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She sits on the cold ground outside her tent—the one resting on the outskirts of the clearing, farthest than anyone save Morrigan—maps and tomes scattered haphazardly around her. Vestele lifts her head to stretch her shoulders, shocked to find that the sun has already set. The candle next to her is almost burned to the base. No wonder her head is throbbing.
Her gaze falls on the fire across the campsite. Nights like this are the most painful. Wynne, Alistair, and Zevran huddle around it, talking amongst themselves. She watches how the colors of the fire flicker along each of their features; every grin or chuckle warm and inviting. It makes her insides ache.
Leliana appears from behind the fire and announces that dinner is ready. A groan slips from Vestele’s throat. This is her least favorite part of the day.
She snuffs the candle, then gathers her materials together and drops them right inside the mouth of her tent before heading to the gathering. As Vestele approaches the campfire, the melody of the bard’s song floats through the air. She grinds her teeth in irritation but releases the scowl before the woman turns around. Leliana gives her a full bowl along with a gentle smile. “Here! I hope you like it.”
“Thank you.”
Leliana’s smile falters a bit, but she simply makes a soft noise of acknowledgment before bending down to fill another bowl.
Vestele stays rooted to her spot. To her surprise, she feels…guilty? Leliana seems disappointed at her reaction. Why? She can’t say that a slightly aloof response is anything out of the ordinary.
Leliana looks at her again once realizing Vestele hasn’t moved. Upon their eyes connecting, Vestele grunts and turns on her heel towards her tent. She barely takes a few strides before she hears her name and freezes. Wynne asked her a question. She heard it, but really didn’t.
“What?” she says, facing Wynne and immediately regretting it. The eyes of every person are fixed to her.
“I said, would you like to join us at the fire for dinner tonight?”
They’re all staring. Her body is on fire, her neck is drenched in sweat. She can’t hear anything, not the sounds of wood cracking in the flames, not even her own breathing. Because she can’t breathe. They’re still staring.
“I’m set. But thanks.”
While she practically sprints away, she can hear Alistair scoff. “She’s just like that. You’ll get used to it.”
She settles down on the floor of her tent and yanks it shut. It is quiet for a few moments, until Leliana giggles and whispers something Vestele can’t make out. Alistair laughs, and then they begin debating the quality of Leliana’s cooking compared to Wynne’s.
Her stomach is in knots. Tonight will be the worst in a while. She knows she needs sustenance—the decrease in appetite had made her body weak, a burdensome figure her mind is chained to. Normally it isn’t like this, so intense that she can barely walk a straight line, but ever since the Circle…the memories, the nightmares; screams of children in horror and agony reverberating in her brain, loud enough she almost believes she’s still there. Images of abominations holding her down, melting her flesh, ripping her jaw apart and choking her with their essence…
Vestele peers down at her bowl of stew and the mere sight invokes a small gag. Reluctantly, she brings the spoon to her lips, snarling at herself when she sees her hand trembling. Each swallow is more difficult than the last. Her throat constricts, fighting against the liquid and even managing to force some back up. She covers her mouth and digs her nails into her cheeks, hard enough to form deep marks. A welcome distraction from the contractions in her middle each time she hears a laugh outside, the sounds of comradery and fondness. They’ve decided Wynne’s culinary skills are the best. Another reminder of isolation.
But I did this to myself.
'I did.'
And I continue to make that choice.
'I know.'
The struggle against every mouthful hurts. She must pause to suck in a deep breath, dry her eyes, swallow what remains, then start again. Ever the warrior, too stubborn to give up.
They are not my friends. Swallow.
They will never be my family. Gag.
Why would I bother, anyway? This will not last. Once we have no use for each other, we will part ways. And that is assuming I survive. Why form a bond that is doomed to end in tragedy?
Done.
Vestele wipes down the bowl, wraps it in an unwashed shirt, and places it in the corner of the tent. She crawls into her bedroll and curls it tight around her body, over her head, trying to block out the voices in the distance. Then she closes her eyes, eyelashes sticky with tears, and repeats her mantra over and over until falling asleep.
Yet despite everything, she has a stray thought. But...maybe tomorrow could be different.