncomprehending eyes on him, but then the Chancellor is speaking, revealing the impossible. Giving hope.
Determination returns to their faces. Cole sets the old man down. Roderick's thoughts, despite his pain, are peaceful – the Maker has made use of me at last.
"Commander, can it be done?"
Cullen surveys the men around them, tallying refugees against soldiers. He nods.
"We must move quickly." He turns to depart, but the Herald speaks, freezes him in place.
"This many people will not escape the dragon's notice. You need a distraction." She stands, seems suddenly small in the large vaulting chamber. Her companions are fanned out behind her, holding posts at the Chantry doors.
No. The Commander turns, looks back over his shoulder to her. She remains still, expression set. He turns to face her, looks down at the elf and wills to himself to find another solution. No. It shouldn't be her. Why does it always have to be her?
What Cole knows can help here. Help make the Commander accept the facts. He decides to share it.
"She is the only thing the Elder One wants." He steps forward, touches the Herald's elbow. He wants to give her strength. They all look at her like she should have the answers, but she is such a small thing.
She meets his milky gaze, and he is astonished to read absolute trust on her face. "He will kill the rest of you for sport," Cole continues, holding her eyes. "But he will not rest until he has taken what you have stolen from him."
"What I've stolen?" Her eyebrows rise slightly, but she comprehends him immediately. The green glow – the fissure in her hand. Stolen? This?
"What does he know? He's just a boy." Cullen's tone aims for lightness and fails. The Commander moves closer too, leaning forward as if the force of his earnestness could ever be enough to change their fates. To erase the steely resolve that already gathered in the Herald's eyes.
You cannot save her, Commander. Cole needs to be firm. Clear. He speaks again.
"He will ravage and burn until there is nothing left." The fleeting images return. He'd seen the distorted monster of a man that led the Templars. He'd felt the creature's dark presence in his mind, not in coherent thoughts, but rather in wide slashes of trauma and terror. Whatever the Elder One may be, he was no longer a man. His capacity for destruction is limitless.
"I have to do this, Commander." She tears her gaze from Cole's to regard the taller man. Though her words sought to convince him, her thoughts were aimed at herself. This is because of you and your mark. You have to be the one to fix it.
"He is only blackness and fire." The memories assault Cole now. His rotting face, laced with pulsing red. His limbs, unnaturally long, his grip powerful enough to crush a skull. "I don't like him."
His words dispel the intensity of the situation, and Cullen barks a bitter laugh.
"Don't like him?" He shakes his head. This boy. Of course she'd take his word without hesitation. How did she get so far on blind faith?
"Keep him safe, Cullen." She says, giving Cole a small smile. "He helped us." The Herald reaches out and grabs the Commander's hand, clasps it between two of her own.
She's so warm. Why does it have to be this way? I should -
"Keep them all safe." Was Marethan right after all? A pity I'll never find out.
The Commander nods. Floods himself with irrational optimism.
"Maybe you will find a way. Surprise it. You are the Herald." Is she though? Does it matter? The Maker has forsaken us all anyway.
The Herald smiles sadly.
"Goodbye, Cullen."
No. Stop. Turn around.
She turns to her companions. The dwarf, Seeker and mage wait by the Chantry doors, weapons ready. Cole knows that they will follow her – their thoughts are dark but their loyalty is constant.
"Herald." The Commander's voice. Firm now. Spoken over the din of the villagers, and they fall silent to listen. They begin to comprehend what is happening – what their Herald is doing for them. This cannot be in vain. Good must come of this. "If we are to have any hope at all, let that thing hear you."
She smiles, tilts her head to the left. She is framed by the Chantry entrance way – fire and snow twist angrily behind her, a luminescent vortex in the blackness of the night.
"Commander. You know that dramatic entrances are my specialty."
And then she is gone.
His face, blue silk against the wall and pain in her wrists. She was bound – then his hands were trapping hers. He was a nobleman, soft and vain, but his hands had the strength of a trained knight. Where did that strength come from? How did it disarm her over and over again until even the thought of resistance infused her with weariness, suppressed action and stagnated defiance?
If I don't resist, she distantly wondered, what am I? How can I let this happen?
His palms are sweaty, manicured nails dig into her wrists. But then the hands grow, turn rough and huge, scrape deeper still as long fingers circle the entirely of her slim limb.
Corypheus.
She is suspended, mid-air, twisting violently. Her shoulder cannot take this for long – she fears the dislocation that she knows is coming. Under Corypheus' dead eyes flooded her with a sense of dread that almost dwarfed the pain. In the distance, Haven was burning.
Corypheus shakes her like a rag doll, and she is trapped again. Helpless.
She'd sworn to herself, after the room with the blue drapes. Sworn that she would never let herself be helpless again.
And yet the so called-Elder One's hand on her wrist sent her back to that place, that room with its too soft sheets and too bright lights.
You are nothing. Less than nothing. An accident and a thief.
Well, Ellana had been a thief most of her life. At the very least, Corypheus couldn't hurt her pride.
His voice rang against her eyelids, clattered inside her head, resonated as if she could feel it in her chest, drowning her. He called himself a god. In his presence, Ellana was nothing; helpless and insignificant. Standing before him, horror pooled in her stomach, threatened to swallow her whole. He made her feel like she was back in Kirkwall's grottos, watching a demon rip her father's throat out with the easy grace of an Antivan dancer. He made her feel like she stood in the shadow of a thousand rage demons; as if the creature from the Breach came forth and multiplied, attacked her from all sides. He made her starkly aware of her own fallibility; her thin flesh and hot blood, so delicate and so ready to rupture.
She fucking knew it. The Herald of Andraste? An ex-con elf who couldn't walk with the Dalish anymore than she could survive on shemlen streets? People were pathetic, so desperate to believe something. The mark wasn't meant for her; it was circumstance and not purpose that thrust her into the Inquisition.
Corypheus was a god. Or at the very least, a centuries old magister who had seen the Golden City and spat at its vacancy. What chance did she have? Was what she'd done enough? A bout of quick thinking – a dirty trick with a trebuchet that Athenril would've endorsed wholeheartedly.
Was it enough?
By the Maker she hurt.
Where was she anyway?
Open your eyes, Ellana. Her father's voice. She must be losing it.
Ellana. Marethan now, mothering her in that annoying way of hers. Get up.
Da'len. Starlight. Gemstone. Herald. Lavellan. My lady.
So many things to so many people. Voices, reasons that made it harder to just lie there and give into the cold.
But it hurt so much.
You must help them. That strange boy. He looked like a teenager halfway through puberty – awkward limbs and movements too broad or short for his body. A mop of pallid hair and milky eyes. Words that were scarily true.
He was right. Only she had seen Corypheus. The others had run, just as she'd instructed. Had they got away?
You have to get up to find out, Ellana. Her own voice. You cannot let that horrid future come to pass.
Since when had the concerns of the world become her problem? It had been straightforward once. Try to understand the mark. Try to get rid of it. Help the Inquisition because they had resources and information, connections no Dalish elf could ever garner.
But was that all? Or was there more? Help the Inquisition because Cassandra was so sincere in her belief in the Inquisition's rightness? Because Leliana served the cause with hard and unwavering dedication, and Cullen with a genuine belief that they were the only stabilizing force in all of Thedas. Because Josephine was sweet and tactful and Varric was full of regret, searching for a way to right wrongs Ellana didn't understand. Solas stayed even though it put him at risk; Blackwall joined even though doing so changed his life. So many sacrifices from so many people – Sera and Vivienne, leaving the worlds they knew behind. Bull and Dorian, trying to appear mercenary, but driven forward each day by personal conviction.
These people – noble and lowborn; elf, dwarf and human, woman and man – made the world's concerns her own. And they made her feel like a leader. Like someone – no, like the only one – who could take their dreams and desires and translate them into action.
It was annoying. But it was also exceptionally gratifying.
She'd said it to Elhan, in the letter she wrote. They gave her purpose. She'd never known that anywhere else. Everything else was meandering, being instead of doing.
They gave her a reason to get up.
She groaned. Opened one eye and then the other. Snow and wind. She'd fallen through some sort of scaffolding. She tried to laugh, and a dry hack worked its way through her lungs. Beats falling down a mineshaft, I suppose.
She levered herself onto one elbow, ignoring the pain the jolted through her torso. All of her hurt.
She rolled onto her side. Even in Kirkwall, she'd never taken a beating like this.
How many times can I do this? She forced herself onto her hands and knees. Her armour was in tatters, and an angry red gash pulsed at her side, ran from below her breast to her hipbone. Her arm gave out, shoulder crashed into the snow.
How many times do I need to get the complete and utter shit beaten out of me?
She grunted and pushed again. Both hands levered her upright, onto her knees. Her palm, cold, wet with snow that melted at contact with her bare fingertips, grappled for purchase on a nearby slab of rock.
Ellana pushed and her stomach gave a sickening gurgle. Instinctively, she pressed a hand to her side, trying desperately to keep her insides from becoming outsides.
One faltering step was followed by another. The snow rose up, almost engulfing her calves. She lurched forward, fractured thoughts cohering and scattering again with every move she made.
This is the kind of wound that ends people. Her fingers pressed into her side; the pain that resonated through her core kept the dimness of her vision at bay. By Andraste, I've given this wound to people, so many people.
A slow death was not a priority for her. Haven burned, yes, but then she'd stopped the burning. Covered it all in snow at the sign of Cullen's flare – given them an end if they hadn't escaped, and an exit if they had. Corypheus might be a fucking living god, but he hadn't saved anyone this day. Not like she had. In this one thing, he was no –
No. A noise, a subhuman wail that Ellana knew all too well. Her thoughts were stifled.
I'm dead. That was the cry of a demon and I can't even lift an arm over my shoulder to draw a dagger. She closed her eyes. All of that work. She'd been damned lucky to land in some abandoned cave. To end like this? A miraculous survival, cut short by some lesser creature of the Fade, something so trite she didn't even know what it was called?
She opened her eyes and there were four of them. Sprite like creatures, cloaked in green swirling mist that reminded her so much of the mark. They advanced, eerie jaws unhinging, magic gathering around them.
Ellana, clutching her side, would not balk. She'd killed dozens of these creatures when she'd faced the rifts. They were nothing, but she could barely stand.
No. The hand that gripped her side pulsed suddenly. Not like this.
Instinct drove her. She pulled that left hand away, grimacing as blood jutted out and down her leg. Her palm came forward and power surged along her arm, through her body, banishing the pain for one blissful moment.
The world turned green. Noise roared in her ears, and pressure built up in the chamber, the wailing of the demons reaching a frequency even elf ears could barely process.
Then, the demons sundered.
The light went out, and Ellana was on her knees again, panting with exertion. She looked up, paradoxically sweaty in the frigid chill of the Ferelden winter. Her gaze peeked through her hair, but the demons were gone.
She sat back on her knees and looked at her palm. It was red with her own blood and she could not see the mark.
What monster have I become?
She had unmade them. There were no corpses, no visceral remains. Just nothingness.
Distantly, a wolf howled. Ellana knew she had to keep moving. Every moment of pause was a moment she might never get up again.
She trudged onward with no sense of time. Soon, she was outside the cave. The wind whipped and snow consumed her. The remains of a fire pit promised nearby life, but the cold was eating her alive by then. Numbing her such that she could not even process hope.
Dorian. The thoughts in her head made no sense. Were these the thoughts of a dying woman? Will he be mad? I never replaced his robe.
Inexplicably, she feels a giggle bursting up and out of her lips. She is going to die out here, alone in the cold. She survived an encounter with a demon-made-god or Andraste knows what. With his archdemon pet and with Templars so far gone with lyrium that you could not see the man in them.
Varric will make me a martyr. All of that surviving and the cold is what gets in her in the end.
Maybe I'll be more useful to them as a martyr anyway. A martyr can't roll in the mud or fall off a horse.
Her face hits the snow as she collapses.
There. She tells the voices in her head. You can't say I didn't try, father.