War and Tranquility

Three

"I have always supported you and the cause, but this is too far." Joyn tossed his bag of clothes over the back of his horse and busied himself securing it in place.

Solas frowned. He was standing barefoot in the mud, and suddenly very aware that his feet were wet and sticky. The mud squelching between his toes became a quick annoyance and he found that he was actually more annoyed at the mud than he was at his second in command.

"Blood Magic?" Joyn stopped in front of him, his eyes serious and angry. "Have you lost your mind?" His voice pitched, catching the attention of elves meagering about camp.

They quickly diverted their eyes, ashamed for him that he would speak to a so called God like such. They hung their heads, cheeks flushed as they walked deliberately away from such a confrontation.

"Fortunately," Fen'Harel growled, "I do not need your approval."

His toes were caked in mud, quickly drying into a crusty paste and he switched his weight from foot to foot in an effort to make the inconvienice less so, but only served to worsen it. Now the mud was becoming warmer, making it less of a cold and together substance, and more of a tepid nuisance of warm earth.

Joyn shook his head in disbelief. "I had believed that you were better than that. I had believed in the cause. But now.." he trailed. Deciding instead that the rest of the statement didn't matter he scoffed and shook his head again.

"Say it." Solas stepped forward, into new fresh mud and rolled his eyes.

"What does it matter?"

He slatted his eyes. This was a waste of time. "Speak."

"Fine." Joyn turned back. He ripped an emblem from his chest and dropped it at his own bare feet somehow not completely caked in mud. "There is more to this than her. We are-"

"No." Solas cut him off, his eyes had been trained on the emblem, the patch of authority. "She was all that mattered to me." His voice reached a low growl.

Joyn pursed his lips in anger. "Then that is it." He turned away, pulling himself up onto the horse and shoving his feet into the stirrups. "Dareth shiral, hahren."

...

He imagined that instead she were dead. That by some miracle they had killed her rather than send her back in such an empty state. He could imagine her corpse rotting in a hole somewhere. Worms would writhe over her once delicate features and maggots would eat away at her insides and fat grubs would bust out of her orifices. Her soft black hair would still cling to her dried up scalp, stringy and dirty. And it would be easier to look at that rather than the look on her face right now.

Her eyes were empty and dull, her skin was no longer awash with the blush from some laughing fit or upcoming joke. He bit at his lip hard as he stared into her eyes. And he imagined her dead. He could almost see the fat worms that would wriggle out of those once beautiful eye sockets and writhe back into the hole where her nose used to be, and they'd bring with them black sludge from whatever they had been eating inside of her skull.

He turned away, troubled at his thoughts. Troubled at his wish that she were dead instead. She had only glanced at him a moment, looking over to him as she rode atop Felaern. In that moment all of those things had crashed through his mind like a great boulder rolling down a hill and smashing everything in its way.

She wasn't here anyway, not anymore. She was a body without a soul. An empty vase. Indeed the vase was beautiful, but never again would it hold bright yellow sunflowers or bring happiness to those that saw it sitting there. The sunflowers in the vase, sitting on the table, making people smile as they walked by the sunlit table. But now the vase sat empty, sad and dusty and old. No longer did those walking by enjoy it's vibrancy. Now they just frowned and shook their heads. That old vase, they'd say, it should be thrown out. It is no longer worth flowers or sunlight or attention. It no longer sits on the table and makes us happy. Now all it brings is despair.