She had returned from the Bannorn the same day he was to set out for Kirkwall. The few minutes they’d had together that day was short and sweet, and full of unspoken promise. The day he’d returned, Nathaniel had been waiting for him, gripping his bow so tightly that his knuckles turned white.

So he’d set out again, immediately. No other choice, really.

The Deep Roads were dry and hot and left his lips cracked and his throat parched. The hardtack certainly wasn’t helping, and to make matters worse, he was almost out of that. Such grousing was chased from his mind by the baying of a hound. Pausing mid-stride, he strained his ears and, hearing the distant din of battle, hurried on.

What he found was beyond a nightmare. Darkspawn had fallen around them. The growling dog yelped a warning; upon recognizing him, the growl became a pained whine. Slumped against the bloodstained flagstones, she was deathly still.

Desperate, Alistair pushed the mabari away. Gathering her into his arms, he kissed her lips, tasting taint where once he’d tasted life. As if roused by a miracle, she stirred. Gasping for air, she reached for the weapon that had fallen from her grasp. He caught her hand in his and squeezed; it quieted her, for even blind, she knew him.

“They’re coming,” she rasped, not even a whisper. Pained, he rocked her gently, feeling darkspawn stronger than he could feel the woman in his arms. “I know.”