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Dead Pasts and Dread Futures

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Ixchel watched as dawn broke across the Frostbacks through the distant stained glass windows of her Skyhold bedroom, and once again she was haunted by the voices of her Inquisition:

The night is long,
 and the path is dark.
 Look to the sky,
 for one day soon
 the dawn will come.

For so many of those singers, dawn never came. They had fallen to Corypheus, and darkspawn, and demons. They had fallen to the Qun. So many of those voices had fallen quiet, and now they only sung in her haunted memories.

She thought it was a little funny that even as the sky brightened with the rising sun, her room was growing dark. Her chest was tight, and her heart ached in her ribs. She could barely feel her fingers as they rested on her breast; her remaining hand was numb, and now she was losing sensation up to the elbow.

The stained glass windows seemed further away now, even as darkness crept across her vision. The tree of Mythal as it sprawled across the artisanal panes glowed in the golden fire of morning, and a seven-eyed shadow stalked the perimeter of the room where its light did not reach.

She did not move her eyes from the horizon, caught between a dead past and a dead future.

Bare your blade,
 and raise it high.
 Stand your ground;
 the dawn will come.

She could no longer hear Dorian’s screams from the crystal he had given her, and she couldn’t tell if it was the poison’s doing or if he had finally accepted that she would not respond again. Like everything else, it didn’t matter. There was no one to hear his calls for help. There was no one to come check on her now.

Shadows fall,
 and hope has fled;
 steel your heart.
 The dawn will come.

Tears slipped down the sides of her face and into her hair.

Death claimed the Inquisitor just as the morning light reached the foot of her bed.