“ you are no one’s instrument ” from solas. :)c
` lines from poetry. / accepting.
❛ tell me, what would you call it then, solas? what would you call the mark on my hand, if not some -- some harbinger of the end? ❜ exasperated, truly at wit’s end, her voice rises in both pitch and volume as she volleys forth in the conversation. dusk has long since fallen over the courtyard, stars twinkling overhead, a soft breeze to carry along the chill of the mountains into the fortress-turned-stronghold. it sways the branches of the overgrown willows, bent low as they quietly wept; it ruffles the growing elfroot and shrubbery, and all manner of flowers which have been planted at the inquisitor’s request. truth be told, it might have been a beautiful sight, a beautiful night to share with a dear friend, were it not for the sensitive subject that had been broached. a subject that she had tentatively broached of her own volition, she reminds herself, bitter; a sentiment that she’d locked within herself for some time, and turned to someone she trusted to share. her fellow apostate, her friend. and now, her chastiser.
aralae looks down at said tainted hand as she speaks, slowly unfurling her fingers, which she’d not realized she’d been clenching so tightly. the mark remains, ever-bright, fade-green and lurid. it shines with a sickly intensity, reminds her again of its purpose, and her impurity by association. she’d never claimed to be saved by andraste, nor any other divine being -- the fact was that she'd always rebuked such claims, and framed herself to be something far less holy. a victim of circumstance. one with a burden neither desired nor asked for. a fearful girl trembling in her holding cell, hiding her marked hand, pleading to be set free. she’s changed since then, but she remembers that fear, that reluctance of hers. she’s vowed never to let it overtake her again, -- not after witnessing all those who had laid down their life for her, for her! -- but with this newfound information about the mark and corypheus, she lays in bed at night and allows it to haunt her. fear, but of a different kind. she’s not afraid of the inquisition, nor of her title as herald. she’s afraid of what she might become in the wake of it all.
solas says she is no one’s instrument. she cannot be sure of this. her eyes sting. her head is heavy. she closes her fist again and hides the damned thing away.
❛ this mark ... ... it was meant to tear the sky to pieces. the means necessary for one man to achieve godhood. it is a curse. and it’s been placed upon my hand. ❜ her voice, soft, almost defeated. she shakes her head, turns away. ❛ i know what i must do with it; what i’ve vowed to do for the good of the inquisition, and the world. i know that i must take its power and turn it against corypheus. heal the sky, not hurt it. i know that your intentions are good, and that what you say, you say from the heart. but it’s still ... ... it’s still a weapon in the end, solas, and a weapon attached to me. isn’t it? and if that’s the case, then ... ... -- ❜ then what does that make her, if not an instrument of destruction in her own right, should the mark go haywire, should it overtake her -- should corypheus take hold of her, to do his bidding?
silence, then. the breeze continues to blow, and somewhere in the distance, insects begin to chirp their weary evening songs. aralae releases a breath she does not realize she’s been holding. she starts again, but she does not look him in the eye.
❛ ... i’m sorry to keep you so late, lethallin. we’ll speak another time. ❜
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