#contreperry

Bare feet were almost silent on the stone as she pushed open the door to the chantry.  The bitter cold bit at her knees, where her nightshirt stopped. Long dark hair hung over hollow pale grey eyes.  Reaching out with her had lightning zapped around the room, lighting the candles around Blessed Andraste. Kneeling down she closed her eyes.

Dark wings, violent and echoing cries of music pounded her ears. Her eyes snapped open and she sobbed. It wasn’t real, her calling had been cured. Her hand clenched the furs tightly. She stared up at Andraste, the pan of oil burning.

“Your maker did this! Magic should serve men and not rule over them. I have given everything! Let me be! Let me live in peace!” she screamed her body shaking with her anger. The warden commander, the hero of the fifth blight. She had wanted none of it. Another sob tore through her, her hand reaching up to cling to the pendant around her neck. For all their problems Cullen seemed to understand some of it. He was helping her, keeping her from, doing something just as rash as her fellow wardens.

“Blessed are the righteous, the lights in the shadow. In their blood, the Maker’s will is written.” She tried to sing the words, her voice catching on them, her song turning to sobs.  The last time she sang those words, filled her with pain.  She closed her eyes.

Corrupted flames roaring past her,  magical barriers shattering, burnt lyrium filling the air.  She had picked up a sword, pulling the last of her magic into it. She had charged sliding under Urthemiel, it hadn’t been enough. Alistair was going to be married. She had nothing, she was the best choice. Grabbing her staff she climbed on top of the dragon. “Blessed are the righteous.” she raised her staff, her legs locked behind the dragon’s head. “The lights in the shadow. In their blood…in my blood the Maker’s will is written!” she slammed her staff down pushing all her strength into pushing the blade into the dragon. The roaring in her ears shattered, silence, then a great beam of light and she was thrown back. Her vision faded to black.

She shook and sobbed the fur cape slipping off her shoulders, she was supposed to die that day.  She didn’t hear the door open her mind lost in the past.

“Drysi? Maker’s breath!” She barely felt the fur wrap around her along with a mantle. Her eyes didn’t focus immediately onto him as he leaned down. “Drysi, I know you are there love,” he whispered gently pulling into her arms, he picked her up pressing her close, Andraste as silent as the Maker stood watching as he carried her away.

The first thing to pull her from her memories, Shortbread, and armor polish. She blinked, her eyes still carrying the haunted expression as they entered his office. “Drysi, sweetheart you back with me.” She barely nodded she wasn’t sure if she was with him. She still felt so numb.

She wasn’t sure when he sat down with her on the bed, but he wrapped his arms around her, pulling blankets around her. His hand brushed the hair out of her eyes just holding her.

“You’re in Skyhold, Drysi. The archdemon is ten years dead.” they were words, words whispered to gently bring her back. “You have been cured of the calling nearly as long,” he whispered stroking her hair, peppering her forehead with tender kisses. “None of it is real, and he will pay for doing this to you.” She curled so her head pressed into his chest, another sob shook her tired body.

“It is alright love, let it all out.” he rubbed her back comforting her, mirroring words she had said when he sparred with her burning through anger and pain.  Her hands clenched onto his shirt, she needed him more than she had needed anyone since the blight.