Leliana

The tunnels reeked of blood, death, and decay. We had left the bodies where they had fallen...unconcerned with the souls of our enemies.

I have killed so many, I thought as I tripped, my vision obscured by tears. Why should I presume to believe that the Maker would send me a vision? There are those more suited for such gifts, whose hands are far better equipped for that role. I thought, I dashed tears from my eyes, furious that they would not cease, I thought the Maker had placed me at your side, Salem. But it was just the mad dreaming of an insignificant bard.

A fresh wave of grief poured over me, stripping another layer of flesh from my heart. I leaned against the ice-choked walls, slamming my fist against them until I became numb to the pain. My knuckles came away bruised and bloodied. I stared at my ruined flesh for a moment, too dazed to form a coherent thought.

My body forced itself to move. Each step felt like a knife to the gut.

I cannot believe you let me go, I spoke to Salem in my mind, already missing the dark notes of her laughter, the haunting seduction of her whispers, the hoarse desperation of her grief. How do you make me feel replete with love when I can do nothing but loathe myself? You were wrong, Salem. In my anger, I did lie. It is not you I hate, my warden. Never you. Why could you not rail against me, shower me with resentment, flay me with guilt?

"Why," my ruined voice cracked as I asked the question I feared the answer to, "why did you let me go, Salem?"

Despair drained away the last of my strength and I collapsed against the tunnel walls, uncaring that the main temple lay just ahead, that the world beyond could be mine for the taking. I closed my eyes in a fruitless battle against the tears.

"Why?" I looked to the sky, to my precious, lying, mercilessly silent Maker. "Damn you, tell me why!"

As if in answer, a long repressed memory reached the forefront of my thoughts.

I fidget, waiting for the sun to go down. She is never here during the day; only when night falls will she show her face to me. This, I tire of,I think, cleaning my nails with the tip of my dagger. Dried blood is still caked beneath them from this afternoon's escapades. Why will you only gaze at me in moonlight, Marjolaine? Do I displease you? Are my features too stark in the light of day?

The last edge of the sun creeps below the horizon and I wait, knowing she will come to me. Marjolaine is as fickle as the spring breezes, but when coin is assured and a task requires proof of completion, she will arrive without fail.

She melts from the shadows as though she is one of them, her hair an onyx that rivals midnight's black.

"There you are, my pretty thing." she coos, threading her fingers through my hair.

She smells of myrrh and gardenia. It intoxicates me as I inhale, as I begin to lose my resolve.

"Stop." I pull away from her touch, extending a leather coin purse. "As agreed."

She snatches it away, pouring its contents into her hand. "Ah, my nightingale," she purrs low in her throat, "you never fail to deliver...exquisite...results."

Unwilling, I blush at the compliment. I shake my head and steel myself. What I do next is something that must be done.

"This is the last one, Marjolaine." I tell her. "I want my freedom."

"Of course, pretty thing." Marjolaine pouts. Her supple lips gleam beneath the moon, full of promises. "I ask only," she winds her arms about me like the coils of a snake, "the tiniest of favors."

No. No more favors. No more blood drenched games of whimsy. I am tired, Marjolaine. I want a life that is mine.

But her eyes are moist with what look like tears; her hands cradle me against her, so loving, so tender a touch. "Ask it." my throat goes dry.

Though I have given her no guarantee, I know she is seeking a way to entrap me.

"You sing of wanting your freedom, little nightingale." she whispers, nibbling at the edge of my ear in the way that sets my nerves on fire. "And I am more than willing to give it. On one condition."

Always...I fume, though I am helpless to resist. I feel a dagger at my back, pressed lightly over a vital organ. I must answer her or die. That is her world, her way. Living in black and white, dancing between shades of grey.

"Name it."

She laughs, a deep mire of silk and quicksand. "Tell me you do not love me, Leliana."

What? Alarm fires behind my eyes; the dagger makes it presence more forceful. "I...I do not understand."

"If you truly love me as you say," Marjolaine traces my jaw with her fine, ivory fingers, "then you do not, in earnest, wish to leave. It is impossible to abandon what you love, pretty thing. So tell me you do not love me, and I will set you free."

"I..." I struggled with the words, finding it difficult to lie with her hand on my breast and her knife in my back, "I...I don't..."

"Say it." she taunts me. "Say it and earn your freedom."

I do not love you, Marjolaine. I taste the words, taste my freedom; it lies just in front of me. "I do not..." she took me in, gave me a home, a life, a family...love. I have never known a passion so fierce, a kiss so ferocious that it touches my very soul. I cannot lie, not about this, not to her.

My shoulders slump as my hope of freedom collapses. "I cannot say it, Marjolaine." I admit my defeat and I swear I can hear her smile.

"Then you do not wish to leave me." Marjolaine bites my ear to the point of pain, as though taming a wild dog. "The heart knows what it wants, nightingale."

She slips back into her shadows and I fall to my knees, feeling despair claw at my heart. She has me completely entangled in her insidious web. I am not my own. I never will be. She owns all that I am. She loves me.

Dear Maker! The answer to my question struck me, blunt force trauma to the gut. I staggered to my knees as the contents of my stomach forced themselves out of my body. I retched until nothing remained within me.

I clung to the ground as the world spun and my body trembled. My throat burned from acid as sobs tore me apart.

"You," I spoke to Salem though she was not there, and never would be again, "you let me go...without a fight...because you love me."

I rolled over onto my back and stared at the ceiling. "You truly love me." I traced her face in my mind; firm jaw, high, structured cheekbones, a straight nose too long for classic beauty, and once broken for a roguish profile. "As no other ever would."

I curled into a tight ball of pain as a primal scream, soaked with anguish, shredded across my vocal chords. If this continued, my voice would be destroyed.

It does not matter, I consoled myself, I have no wish to sing again. I would cherish it in my heart this way...that you were the last person to hear the nightingale. Salem...Salem...Salem!

I lay there, shivering on the floor, longing for what I had lost.

No...not lost. What I have thrown away.