Stories in the Ink

Testing One's Faith

A heavy moon rose proudly over the stone fortress of Skyhold, clouds absent and air chill. The foolish girl and strange boy had sat high upon the battlements, a slab of solid stone between them. The wind was thick and heavy with tension, too many things to say, yet too little sense of how to word them. Foolish tongue tied and hair swirling around a thin finger, nibbling upon the dead ends did Solona sit, anxious and tense. The boy so close yet so far away was just as on edge, posture wooden and ridged, brooding in thought.

Solona had bit her lip, trying to speak, but found her jaw clamped shut. She wanted to say something, but anything she had attempted to say within her head to speak had sounded too forced, too abrupt, too foolish. Should she say sorry? Was it the right time to say sorry? Or had that time already passed? But what was she truly sorry for? Her friend and his own closure? His safety? Or her own life?

She had dwelled within her own thoughts, plagued with vast paranoia and lack of sleep ever since the events in the Arbor Wilds-which had been three nights ago. After that, each night, every night, the pair would sit upon the battlements and simply wait-though for what, the mage did not know. Or rather, at least the girl was waiting. Waiting for Corypheus. Waiting for the end. She did not know what Cole was waiting for, or even thinking. He did not speak a word to her ever since they had reached the Well of Sorrows-yet she drank not from the well.

Solona did not understand. Her friend was ignoring her-if he even had remained her friend. At least he was tolerating her presence. Perhaps it was not a complete rejection of companionship, as she had feared.

The young girl had frowned, cerulean eyes rimmed with crystals. She could handle many things, but not this. Not the odd boy's rejection, indifference. She did not want to be an outsider to an outsider. She did not want to be abandoned by her dearest friend. The pain had wretched her heart, each pulse bringing the sharp stab of a new wave. What hurt the most was that she did not even know what she had done to distance herself from her friend.

She had tried not to look at him-had pretended he was not even there. Just her, and the cold stones. Briefly, Solona had wondered what would happen if she had slowly allowed herself to creep towards the sharp edge. To just push herself off. Would it feel like flying? Would it hurt? What would happen? It surely would be a more swift death than Corypheus would ever grant her. It was not like she was needed to close the Breach or any smaller rifts. Her mark was corrupt. All it could do was bend the will of lesser demons and open rifts. Herah was the one the Elder One wanted. She was needed far more than Solona. Even the girl's insight on what to do was rarely ever given weight-or seriousness, even though she tried her damnedest to help.

Perhaps she could see her parents again, beyond the Fade? Or perhaps not. The Chant of Light spoke that Blood Mages would not find peace in this life, or the next. Killing oneself was also a sin in the eyes of the Maker, but was it really that damnable? She was already a Blood Mage. What more was there to damn?

Solona's brows furrowed, and her face lit up in flushed rage, eyes stinging. It seemed like she was the Maker's jester. Wait for Corypheus, most likely suffer a merciless death, die damned. Just push herself off the battlements, end it swift, still die damned.

The young mage tried to wipe the tears that had now flown freely, but to no avail. Her own foolishness had led her down a dark path, and had now damned her in death. She would not see her parents, she would not go to wherever it was the spirits of morals went. She would be a simple shadow, a little whisper of a memory of a girl that was too dumb to see the risks of Blood Magic. Blood Magic had taken her life, and her death. But it could not take her dying. And Corypheus would not have her blood on his blighted talons. She wouldn't give him the satisfaction of fulfilling his twisted pride.