Flames
Leliana
Lothering is burning.
There is nothing she can do but watch. They are too far away to hear the screams, to see exactly who is dying, but she can't help but guess.
A single tear slides down her cheek - genuine, because she doesn't have to lie about her emotions anymore, doesn't have to summon up crocodile tears. That life is behind her.
If the horde had been defeated at Ostagar, if the Blight hadn't advanced, this might have been a home for her once - a place to live out the rest of her life as a sister in peace and tranquility, without that beautiful smile and those sharp words hounding her.
The locals had even warmed to her - of course, the accent and years of Loghain being Ferelden's most respected general had delayed that, but after a while she stopped being "the Orlesian" in harsh tones and started being "the dreamy little foreign girl" in slightly affectionate ones. That was the persona she decided suited needs best; after all, it is true - years of not having to be cold or hard have allowed her to find a sweeter side of herself, to remember the shoe obsession nurtured over years under... her master. She refuses to think of her name, even in the privacy of her own head.
She must put all of this behind her, of course - it is her duty, her mission, to stop this Blight, stop the spread of the darkness along this wonderful land, her adopted homeland.
At what cost?
She turns back to the camp. They are... an odd assortment, certainly: the mage who has a dagger and seems to be searching for armour; the louder one, still young, who hides behind humour and sarcasm; the unspeaking giant who was locked up in Lothering; and finally, the witch, with a sharp tongue, a shrewd mind, and, it seems, absolutely no idea what life is like outside her native Wilds.
There is a hissed "Ow!" from the man, who seems to be sucking his finger, as if from a small wound; seeing the flash of red and green as he tries to manoeuvre something into his pack, as if it might break or disintegrate if he isn't careful, a theory occurs to her: from a thorn, perhaps?
Remembering her dream, she turns back towards the village.
She watches the flames.