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A decade ago, just after the Blight, Ashalle had brought her home for a scant few days to mingle with her own people again before duty ripped her out and back to Ferelden — and in that time, she had not been able to see the one person left that had been a close-bound friend.

And in truth, she had not told Marethari, nor any else in Sabrae the true fate of Tamlen. They all believed him to be dead, believed the Warden Duncan's words of it. His return, forcing Sharrah's own arrow to be the thing that kills him, was a burden she'd only carry herself. Yet now it was only the two of them, and to find Merrill had been hoping to find their missing third against all odds...

Sharrah's lips press together tightly, forcing away the tremble that threatened to etch itself into her answer. I did not ask for this. Did not want to carry the weight I do now. "Tamlen is— he is dead, Merrill. And has been so since the Blight. Falon'din took him years ago."

The words that spill from her dearest friend's mouth are ones she has been told time and time again; to steer her away from a noble and yet naive goal. To put her on the right path, to continue forward. And yet, there is nothing in Sharrah's voice that gives any inclination towards such a thing. She says it with equal heartbreak, equal sincerity. As if she knows, as if she's seen something no one else has.

It was beyond what the Grey Warden had told them, beyond what the rest of the clan had tried to tell her. If Sharrah; one of such immutable strength and measure, who had loved Tamlen just as sincerely as she had believed such a thing. It had to be true. She must believe her.

And yet...her hands tremble as they trail along her forearms, the tightness she surrounds herself loosening but not at all in the sense of any comfort returning to her. Forest green eyes dart to her fingers, and she remembers when there was once a time where she would soak them in berry juices to make them look pretty, to make sure when she pinched her companions' cheeks that they smelled so very floral afterwards. The pinching felt like little kisses then. She cannot remember the last time she had used berries. It had been easier to let the blood dance at her fingertips when she cast her spells, the amplification pouring from the ends of her limbs. The berries were a prettier color...and people tended to like the smell much more...

Tamlen was dead. He had been from the start. If only she could have seen how the fruits had rotted in her hands...