Salem

My hands were shaking. Wynne was doing something I could neither see nor feel. According to her, I had been slashed with a knife. A knife held by a child. A child who was dead. Dead at my hands. I had not felt the blow. I could not feel the blood on my body. I could not feel Wynne's hands or her magic. I wished my heart could be as numb as my side. Then...then I would not wish to run, hide, and shed oceans of tears.

A child. My mother and father must be spinning in their grave. I murdered a child...one who probably did not even know what he did. Damn this quest; damn this tainted blood and this need to build an army. Damn me for what I am going to do next.

"Salem?" Wynne's voice, questioning. "Salem, are you all right?"

A thousand hells of no. "Fine." I answered, terse. "Let's finish this."

"To the Chantry, I assume?" Leliana's voice, colder than I had ever heard.

"From our fearless leader's steely glare, I believe you are correct." Morrigan's catty tones. "I agree. The sooner we wipe this place from any map yet drawn, the better off we all shall be."

"Move out." I did not want this discussion to digress into another argument. I lifted my swords, hating the knowledge that the blades were still wet with the boy's blood.

Burrow bumped my hand with his wet nose. I smiled, knowing the mabari could sense my discomfort, my hatred of all things that I was. I could feel waves of cold emanating from Leliana and comfort and concern from Wynne. The others remained distantly aloof. I knew Sten would not care; his Qun mandated success above all, damning the consequences. Morrigan had less of a conscience than Burrow. I whispered a silent prayer of thanks that Alistair had not been here to see. I did not think he could ever forgive me. I was not certain that I could forgive myself.

Yet the mission must continue. I petted Burrow, absent. I must keep killing in order to save lives. In war, victory. In peace, vigilance. In death, sacrifice. And in life...what about that, Grey Wardens? How are we meant to live with this burden?

We walked to the Chantry in this desecrated little town. Minutes stretched into eternity. I remembered another walk, with Duncan, to Ostagar. He had been kind enough to let me grieve in private, calm enough to withstand my anger, brave enough to understand my fears.

Remember, Lady Cousland, he had said, no matter what you have lost, you remain who you are. There are those who will try to tell you that becoming a Grey Warden changes all. It is only partially true. All the wardens ask is your service. They dictate your destiny, but not how you achieve it. Those ends are left up to you.

I'm a sterling example, Duncan, I mocked myself in silence. A disgraced noble, wanted fugitive, blind child-killer. How is it that I fall further from grace, while others bring themselves higher?

"We're here." Sten announced.

All right, Father Eirik. I subverted my grief and my shame, letting my anger come to the forefront. Your entire damn town just tried to kill me. Let me repay the favor.

I tightened my grip on my swords and kicked in the door. I heard the sounds of voices raised in prayer; coughed in the smoky, incense-choked air, and cringed at the smell of blood beneath the smoke. "I'm looking for Father Eirik." I said.

"Look," a loud, authoritarian voice echoed from the back of the room, "they come, as I foretold they would. Harlots and thieves, drenched in blood, the blood of your mothers and sisters, fathers, brothers, and children."

A low murmur rose among those gathered. I guessed seven, maybe eight, people were gathered aside from Father Eirik.

"And you are not drenched in that same blood?" I asked, incredulous. "Is the true matter here the hand that holds the knife? Did I remove your power, Father Eirik? Disrupt your little cult?"

"You fool!" he hissed. "You and your kind shall never know of the resurrection! You shall never hear the voice of the prophet reborn!"

"You shall not know another breath." I threatened him. "What became of Brother Genitivi? I know he came here. We followed clues his research left us."

"The heretic met his proper end." Eirik snarled. "As shall you, interloper!"

The air seemed to ignite and sweat poured down my face.

"He's a mage!" Morrigan called in warning.

The others moved forward and I heard the ominous sound of weapons being drawn. I caught the blade aimed for my shoulder and thrust my other sword into my attacker's chest. It grated on metal, finally catching and slipping into the skin. Satisfied, I wrenched it out. An agonized cry echoed through the room.

Good. This world is better without your kind in it. The heat intensified and I stumbled, suddenly exhausted. I had no doubt it was Eirik's magic to blame. Trusting my companions to handle the others, I strode forward into the heart of the volcano. My hair stuck to my face, but I left it alone.

"Look at me and die, warden!" Eirik taunted. "The one you came for is dead! The secrets you have come to find shall forever remain buried! Your end is here!"

I raised my face, hoping that my eyes looked into his. Whatever power he had, it would not work on me. The heat grew to a nearly unbearable degree. Tendrils of flame struck my hands. My blades dropped to the ground and I smelled charred flesh.

I reached him and grasped his robes, using his body to help me stand. "It is useless." he hissed; his breath smelled of blood and sulfur. His hands grasped my face and he stared into my sightless eyes. "Die, warden."

I reached into my belt, grasping the hilt of my knife, wincing as the leather wrapping touched my burned hand. "Not today." I struggled to form the words.

I pulled the blade and rammed it into his gut, tearing across with a viciousness I did not expect. Whatever had happened to this town, this man had been behind it. The boy's blood was on his hands and mine. I hoped that Eirik's death would equalize with the child's in the Maker's eyes. That somewhere, Justice would see, and forgive.

The heat vanished from the air and the clamor of battle died down. Exhausted, I sank to my knees. A warm hand rested on my shoulder.

"Are you all right?" Leliana's voice still held a chill, but it had warmed somewhat.

"My hands are burned." I did not sound like myself, and it worried me. "Do not worry over it." I stood with her assistance and shook my head, wiping my sweat-drenched hair out of my face. "Any injuries?"

"A few scrapes and bruises." Oghren gruffed. "Nothin' spectacular."

The others agreed with his statement and I whispered a quiet prayer of thanks. "Look for anything on the bodies that might tell us where they've hidden Genitivi. Eirik's claims were too fierce. The brother is not dead. Find him."

They rushed to comply and I dropped to the floor, casting about with my burned hands to find my fallen blades. My injuries protested as I found, lifted, and sheathed them, but I ignored the pain. There would be time to worry over myself later. Time Brother Genitivi might not have.