Chapter Seven

Sophie was wondering if she had forgotten what it was like to dream. Ever since the destruction of the Archdemon, her nights were spent reliving moments throughout her life. Snippets of time that complied her existence, collecting and organizing themselves in broken order, flashed before her every time her conscious mind gave into the darkness.

Some memories were sweet, full of joy. Others were sad, showing those she had lost over the years. Then there were the memories that clawed at her soul, the pain ripping her apart from the inside out. Those nights were when she woke up with tears, scorching heat in her throat, stones in her stomach, coated in beads of sweat, and the beautiful distant song in her ears, beckoning her to come back, to come home …

Alistair's rose was blood-red in the heightened light. The young man slowly turned the stem between his thumb, index, and middle fingers. It was strange to see his hands without their usual gauntlet covering. His palms were rough and calloused from his years of barn work and training, his right from gripping his sword, his left from bracing his shield.

Even then, he held the rose so gently, as if it were his most precious possession in that moment. He was having trouble making eye contact with her, his face already giving his nervousness and slight embarrassment away. Their fingers touched as he offered the beautiful flower to her, and her skin tingled happily …

Bryce Cousland laughed as two children ran at him with little wooden swords. The boy had a mop of dark auburn hair on the top of his head, blades of grass giving shocking lines of green among the darkness of his hair. Fergus was stronger than her, thin and wiry, but Sophie never let that stop her. Her big brother was the one who pushed her, the unspoken competition between them setting the bar to be the best they could.

Father dropped to his knees, pretending to be struck down by his two little brave warriors. His hair was a shade lighter than Fergus's, his face holding so many fewer lines. The shock of his pale blue eyes always struck her. Sophie envied her father's eyes because of how much beauty they held behind them. Of course, she would never admit that out loud to the man; he would have laughed and shrugged the comment away. But if she could see through those eyes, feel what those eyes held, maybe then she would fully understand her father …

Blood filled her mouth. She fought to catch her breath, straightening up. Oghren stood a short distance away from her, commenting again how he didn't think it was possible for someone with her abilities to learn what he knew. Rogues weren't meant to be berserkers. It took force, power. Only warriors could truly master the skill. The blood turned dark as the dirt of the ground absorbed it. Wiping her mouth, she stood to face him again. She would learn the dwarf's specialty, even if it killed her. There was nowhere for her anger to go; her rage boiled under the surface of her consciousness, threatening to destroy her. An outlet was her only option, or she would die …

The dark stains on her mother's leather armor told her enough. Bryce gasped in pain as she knelt beside him, her mother's hands and her own pressing against the gash in his side. So much blood seeped through her fingers as her tears blinded her. She had to help him, had to do something. She couldn't leave them, not again. She would get her parents to safety, see them through the seemingly endless attack from that bastard Howe's men …

She lied in a simple bed, her hair matted to her forehead. Exhaustion was overtaking her, but in her arms she held a soft, warm bundle of blanket. Immediately, she recognized a tiny version of her husband's nose poking from the folds. Sophie smiled, placing the tip of her pinky finger on that nose. A sweet grunt came from the baby as he smacked his lips, settling into his blankets once more. Alistair sat on the edge of the bed, leaning his head to hers as the bundle in his own hands let out a small yawn. The man beamed, looking down at his two precious boys.

He kissed her before placing his lips on the tops of the boys' heads, planting a kiss among the wisps of platinum blonde hair. She joked that they would look everything like their father; and she was perfectly content with that. Except for the eyes, her own father's eyes looked at her from her infant sons' faces.

It was there, in that moment, that she knew the two of them could never be happier. In their arms they held their redemption. A chance to begin a new life, full of promise and happiness, was here with them, in the breath of their sons. Wynne said the Maker blessed them that day. Somehow, the woman knew her old mage friend was telling the truth …

The pain that put her under ebbed away slowly, as if seeping out of her body. Her consciousness struggled to be pulled away from the images her mind held, to free herself from the pain much worse than that of the one coming from her physical self. The Warden-Commander had endured more physical pain than she could remember in her life. Given the choice, she would take physical pain thousands of times worse to avoid feeling the searing pain in her heart.

Alistair's voice was quiet. She was sure she had imagined him before she dropped to the ground. They were fighting a group of rage demons. How they appeared in the midst of snowy trees were not her concern, but they had to be eliminated. Pain her chest stopped her attack on such a demon, and for a brief moment, she saw the face of her amazing husband. A part of her knew he would be the last person he would picture before she died, but he looked so exhausted … his skin pale and a steady drip of blood seeping into the pure white snow beside him. Small beads of red stretched across his neck, but he hardly seemed to notice it.

His eyes had cut into hers. Wanting to reach out, she suddenly found her body refused to move. She tried to utter his name before the darkness overtook her, bringing the images before her.

Now, she was on her back, and her pain was gone. She could sense someone above her, rough, cold fingers touching her cheek lightly. Hearing her husband's voice say his name did nothing to comfort her. Demons could manifest perfect impersonations of those you cared about. The woman knew that better than most. She had to be sure.

Risking a slight movement of her arms, her forearm felt the bite of something sharp beside her. She was uncertain how many were in the space with her, but she would fight if she had to. There were no options at this point. It took her a moment to realize it was a broken arrow she clutched in her hand, pressing it firmly into the neck of the man who looked like the king of Ferelden.

His blond hair was slightly longer than she remembered. It had been an ongoing joke between the two of them that Alistair would be more likely to have a relationship with his hair than another woman. His "beautiful locks and beautiful woman" were the most important things in the world to him. Water darkened the usual dirty blond hair, and it plastered to his forehead. There was a new trail of blood coming from his neck where the arrowhead dug into the sensitive skin under his Adam's apple.

It wasn't the question she asked. The hesitation, the cloudy pain in his eyes was how she knew this man she was close to killing was indeed her husband. Something in her knew that she had tried, more than once, to end him. But the pain in his eyes was caused from more than the question she asked … it was the doubt she had in him that cut deeper than any blade she took to him.

That was enough for the tears to finally overwhelm her.

For two years, she only imagined how she would feel being in Alistair Theirin's arms again. She never imagined it would be so painful.