#rial

Nuestra relación es confusa. Cuando le hablo pone excusas :b

Con cocaína se rehusa. Con medicina él me busca

Whatever I had been about to say dried up on my tongue, and the world swam.

Dead.

Ten years I had searched for Asha’bellanar, with no hope to sway Solas other than to petition Mythal—the woman he had called the best of them.

I pressed my tongue to the roof of my mouth, and swallowed against the rising panic. There were few mages powerful enough to harm Flemeth, much less slay her—the Hero of Ferelden had done it once, at Morrigan's urging, but she had been reborn on Sundermount.

She would not, as I had been told, die easily.

Morrigan had the desire, and the power, but not the will; not since the vir'abelasan.

“How?” I finally managed, unable to string together a better question.

"I fear you will not like the answer, Rial Lavellan."

She spoke with a deliberate slowness, invoking my name as if it were relevant. Some weight pressed down on my chest, squeezing my heart, pushing the air from my lungs. Oh.

"Don't—"

"Twas the Dread Wolf."

For a moment I stood before him still, my left hand mangled in the magic of the anchor, his bitter laugh in my ear when he spoke of Mythal's death, the punishment it deserved.

The punishment he deserved.

He'd kissed me with her blood on his hands, and I'd been none the wiser.

"Dry your eyes, Inquisitor. She went to him willing enough."

I said nothing, but fixed my eyes on hers, and something in her softened.

"I shall put it this way instead: Mythal gave Flemeth, and the old crone's power, to the Wolf without a fight. And, for her part, my mother did not resist."

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