Thank you for giving my story a shot :) Just wanted to explain the chapter layout and provide a brief background for the story:
I'm assuming those of you reading this have played Dragon Age Inquisition and are aware of the storyline, its progression and the ending. The first several chapters delineate the events from "What Pride Had Wrought" on to "Doom Upon All the World." Then the story continues on from there.

Each chapter will be from/have different characters' perspectives, separated into sections. The first few also contain flashbacks or characters' thoughts about the Inquisitor's decisions in the main story line. Hopefully it's not confusing and flows well. If it doesn't, I appreciate any suggestions!

A/N (Oct.2018) - I've gone back through the story and edited every chapter before I continued on. Nothing completely drastic, but I wanted to make it less verbose, and change the tone of certain scenes and interactions. I've added a few things that I realized may not have shown through as much as I wanted, and deleted some scenes that were unnecessary. I also renamed the story. "Lemniscate" was just too, well, wordy and obscure of a title.

Clearly, this is a work of fan fiction and is purely for fun. Nevertheless - the characters, settings, places, and languages used in this work are the property of Bioware and their brilliant Dragon Age writers, except for certain original characters who belong to the author of this work. This is simply my attempt at improving my writing skills through the expression of my interest in the Dragon Age universe and lore.

1

A shadow slipped along the highest ramparts, obscured by a heavy cloak and moonless night. Fingers clutched the fur lined fabric desperately as it snapped furiously in the wintry gale. The mountains loomed around the keep, their snow glowing the unforgivably cold night. Her gaze crept lower to the edge of the stones, looking into the expanse below, seeing nothing but desolate crags. Though sparse, the snow continued to fall, the white specks zooming by and dissipating into the cold abyss. Taunting her. Everything was so still, so serene about her… Yet her body ached, her mind was riddled with doubt. Her hands trembled ever so slightly, their shaking chipping away at her sanity. Lavellan's shoulders slouched.

The Inquisitor… The mere sound of the word terrified her. It was a mistake. Etain had given a rallying speech full of false pride, hundreds of eyes hungry for guidance and a glimmer of hope watching her every move. It took all her willpower to keep herself from running - to stand tall, to grasp the dragon sword with purpose and let the puppet show go on… Only to flee as soon as the chance arrived to the isolated corners of the keep, double over the stone walls and retch, her body wrecked with anxiety, needles on her skin. They - the strangers, had bestowed the title on her as if it was some magnificent birthright, as if it would make her more than who she was; more divine, more indestructible, infallible. As if it would cleanse her of her sins and create what they all needed. A newfound beacon of authority and power. One that fit more along their Andrastean beliefs.

Yet there she was: still a nonbeliver, a foreigner hunched over, cold, lost, alone, afraid and sleepless. Shaking to the bones under the weight of expectations she'd never meet. Barely, just barely, keeping her shit together.

Every now and then, faint banter and laughter carried on the wind from the tavern. She had half a thought to go down there and drink her fear and guilt away. To find some sort of comfort in a cup of something strong enough to warm her blood.

She reminded herself halfheartedly that drink wasn't always the answer. She looked at her hand, resting on the stone. Flecks of ice and snow stung her skin, yet it seemed the perfect distraction. Her thoughts stilled, and she lingered in the moment, praying it wouldn't end. Not that that would help her cause.

Somewhere in the gale a door opened and slammed shut, pulling her back to reality. Her fingers had numbed, her hand no longer shook. So far the cold wind answere in place of the gods, masking the pain.

Fabric and metal whispered closer to her, the pace steady. Her self-control resurfaced. Her shoulders pulled back and her frozen hand fumbled clumsily at her cloak to pull it tighter around herself. She finally turned toward the intruder, trying to remember the name of the guard on night shift.

There was no need.

The mage leaned against the stone, inspecting her with his perpetually inquisitive eyes.

"Solas." Her greeting came out much more curt than she had expected. She was surprised to see the reclusive apostate. It seemed he had grown to tolerate her company, and her endless questions. His ruminative demeanor seemed slightly off-putting at first, as he tended to make Lavellan feel a naive child in comparison. Yet his knowledge proved invaluable and hours of travels revealed the apostate had a sense of humor within. Etain waited for him to speak, biting her tongue back for fear of saying what she would later regret.

"Inquisitor." He mirrored her. For another short moment he watched her stand still as the stone around her. "What are you attempting to accomplish?"

"I couldn't sleep."

"Hm…" He looked out into the blowing snow as though could see anything through the wall of dark gray. "Naturally, you ventured out into the blustering winds at the highest battlement in the castle."

"It clears my mind." Lavellan muttered, brushing strands of her honey red hair back under the hood with icy fingers. "And you?"

He smirked slyly, his hands moving into an open palmed gesture. "I saw a lone figure standing still amidst the wind and snow. I was simply curious as to who would have such a strange idea… I did not entirely expect to find the Inquisitor herself… Especially considering your recent promotion."

Promotion… Etain had to stop herself from laughing scornfully. She brought herself to look him in the eye. "Not entirely?"

"Though everyone here has their fair share of troubles, you, Inquisitor, are under scrutiny of all of Thedas… And the guards keep to the towers, venturing out only to make the necessary rounds, not purposefully stand in the cold. Who else might be out here?"

Etain surveyed the apostate, both envying and despising the aura of calmness about him. "You."

"I was merely making my way to my quarters when I caught sight of you… Perhaps you should get indoors, Inquisitor… Skyhold is not in need of an ice sculpture of its master just yet."

Etain's eyes glimpsed down at her ice block of a hand. It had begun to burn and tingle as her body temperature thawed it.

"You don't need call me Inquisitor every chance you get. I know the title… It makes me feel as if I am no longer a person. I am still who I was…" Her voice trailed off, leaving the 'I hope' to her own thoughts. As much as she tried downplaying its effects, having a pulsating mark of otherworldly power tended to turn things upside down and inside out.

"Lethallan… It is sleep and warmth you need to quiet your unremitting doubts… Not the numbing of the wind. Your nightmares will stop if you do not focus so much on your worries." He reiterated, pushing himself away from the stone.

A shiver slipped down her back and Etain pulled the cloak tighter, though not due to the cold. Perceptive bastard aren't you? Or have I gotten so transparent?

He stepped closer to her, his hand gently pressing between her shoulder blades, urging her away from the rampart walls. Reluctantly, she walked away, back toward the main hall. She had wandered in the wind so long, his touch seemed warmer than natural for a living being, as if his fingers radiated heat to chase the chill clutching her spine. For a brief moment, she considered risking an embrace: just to feel the warmth of another, a reminder she could still afford to be a mere mortal. Or to see if she was even capable of being interested in the warmth of another person.

Lavellan turned her thoughts elsewhere, knowing no use came from searching for something that wasn't there.

"The anchor… I've been meaning to ask you about-"

"Lavellan, if you cannot sleep as it is, perhaps such heavy thoughts are better suited for the morning. Come find me then." Solas dipped his head and left her with a weak smile.

Etain tightened the cloak about her even further. What was that about? Why come to me? What did he think I would do?

She walked slowly back to her quarters, her thoughts turning to what had transgressed at Haven. The memory left her ill. So many lives shattered because of where circumstance had left her. Had the mark - had she been elsewhere, they may have all lived a while longer… No, it did not matter. They would have died regardless. Her skin yet crawled with the memory of Corypheus. How safe are we from him now? How long until he puts this place to ruin?

Etain laid in her bed, tossing and turning from one side to the other. Gods save me… She grew frustrated, unable to shut her thoughts off, unable to find the sweet refuge of sleep. She twisted from her back to her stomach. With a huff she slapped her hand on the feather pillow, fluffing it for the hundredth time as she shoved it beneath her head. She finally gave up and ended up reading through whatever book was nearest the bed. Another grueling hour dripped by before sleep closed her lids.

Morning came too soon, waking Inquisitor Lavellan to going through another day with a head full of bricks. She bathed, mountain vistas surrounding her. Fully dressed but weary, she descended into the depths of the keep, completing her morning rounds and checking in with Josephine.

After a few hours of helping everyone settle in and coordinate, Etain dragged herself to the first floor of the rotunda, hardly able to keep the drowsiness at bay. She'd meant to go see Leliana, but ran into Solas instead. Etain sighed and hoped he wouldn't be overly pedagogic today. His gaze drifted up from the parchments strewn across a heavy table at the center of the room.

"Inquisitor… You should improve your sleeping habits." He said, not unkindly.

Transparent indeed. Etain walked up to the table and glanced at the papers. "How was your morning?"

Solas answered vaguely and instead summarized the readings of the last few hours, reveling in his research. A scholar to the bones, Etain thought as she watched him. They were still clearing the rubble but he was already elbow deep in papers and books. He was still very much a mystery to her.

Etain had a habit - survival tactic, really - of studying people, to gauge their intentions and reactions. Then she altered her approach and her mannerisms to get the reactions she needed. It was part deceipt, part necessity to stay alive and out of the cells at first. Then, to try to predict what those she worked with or against would do.

Though those in the Inquisition had more or less accepted her into their ranks and circles of trust, it certainly was not a smooth beginning, nor was it any easier outside the safety net of Skyhold. Lavellan had to grasp onto every possible slipped secret, habit and weakness she could glean to keep herself, and her companions, safe.

Though in truth, that had long been common practice for her.

Solas was… harder to understand. Reticent, ruminative and certainly philosophical. He hadn't said anything definitive about his past, or his origins or his venture to the Temple of Sacred Ashes. He was tightlipped, and yet there were cracks starting to form. Lavellan had started to get under his skin, and she was not about to let that go to waste.

"Would you have a moment?… I'm interested in what you told me of yourself and your studies. If you have time, I'd like to hear more."

He glanced to the upper stories of the tower. The level above was alive with chatter and the scraping of book shelves against the stone floors; work on the library was in full swing. Further up, darkened silhouettes peered down over the railings and messenger birds fluttered about in their cages.

"You continue to surprise me… All right, let us talk…preferably somewhere more interesting than this." His hand gestured toward the door behind him.

Lavellan furrowed her brows, confused by the statement. You told me to find you… and yet I surprise you? Perhaps he thought she wouldn't listen to him. His experience with the Dalish was, afterall, fruitless. Or maybe her prying inquiries were difficult to get used to. Her tired eyes glanced him over momentarily and she nodded, walking across the room toward the door.

The sun bathed the familiar landscape in warmth, despite the lingering flurries and the snow drifts on the ground. The town was completely abandoned, the only sound was the wind rustling the pines and snapping the banners above the stone chantry.

Solas ascended the steps past the main gates, wondering how long it would take for Lavellan to piece things together. She had remained silent so far, making him hope she would speak up soon. His mind began to question whether this farce was worth the trouble.

"Why here?" She called from behind him as if on queue, her gaze drifting across their surroundings.

"Haven is familiar. It will always be important to you." He answered, not yet indulging in a sense of relief; she appeared to buy into the illusion, all he had to do was make her believe a little longer.

"We talked about that already." Her voice betrayed a tinge of suspicion, or so it seemed to him. He simply wished to speak, away from prying eyes and ears. He had to be sure…

Lavellan followed him into the chantry, down into the cells, her footfalls mirroring his own but keeping her distance. He could sense her discomfort in being in that place again. She wasn't in his line of sight, so she didn't resort to her usual masquerade. At least not for a brief moment.

She caught up and they faced the damp darkness of the cell she was imprisoned in not so long ago. Lavellan may have been still and silent, but he knew well enough beneath the facade she'd be instinctively searching for danger, or for some clue as to his intentions.

"I sat beside you while you slept, studying the anchor." He muttered, recalling the night she was brought in. The lone survivor: an unconscious Dalish mage, her left palm marred with a luminous mark. The sight had drenched Solas in a cold sweat, the extent of his horror upon seeing the scintillating lesion incomprehensible to the rest of the world. She groaned and whimpered in her slumber each time the mark pulsed and spread. You should not have been there…

"How long could it take to look at a mark on my hand?"

You have not the slightest idea. You held a relic not meant for mortals… You don't know what you have done. The truth wouldn't make much difference now. "A magical mark of unknown origin, tied to a unique breach in the veil? Longer than you might think. I ran every test I could imagine, searched the Fade, yet found nothing. Cassandra expected duplicity. She threatened to have me executed as an apostate if I didn't produce results."

"Cassandra's like that with everyone."

"Yes." He couldn't help but chuckle, she had the truth of it. His thoughts distracted him. He knew exactly what she was doing, and yet… perhaps he was wrong? Maybe things were as they seemed?

Her tone seemed genuinely calm and warm whenever she spoke to him, unless she intended otherwise. She seemed an amiable spirit, though her eyes began to betray her. Those strange eyes; a color he had chanced to glimpse more often in his ancient kin. They reminded him of the last, fleeting whispers of light before darkness of night swept in. Something lurked in their depths, occasionally revealing itself whenever threat presented, or whenever she thought no one was looking. An abyss able to strike fear into those unfortunate to incur her anger - or mesmerize the soul of one fortunate enough to befriend her. Solas was drawn to studying her more and more. She seemed nothing special, nothing surprising at first: another secretive Dalish spy, sent to keep a watchful eye on the far reaching proceedings of the shemlen. Bravely doing her duty for the good and sake of others.

In other words - another disappointment.

Though she seemed more open-minded than he had encountered among the Dalish, he had lived through enough to piece together her game before she even had a chance to play it long. Even as Istimaethoriel Lavellan's First, the woman wasn't sent to the Conclave simply for her status. Solas was beginning to see the workings beneath that clean façade, a manipulator attempting to master his own game.

That or the outright expectation of deceit, rejection and his inherent mistrust of the Dalish had primed him for constant disappointment. It was too improbable to come across someone like her. Not after all of his years dealing with the last surviving remnants of his kin. The most understanding were the ones that often revealed themselves to be the most dangerous. It was all a farce.

He walked out, his stride casual, seeing no point lingering in the darkness.

"You were never going to wake up. How could you, a mortal sent physically through the Fade?" He continued, and his eyes skimmed the humble structures surrounding the chantry. A fire still burned in the small pit across from the chantry doors. How is it possible you survived where no one else did, that you simply walked in on the ritual? Is this truly just the result of chance?

Solas paused in the clearing, facing Lavellan. She listened to him intently, no expression revealing her thoughts. Such precaution and planning to complete the ritual, and yet there she was, a Dalish mage who was simply at the wrong place at the wrong time… Or was it at the right place, at the right time? However it happened, she managed to unknowingly interrupt Corypheus' plan and buy them all some time.

"I was frustrated, frightened. The spirits I might have consulted had been driven away by The Breach. Although I wished to help, I had no faith in Cassandra… or she in me. I was ready to flee." He said.

"The Breach threatened the whole world. Where did you plan to go?"

Solas repressed a smile. Ever inquisitive Lavellan, never accepting an open ended answer without elaboration… And yet she mentioned nothing about the improbability of their location.

"Someplace far away where I might research a way to repair the Breach before its effects reached me." His eyes narrowed as his thoughts fluttered between his plans and the snowflakes melting on her interwoven braids. Lavellan didn't seem to understand his line of reasoning.

"I never said it was a good plan." Solas pivoted around, away from the way her skin was bathed with warmth in the sunlight, away from her soul burrowing gaze. The Breach still dominated the skies above the Frostback Mountains, spewing plumes of green light into the crags below. She should know… The Breach was closed by her own hand…

"I told myself: one more attempt to seal the rifts. I tried and failed. No ordinary magic would affect them. I watched the rifts expand and grow, resigned myself to flee, and then…" He paused, the memory replaying in his mind; noticing the intensified pulsing of her left hand, going on a whim and thrashing her open palm toward the rift.

"It seems you hold the key to our salvation. You sealed it with a gesture…and right then, I felt the whole world change." His lifeline - everyone's lifeline - emerged from a foolish misstep on the part of a murder suspect. The mark was a sigh of relief; a fighting chance against the chaos threatening to swallow the world of the living and uproot the Beyond.

Something dark glimmered in her eyes, as if she caught him unveiling a secret. "Felt the whole world change?" She spoke the words carefully, her head tilted coyly. A smile pulled at his lips, but for a cursory moment he felt anxiety claw at his stomach.

"A figure of speech." There was no need to entangle sentiments into the pandemonium of their lives. Yet she refused to overlook his stumble of words.

"I'm aware of the metaphor." She spoke softly, drifting a few steps closer to him. "I'm more interested in felt." Those eyes latched on to his gaze, their depth threatening and alluring at once.

It was a few misplaced words, not meant to signify anything other than what it would to anyone else… I simply meant too few would have done what you have. His thoughts raced, reasoning away the fluttering in his gut, the flush he felt creeping along his skin, unable to look away. As if in defiance of his thoughts, his eyes began picking out details of her face. An old silvery straight scar angled down from her bottom lip to her jawbone, more slender than the recently healed gash sloping diagonally down from her hairline to her temple. The afternoon light highlighted her sharp cupid's bow. He was always drawn back to her eyes, so entrancingly peculiar; the dark blue rim of her iris gave way to indigo streaked with slivers of gray. The vallaslin bore the mark of June, marring her face in a color mimicking the gray in her eyes.

"You change… everything." It wasn't what he should have ever uttered. He should have reiterated the superficial meaning of his words. No attachment. No emotion.

Lavellan shook her head once, her gaze breaking and briefly drifting to the ground. Farce or not, he could see that somewhere, deep down, she cared. Even if just a little. Sloppy, for an illusionist.

You are not one to talk, he scolded himself.

"Sweet talker." She muttered, her tone barely louder than a low whisper.

Leave it at that, Lavellan. Solas escaped the grip she had on him by looking away.

Her fingers brushed against his jawline and she hastily drew him back to face her. Her palm was warm and her touch gentle, though her skin was rough and scarred by a lifetime of hardship. Her eyes burned with the thrill of an impulse act as she pressed her lips against his own. A wave of sudden uncertainty ended her brief kiss and she pulled away, unprepared for his surprised expression. He must have signaled disbelief or shock, for Lavellan turned away promptly, ready to make a run for it. Let her go. His mind bellowed in protest while his hands acted by their own bidding. Solas shook his head, knowing he aught to restrain himself. But every fiber of his being ached and reached out for her presence. He pivoted her back around, pulling her in for an ardent kiss. His arms desperately coiled around her waist, locking her into an embrace. He savored the warmth and taste of her lips, indulging in the rush of heat and exhilaration he had not felt in ages. A surge of elation filled him as she yielded to his grasp, mirroring his passion. Her fingers snaked up his side to his back, threading a current of electricity all the way through to his skin.

Even when he managed to pull away for several seconds, the flush in the apples of her cheeks, the glimmer of surprise in her eyes, and the sheen of melted snowflakes on her skin beckoned him close once more. He could not deny the subtle call of her lips again, greedily kissing her one last time.

Too long had his path been walked in solitude, shunned by his own kin. He wandered in a darkened world, full of solemn regret, never expecting to stumble upon the light she provided, even if it was only there because he wanted it to be.

"We shouldn't. It isn't right… Not even here." He forced himself to back away, unsure of whether he would be able to refrain from kissing her until he was out of breath.

"What do you mean 'even here'?" Her face was tarnished by a scowl. Solas cold not help but smirk. For as observant as you tend to be, I'm surprised you still haven't figured it out, Lavellan… You need not look that close to know this isn't what it seems.

"Where did you think we were?" He watched the thoughts cross her face as she scanned her surroundings. Her eyes caught the still burning torches and campfires, the unlikely intact structures of the buildings around her, the Breach in the sky… a memory of the Haven now entombed in avalanche snow until summer.

"This isn't real…" Her voice trailed off and filled with incredulity. A complacent smile curled his lips and Solas's hands opened in a thoughtful gesture.

"That is a matter of debate… probably best discussed after you wake up."

No azure skies, no wispy clouds. Centuries-old stone arches, grand and immovable, loomed over her. A dream… It was a damned dream. Lavellan groaned and pressed a pillow into her own face, partially from embarrassment, partially from despair. It surprised her how much she had wished it weren't a dream. It had all felt so real… Her hand pulled the feather pillow away, strands of her hair holding on to the fabric. Etain sat up and inhaled the biting morning air.

She scolded herself for dropping guard and letting attachments develop for anyone; especially now that she added a lofty apostate elf who talks in circles and prefers dreams to reality to the list. She felt the prickle of guilt for hardly acknowledging the town her presence brought destruction to.

Sentiment was not a luxury she could afford. She owed her survival to Corypheus underestimating her, but he wouldn't make the same mistake twice. He'll look elsewhere for a weakness. The more attachments, the greater the pain, the greater the loss… Leverage for the enemy... Better run like the Dread Wolf is at your heels, Lavellan, run while you can, before you stretch your luck too thin. Focus on Corypheus. Nothing else should matter.

But there was no use. The game was not worth the candle. If she was trying to convince herself, it was already far too late.

The night was still and silent, the clear skies deceptively beautiful. The less clouds that drifted up above, the colder the darkness grew. Yet a storm brewed in the distance, threatening to roll in on Skyhold by dawn. The keep slept, save for the muffled laughter and singing coming from the tavern; the recently returned entourage was quaffing the chill of the long ascent with spiced wine and ale. A wintry breeze slipped into the Inquisitor's quarters through the open stained glass doors. The bed was unruffled, the fire pit full of slowly dying embers. The chamber was cloaked in darkness, the only light reflected by the snow peaks and a handful of candles. The Inquisitor sat on the couch in solemn silence, listening to the glacial howl moaning outside her windows. A meagre candle cast its last, desperate flickers of light across the table adjacent to the armrest, glinting off of the dark bottle by the woman's hand. Tendrils of icy air caressed her cheeks as Lavellan's finger traced the rim of her glass, her eyes glazed over with memories.

That was when it had all started; the Haven dream and kiss that quickened the hopeful kernel of affection that only proliferated into regret and madness. He was a quiet, depthless mystery that had seized Etain's interest. With each day after she grew to crave the distraction of his company, to listen to his musings and prattling, no matter how convoluted and occasionally irritating they grew; to see his lips curl into that damned smile of his. His odd curiosity of the fade, the sarcasm and occasional witticisms became charming. She saw the way his eyes adored her every chance they got; unafraid of who else might see him. He saw Etain - at least a part of her - while most saw only the Herald.

He was an escape, a shelter, and her desperately needed reminder that she was still only one person. She had grown so accustomed to the constant calculations, to the pretenses of hope, justice and strength to those who chose to follow her; repressing absolutely everything personal and 'human' was the only way to cope with the pressure. And with each new expectation, she felt herself grow colder, and her thoughts turned ruthless and dismal in the loneliness of night. Her only outlet had been his affection, in a way that none of her growing friendships with her inner circle could compare with. Nor did any of them want to take on such a burden.

Lavellan's stomach turned at the thought of never again feeling the warmth of his embrace as they slept. The memory of his lips, the roughness of his calloused hands while he held onto her - as if fearing she would slip away into thin air - had now spoiled. Every kiss he breathed her in, as if she was a wisp of fresh air amidst dense smoke. But he needed her no longer. The yowling of the wind failed to drown out the scathing memory of their last words to each other.

"Tell me you don't care." She was drowning in panic, in despair. Hating him was her only lifeline.

"I can't do that." It mattered not how genuine his sorrow may have been. She saw none of it then.

"Tell me I was some casual dalliance so I can call you a cold-hearted son of a bitch and move on!" She knew his decision was carved in stone. She left, unable to face him a second longer, her thoughts and emotions an indiscernible, ruinous whirlwind raging within her.

"I'm sorry…" His whisper followed behind her, and flayed her as if a blade glowing red from flame.

Her eyes burned with tears, yet she refused to let them show. Instead her fingers reached for the dark bottle, pouring semisweet escape into her goblet. Etain downed a sizable gulp, fighting the brimming tears. A pitiful smile crossed her wine stained lips before her thumb wiped them dry. It was impossible to determine which was more unbearable: the despondency of the breakup or her self loathing.

She understood it was best to avoid all entanglement, and yet it seemed impossible to avoid. Twice she had been turned away now. This time hurt so much more than the last. Because she couldn't reason it away. Why did he go through all the effort, why did he let her in, if he was only going to abandon her? It wasn't a dalliance, despite her words. Neither had he cared about her status, or what anyone said of their familiarity. So what was it?

Have my decisions gone beyond justification? Beyond understanding? Has he lost faith in me? Etain scowled and finished her drink. Or had he finally seen through me and didn't like what he'd found?

Lavellan's eyes fell on the ornate silver mirror resting on the couch beside the table. She glared at it as if it were a spider about to suddenly scamper over to sink its fangs into her skin. Reluctantly, she reached for it, the metal icy in her hands. She knew she would look different, but she didn't expect for the reflection to feel so foreign. Her fingers brushed her brow and cheek, where the marks should have been. No scars, no trace that the blood writing had ever existed. Had she known that Solas was going to leave her broken, she would have kept the vallaslin… Better to have redefined the error of their treasured knowledge than to carry the pain of it alone. I have enough to bear. Now this…

She couldn't stand looking into the mirror a moment longer, unable to face the worst of the shame and the pain. She was to be Clan Lavellan's next Keeper. Keeper of forgotten memories, muddled into lies. Nothing more than an injudicious child stumbling in the dark, blindly groping around for any way into the light. In one night, she'd let the apostate leave her life in ruins, doing greater damage than anything inflicted in the field. There was no healing this… no poultice nor potion to ease the pain, to make the body heal faster. Only the numbing of the wind and the chance of a dreamless night at the bottom of her glass.