Mei was not an Andrastian by any means; she had seen too much of a world crafted to suit the Chantry’s whims to take any comfort in its doctrine. The Circle was a terrible enough offense on its own, but she remembered the alienage as well and could not separate the abuse of her people from the selective blindness of the Chantry. It seemed to her the only time they offered any protection to the elves was to protect them from magic—just as the guards’ interest in elvish suffering came only when the elves decided to fight back.

       Of the Elvhen gods, Mei knew even less than she did of the Maker—a more painful ignorance by far, to have so little of her father’s heritage held within her mind. Nevertheless, she knelt among the bodies of the recently slain, quietly uttering part of the song her mother had taught them to honor her father after he died.

      “Emma ir abelas, souver’inan isala hamin, vhenan him dor’felas, in Uthenera na revas.” It was spoken out of context, perhaps, and she doubted her pronunciation, but it was all she could offer. It was all that she knew.

       Gently, Mei closed the eyes of the nearest body; one of many mages who’d lashed out in defense before she had a chance to assure them she meant no harm. Every death pained her, but none more so than these: people who wanted nothing more than their own freedom, forced to violence because those in power refused to give it to them peacefully.

       “Forgive me,” she murmured. In these moments, Mei almost wished her heart could harden against the hurt, and yet she knew what a precarious thing it’d be to stop feeling it. The day she let her heart become cold enough to be unaffected by death would be the day she lost herself completely.

      Mei rose slowly at the voice, head still bowed, smile strained. She hadn’t realized anyone was watching—in fact, she’d expected no one to have any interest at all in the deaths of a few rebel mages. Dark eyes lifted to study the young man, curious. Cassandra lingered nearby as the others scouted ahead. She didn’t begrudge them their impatience.

     “You may as well advise me not to repent of myself,” Mei replied at last, her expression softening. “…will you help me?” She gestured to the seven prone figures scattered about the clearing—seven lives she’d had to take. She was the leader, after all, and even if she hadn’t dealt every killing blow, every death still weighed on her shoulders. “I won’t leave them like this.” Mei shook her head, sadness in her eyes. “They deserve more.”

S U R V I V O R S have scars                                                                              victims have graves