Dust
Alistair
He watches her through the flames.
She hasn't said a word since they left Redcliffe, spending hours looking into space. Any attempts from Leliana to talk have been met with a shake of her head, or, once, "Now isn't the time."
At this, Leliana had said, "When is?"
Morgana had muttered something that sounded like a slightly broken "Please," and carried on walking, eyes ahead and jaw set.
He thinks that it's probably pure fatigue that has stopped her; she says nothing to any of them as she sets up her tent, quickly and efficiently.
That's how he knows that something is very wrong, how he knew in Redcliffe.
People are always in trouble when she's quiet - she's never been a shouter. Hours without conversation, icy politeness, being brisk but cold to those around her... Silence is her loudest scream.
She's been sat for hours, just staring into the campfire's flames, refusing the stew Leliana made and not saying a word.
What can he say? It's not like he's exactly having it easy. The thought of a heavy crown, suffocating golden armour, makes him nauseous. He doesn't lead, he thought they'd established that - not their little group, and certainly not a nation.
So why does this, the death of one more blood mage, bother him so much? Because Jowan was her friend, and he realises that he saw himself reflected when the man looked at Morgana.
He hears her inhale sharply, and looks up at the sound.
She is holding a crumpled, folded piece of parchment which he recognises easily, seeing her name written in small, meticulously neat - careful - handwriting. He can't help thinking that the man even wrote like he was nervous, trying to please.
Her hands shake as she unfolds it; he sees her swallow as she reads it, hands gripping the sheet more tightly in an effort not to drop it, and she lets out a breath he hadn't realised she was holding. She folds it again, methodically, slowly, putting it back into her pocket and standing; their eyes meet through the flames for a moment, then she pointedly looks away, and all he can hear is the clank of every armoured step, fading as she walks into the woods at the outskirts of the camp.
He stares after her, wanting to kick himself for not comforting her, but, he thinks again, what can he say?
His thoughts return to Eamon's words - they've hardly been away from them - , to this "right", this throne, forced upon him, and his mouth is suddenly dry.