Reflection

Alistair sat in his study room in the royal palace of Denerim, his head resting in his palms. He sniffed, fighting off sleep as he tried to recall complex fighting techniques.
Sleep overtook him, however, with an iron fist and flung him deep into the Fade.


He wandered the uneven areas, demons hissing at him, spirits staring in wonder at him, but he walked past them all numbly, just as he had for the past week.
Alistair looked up to the ever-present Black City and screamed, "Maker! Why have you taken her from me? She was mine, not yours!!"
His voice echoed, rebounded, merged, and echoed again until the words meant nothing. He kept his dead eyes on the City. He stared at it until the Fade around him blurred into blackness. Demons slid by, giving him a wide berth, as if they knew when to leave well enough alone.
But one essence forced his gaze downward.
Her.
Her long black hair tied into a loose ponytail, her bright red eye shadow, her flame tattoos, her silver eyes—they were all as Alistair remembered. She even wore the same armor she had died in.
Time stopped as he tried to find his voice.
"Scythe," he breathed, so softly that he knew she couldn't hear.
But she turned her unblinking gaze to him and he ran towards her. "Scythe!" he gasped again, embracing her.
"Alistair," she said softly, looking past him to the Black City as he pulled away.
"Scythe, how can you--?"
"Alistair," she interrupted, "was the last the I said before I..." Her eyes finally flickered to him. They glazed over, focused, and refocused before a mournful smile spread over her face. "I don't want to see you like this anymore, my love."
He started to say something, but Scythe held up her hand. "You need to let me go," she smiled sadly.
"I miss you," Alistair whispered, forcing back a sob, "so much."
"You need to let me go," she repeated, putting her hand on his cheek. He held her hand in his and sobbed, "I wish we had more time."
"We never have. We never will."
Her bright eyes saddened as he began to bawl.
"It's worse when you're by the Maker, but feel so alone," she said lightly, but Alistair could easily hear the pain behind it.
"Alistair..."
He looked up at her.
"I want you to have this," she said, pushing a necklace into his palm. He knew it well. When he met her, she was wearing it, and when she had died, she was buried with it. It had the Chantry's symbol on the front, and was flat and shiny on the back. He looked closely at it and saw her smiling face.
He looked back at her.
"I have to go now; He's calling me back to Him," she said, drifting towards the Black City.
"I miss you," Alistair said again, "more than I can say."
Scythe smiled dimly and nodded. "I know. Tell my brother that I miss him but hope not to see him soon. Goodbye, and remember that I love you...Always..."

Alistair forced his eyes open and wrenched his head from his hands. He looked around his study room and his dream returned vividly.
Tears sprinted down his cheeks, the memory of her touch there still lingering. It was a good long while before he realized he was clutching something.
He opened his hand a saw, to his surprise, a pendant bearing the symbol of the Chantry on the front, and, as he turned it over, a flat mirror-like surface that, if held just right, caught glimpses of his love, her lips raised into the slightest smile.
~~~