#icewalker

Formula: C8H11NO2+C10H12N2O+C43H66N12O12S2ChemSpider ID: 43112339 in da multiplex

She is rage. She is fire in every sinew, every synapse is frayed with white, jagged electricity. It fills her mouth with metal and the screams are boiling water on her tongue, ashy pipe-smoke between her teeth. There is blood worn on her chest like chiffon, like pride and over-plush extravagance. She wears her fury in the shaking of her shoulders, along the crescents of the muscles over her shoulder blades. She is tangles of hair catching in the corners of her lips, red like wildfire on a drought-worn valley.

She can feel bone crush under her bare hands as she forces the heel of her palm up against a pliant jaw. Her tears blind her to the fear in those human eyes. Her ears are bare, pointed, unmistakeable. Her magic makes her almost unseeable, dancing in and out of view between the flurries of blizzard’s howl. She cannot forgive. She will not forgive.

She spits as she begs unhearing gods for the burning in her chest to temper. So that this madness does not claw a home for itself where her heart should be. The end of her staff tears a hole in the back of another crimson knight. He screams for a daughter he does not remember. She laughs and it sounds like thunder.

He is bleeding on the ground behind her, frantic green luminescence emanating from Dorian’s trembling fingertips.

“He may not make it.”

Those words are tinder. They take to flame so easily. The reality rips and snaps under her will as she forces magic to become fatal.  But this carnal scene is not distanced by spells. It is melting spears of frozen water in her hands that gut the man who raises his hand to touch the things she loves.

The mage that hurt him is breathing hard into her palm, the chords in the neck spindly and straining. She has the chance to just— squeeze.

She looks up and the rage demon stands half summoned in the harried glyph drawn in the frozen dirt. It offers a toothy smile, an outstretched hand. Beckoning. Resonating with the pulses of wild music that suck the color out of the periphery of her vision. Blind her to what atrocity she has committed out of manic revenge.

He is sunlit hallways and prayer at dusk. He is stolen blueberry tarts from the kitchens and soft sheepskins and strong arms to lean into. He is the good in herself that she has to fight for. She looks over her shoulder and sees him standing, breathing hard and barely conscious, but standing. Dorian has a fear she has never seen settle on his features before.

She touches its outstretched claws and it instantly freezes. She throws her weight into a downward swing and it shatters. Her back feels like it cannot straighten as she leans heavy on the cherry-wood of her staff. She pushes her hair away from her face, tucks it away. Her palm clutches and unclutches at the fabric between her collarbones.

He catches her in his weak arms, lips pressed to the rust from the deep gash on her forehead. He keeps whispering that it is okay. She thinks of her fallen clan and her lone footsteps on the mountain path behind Skyhold. She will beg him for forgiveness.