Miriam, her hands tightly bound behind her back, was dragged through Skyhold's courtyard by two Inquisition soldiers, heading directly for the pyre. Walking before them, Cassandra, with her Templar abilities nullifying the mage's magic, carried a torch in her hand. The place was teeming with a frenzied crowd, an indistinct sea of faces twisted in disdain surrounding her as she stumbled through the throng. Each step she took echoed with the cacophony of jeers and taunts, the venomous words piercing through her soul like shards of shattered glass. "False Herald! Pathetic Pretender!" they bellowed, their voices a symphony of scorn and condemnation. "Burn! Burn her!"
"Please believe me! I am chosen by the Maker! Please!" Miriam screamed in desperation, but her cries fell upon deaf ears, drowned out by the chorus of hatred. Stumbling over uneven ground, her heart pounded in her chest as she frantically searched the crowd for the familiar faces of Cullen and Lysette, hoping to implore for their aid. Yet, when she found them, her friends met her gaze with cold, accusatory eyes, and her words choked in her throat.
As they reached the pyre, the soldiers swiftly bound Miriam to the rough wooden stake, securing her in place. Cassandra, without sparing her a second glance, confidently wielded the torch, its flame dancing ominously in the air. With deliberate precision, she applied the fire to the waiting logs, the flames eagerly catching, flickering, and then roaring to life, engulfing the pyre in a merciless embrace. Cheers erupted from the crowd as flames spread around the mage, their tongues licking hungrily at her feet, searing her flesh. Panic and agony brought a raw cry from Miriam's throat, "My Maker! My Creator! I beg you, deliver me!"
The sky above ruptured, and a sudden deluge of blood rained furiously from the heavens, a crimson cascade that drenched the earth and extinguished the inferno that sought to claim her. The crowd, once fervent in their condemnation, fell to the ground like marionettes with severed strings. The air hung heavy with the scent of copper as a familiar chant started to echo through the air, "Blood, blood, blood!"
Despite the crimson downpour veiling her vision, she discerned the silhouette of the Emperor emerging through the imposing gates of Skyhold. Draped in nothing but tainted rain, he made his way towards her, callously trampling on the bodies that were strewn across the courtyard. Ascending the pyre to stand beside her, he enveloped her in a tight embrace, his soaked form pressing her against the stake. "Do not heed them, for you are the chosen of the Maker," Gaspard whispered in her ear, his voice sounding almost as the serpent's hiss. Then he suddenly released her and grabbed her throat. His touch was as cold as death itself, his fingers wrapping around her windpipe with a vice-like grip that robbed her of breath, forcing her to gasp for air. The Emperor's eyes, voids of darkness, bore into her soul as he uttered a final admonition. "Listen not to the chorus of deceit. Embrace your destiny!" As she choked on the sudden rush of blood that flooded her mouth, a visceral terror consumed her, tearing the veil of the nightmare and hurling her into the waking world.
With a sharp gasp, Miriam's eyes snapped open. Her body was drenched in sweat, and the lingering taste of blood clung to her tongue. With a trembling hand, she reached for her amulet, gripping it tightly and pressing it against her chest as she curled into a fetal position under the covers. Those terrible nightmares had been haunting her since the day she fell out of the Fade at the Western Approach. Was the Maker trying to convey a message through these terrible dreams, or was it simply her troubled mind grappling with lingering doubts?
As she swallowed, feeling the metallic taste of saliva descending down her throat, memories of the time she and the Emperor shared a kiss flooded her mind. His lips bore the taste of blood, and in its aftermath, she was consumed by an icy chill from within, as if all the warmth had been drained from her being. Miriam had never been kissed before, but she knew it shouldn't have felt like that. Could it be another manifestation of the mark? For a while, she tossed and turned in her bed, the weight of unanswered questions pressing on her mind, denying her the solace of sleep. As the midnight bells tolled, feeling frustrated and with frayed nerves, she decided to seek refuge in prayer.
Quietly, she slipped out of bed, swapped her wrinkled, sweat-soaked nightclothes for a fresh robe, and put on her mask. Although she had the statue of Andreste gifted to her by the Emperor in her quarters, she made her way to the Skyhold's Chapel. Its sacred atmosphere held an irresistible appeal for her soul—a unique allure that her own quarters couldn't match.
Entering the sacred space, she felt a sense of calm wash over her. The empty, dimly lit room was bathed in a warm glow, the crackling of coals in the eternal brazier providing a soothing backdrop to her thoughts. The air was thick with the scent of candles and incense, wrapping her in a cocoon of tranquility.
Her eyes fell upon the statue of Andraste, whose serene expression seemed to offer her solace, a silent companion in her time of need. With a heavy heart, Miriam sank to her knees before His Bride, clasping her hands together in prayer. In the sacred hush, she bared her soul and while the Maker remained silent, the burden of her troubles felt somewhat lighter as she relinquished them to the divine.
Once the mage finished her prayer, she rose from her kneeling position and smoothed her robe. Just as she was about to leave, however, her solitude was interrupted by the distinct sound of approaching footsteps. She turned to meet Cullen's eyes, his thoughtful expression changing to surprise at seeing her. He looked tired, and his left hand moved awkwardly as he walked. "Miriam," he said, eyeing her curiously. "What brings you here at this late hour?"
A sigh escaped her lips as she shifted uncomfortably. "A nightmare," she began, her voice betraying her weariness. "It robbed me of my sleep, and I thought seeking solace in prayer might ease the haunting thoughts that linger."
He nodded in understanding. "It seems that nightmares have become unwelcome bedfellows for both of us today. I, too, have sought refuge here for this very reason."
He came closer, and for a while they stood side by side in front of the statue of Andraste in a comfortable silence. Miriam contemplated asking Cullen if he wished to be alone or if he preferred her company, when he, still gazing at the statue uttered. "Do you want to become a family?"
The unexpectedness of the question left Miriam astounded. She turned to face him. "A family?"
In a swift turn, Cullen directed his attention toward her. He adjusted his tabard and cleared his throat. His words flowed rapidly and with a hint of monotony as if the sentence had been rehearsed. "Yes. I have come to realize the depth of my affection for you, a sentiment that transcends mere friendship. I understand this might come as a surprise, but I want you to know that I've thoroughly considered and thought abo…"
"I would be honored!" she exclaimed, unable to wait for him to finish. "To have you as my sworn brother is beyond anything I could ever hope for!" His countenance, initially radiant with hope, twisted into a pained expression. The mage's heart tightened in her chest, sensing a dissonance she had not anticipated.
Cullen, struggling to maintain composure, began to stumble over his words. "I... I should have been clearer, and I apologize if my words misled you," he said, his voice strained. "I meant... I meant to propose a union through marriage, to create a family of our own."
"Wait," she mumbled out, her voice betraying both confusion and disbelief. "Did I hear you correctly? You want us to become husband and wife?"
Cullen, his face now flushed, nodded.
Miriam's breath caught in her throat as she absorbed his words. The Chapel seemed to close in on her as she grappled with the unexpected twist of events. "I never thought... I never considered...Oh, Cullen," she stammered. "I hold you dearly in my heart, you know that," she continued, her voice tender yet tinged with hesitation. "You are my hero, my steadfast pillar of strength, and my friend, but I don't..."
Cullen's piercing gaze bore into her, interrupting her words. "Do you harbor feelings of love for the Emperor?"
Miriam shook her head. "No, I have deep respect for His Majesty, but nothing more. His Majesty, however, holds affection for me, of that I am certain. It is this fondness that beckons me to consider his offer. For within me stirs a selfish yearning, a longing to secure a loving family, to obtain something I thought was forever beyond my reach."
"Then why won't you entertain the prospect of marriage with me? Do you think Gaspard's affection exceeds mine?"
"No, certainly not!" she declared fervently. Miriam clasped her hands, a desperate plea in her eyes as she endeavored to articulate the intricate web of emotions entwined within her. "You see, I could enter into union with His Majesty and bear no guilt for withholding my heart, but I could not do the same with you. It would be a torment, knowing I cannot reciprocate the passion you rightfully deserve."
Cullen processed her words for a moment and then replied with confidence. "I would rather embrace the platonic love you could grant me than endure the pain of watching you wed another."
His words tug at her heartstrings. Miriam couldn't fathom why he would be willing to make such a sacrifice. Perhaps, she pondered, if he understood the full extent of what he was signing up for, he might see reason? She removed her mask and looked up at him, fully aware of the eerie way the flames of the brazier would flicker in her crimson eyes. "Even if we were to receive the Chantry's blessing and you were willing to set aside the desire for progeny," she began, her tone serious, "there remains the matter of the mark and how it affects my body." After a deep breath, Miriam found the courage to utter a confession she had been reluctant to make: "Apart from the visible displays you are already familiar with, there has been another noteworthy change. I have lost my sense of taste. I…I can only savor the metallic flavor of blood, Cullen. I cannot fathom what future the Maker may bestow upon me, but the signs do not seem promising. I am telling you this not to burden you, but because I want you to realize that you could find a much better wife."
He studied her for a long moment, a myriad of emotions playing on his face. Opening his mouth as if to speak, he hesitated, eventually closing it. Instead, he reached out and tenderly clasped her hand. "Miriam, whatever challenges lie ahead, we shall face them together," he declared. "And I fear you greatly overestimate my appeal as a partner. I am just a commoner bearing the weight of a maimed hand and a mind prone to falter," he admitted, his grip on her hand tightening. "Given the intricacies of our circumstances, I dare say we form a fitting pair."
A surge of warmth tinged with vulnerability coursed through her, but it was swiftly eclipsed by a cold current of fear as she suddenly realized the potential repercussions of her response to their friendship. "Cullen, I...I am…" she mumbled, her voice trembling with uncertainty.
"Miriam," he said softly, "all I ask is for you to give my proposal some thought. Can you do that?"
In response to his request, the mage managed a weak nod.
He gently released her hand, offering a brief, appreciative smile. "Thank you."
Cullen reached for her mask, handling it with care, and delicately positioned it back onto her face. "You should go and get some rest."
Miriam nodded weakly once more.
Awkwardly, they exchanged subdued goodnights, and she made her way to her chambers.
For the rest of the night, her mind was awash with a tumultuous sea of emotions that refused to grant her sleep. Every detail, every word exchanged in conversation with Cullen replayed incessantly in her mind. The revelation of her best friend's love added a layer of complexity to her situation. The familiarity and security of their friendship became uncharted territory, and the path forward appeared hazy and undefined at his omission. And as she wrestled with her inner turmoil, one terrifying thing became clear: whatever path she chose would irrevocably alter the dynamic of their relationship forever.
The next day, exhausted from the sleepless night, Miriam found herself putting in considerable effort to focus on her tasks. Despite her best attempts, thoughts of Cullen continued to dominate her mind, proving challenging to set aside or ignore. In the midst of her preoccupation, she forgot to sign crucial documents sent by Josephine. The oversight led to a reprimand from the Ambassador, which she rightfully deserved. As if the paperwork mishap wasn't enough, her lapse in concentration extended to the infirmary. While attempting to prepare potions, she accidentally spoiled several batches by adding too much elfroot and misjudging the proportions.
The final straw, however, came in the evening, during the council meeting when the problem of the Venatori smuggling red lyrium into Antiva was discussed. As Cullen elaborated on details and indicated locations on the map, Miriam simultaneously placed her marker near the rift that was also located in that area. Their hands momentarily brushed against each other, which had proven enough to elicit a sudden reaction that compelled her to withdraw her hand as if she were bitten. The motion prompted surprised glances from those around the table, but fortunately, no one chose to comment upon the incident, allowing the meeting to proceed without interruption. She loathed the discomfort that nestled in her chest, finding it absurd and resenting the fact that physical contact with Cullen, her usual source of comfort, now triggered anxiety. Frustrated with herself and the unfolding situation, she struggled to fully engage in the discussion, her contributions becoming minimal, and she swiftly retreated to her quarters as soon as the meeting concluded.
The heavy wooden door creaked open, unveiling her chambers bathed in the soft, waning hues of the sunset. A faint echo of metal tapping against stone emanated from the balcony, where Miriam was pleasantly surprised to find Lysette. Lost in contemplation, the Knight stood leaning against the railing, her leg tapping rhythmically on the floor as she looked out at the vast expanse of the mountains.
"Good evening. It's good that you came." Miriam greeted her friend warmly as she entered the balcony.
Lysette turned to face her, the sunlight casting a rosy hue upon her polished armor. "Good evening, Inquisitor."
"Today proved to be quite the trial," the mage began, her voice carrying the weight of exhaustion and frustration. "I found myself deprived of sleep, neglected to attend to Josephine's documents, and mishandled the preparation of potions..." Her recounting faltered, however, as she observed her friend's uneasy demeanor. "Is something troubling you?"
"I apologize, I wasn't entirely present," Lysette replied softly, her gaze momentarily diverted before reconnecting with Miriam's eyes. She approached, laying a hand on her shoulder. "I came to you today because I need your assistance. It concerns Brother Sebastian."
Miriam furrowed her brow. "What's happened?"
The Knight took a deep breath before pouring out her predicament. "He refuses to accept Hawke's death. It's been weeks, and he still clings to the hope that she's alive. I've tried talking to him, but he won't listen. He won't even entertain the thought that she's gone." Her voice filled with desperation as she continued. "Inquisitor, you have to talk to him. He needs to hear it from someone he respects, someone who can make him see the truth. You're the Herald of Andraste, he'll listen to you."
Miriam's heart went out to the Brother. She empathized with his denial, understanding all too well the comfort one could find in holding onto hope, even in the face of overwhelming evidence to the contrary. Her desire to affirm him mirrored her own longing for validation. "No one saw the Champion die. There's a chance, however small, that she's out there somewhere. He has reason to hold onto hope."
The Templar, seemingly frustrated with Miriam's response, withdrew her hand. "Reason? This isn't about reason! It's about helping a man move on, about giving him the closure he desperately needs. We can't have such a slim chance to stand in the way of that."
Suddenly, a suspicion crept over her, suggesting there might be more to the Knight's motives. "Why are you so eager for him to move on?"
Lysette began to pace. "I'm trying to help a friend. And if once he's accepted the truth, he might be open to new connections... I will be there." Her response held a hint of defensiveness as if justifying her actions to herself as much as to the mage.
Now it was Miriam's turn to be incensed. She found it difficult to fathom that her friend would contemplate using Hawke's sacrifice as an opportunity to pursue a relationship with the Brother. "Do you even realize how foul this sounds?"
Lysette recoiled as if the mage's words had struck her; however, she quickly regained her composure and declared defiantly, "Is it truly so reprehensible to grasp the opportunity to be with the man I love? Sebastian deserves a companion who could be here for him, not one lost in the Fade."
Miriam stared at the Templar with wide eyes, her hands moving to emphasize her words. "My friend, this is not the essence of who you are! You are an honorable woman. You are better than this!"
The Knight stopped her restless pacing, her face changing in an instant. All traces of her former fiery temper vanished, leaving behind an expression of weariness and sorrow. She sighed and met Miriam's gaze with a somber expression. "I have a confession to make, Inquisitor. When the moment came to decide who would stay behind to lead our people against the Nightmare, I... impulsively suggested that Hawke should take the responsibility. To my surprise, she agreed with a cocky smile on her face. I feel the crushing weight of guilt, for there was no real need for her sacrifice, the Emperor could have chosen one of his Chevaliers to lead. And yet, deep down, I am grateful that my instigation has somehow given me the chance to be with Sebastian."
"What happened to you?" Miriam whispered, unable to reconcile the noble Lysette she knew with the person standing before her.
"Love," the Knight stated simply.
"This? This can't be it!" The mage protested vehemently, her voice rising with conviction.
"Have you ever been in the throes of hopeless love? Do you truly know how it feels?" Lysette parried, remarkably composed.
"No, but..." the mage began, only to be abruptly halted by her friend.
"Then you could never understand me," she asserted. Miriam's response wavered, Lysette's statement momentarily robbing her of words. In the ensuing silence, the Templar persisted, her tone measured, "Will you help me, or not?"
Miriam, still wrestling with the tumult of emotions, shook her head in silent denial.
Lysette gave her a long, penetrating look, her lips pressing into a thin line. "I understand," she said finally. With a shift in demeanor, she squared her shoulders and adopted a formal expression. "With your esteemed permission, Your Worship, I humbly request to withdraw from your presence."
"Please, you don't have to speak with me like that."
Lysette, however, remained resolute, repeating the request in the same flat tone without meeting Miriam's eyes. "I humbly request to withdraw from your presence."
The mage sighed, shaking her head. "Your request is acknowledged and granted," she conceded softly. Lysette, maintaining her composed demeanor, inclined her head in acknowledgment before briskly leaving the room.
For a moment Miriam stood in solemn silence, her gaze fixed upon the door that had closed behind the Knight. "In the solitude of the night, Maferath dwelled in his bitterness, and the Light which once burned within him was extinguished," she murmured, her heart heavy with sorrow as she slowly turned away to gaze at the statue of Andraste, bathed in the colors of the sunset. Much like the Betrayer, Lysette had succumbed to the insidious grasp of jealousy, staining her once pure heart and driving her to commit grievous deeds. Clutching the amulet around her neck, Miriam hoped that the Maker would have mercy on her friend's soul, for Lysette had mistaken her obsession with Brother Sebastian for love. True love, she knew, was a reflection of the timeless bond between the Maker and His Bride—a love that was selfless, patient, and enduring. It was a flame that could never be extinguished, a beacon of unwavering devotion that illuminated even the darkest corners of the soul. And no selfish desire, no whisper of jealousy, no shadow of doubt could dim its brilliance.