more da:o

He slid down her, his fingers scrabbling wetly as they tried to grasp hold her armor. With every curse he gurgled up more blood, smearing her chest, her arms, her legs as he fell. She stood silent, her hands in white fists around her daggers, but shuddered when his weight finally left her and he dropped wheezing at her feet.

She could have saved him then. Could have ordered Morrigan, could have found a potion. She could have made it easier, quicker, with a merciful jab at the heart or throat. Instead Mairen watched as Howe writhed in agony before her. She stood and watched and watched and watched as his blood stained her boots and seeped inside, as his skin grew ashen, as his eyes rolled and grew bleary.

Blood and ash - the Cousland estate collapsing as she fled. Duncan had to pull her, then carry her through the woods; she kept trying to turn back to get to her parents, or get their bodies. She had wept for them that night and then not again for months, though pain was a blade in her, cutting constantly.

"Mairen," said a voice a thousand miles away. "Mairen, my love."

She looked down dumbly at the hand on her arm. Alistair was touching her, pulling her away from the corpse.

"He's dead, Mairen. You've killed him. It's over."