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Mythal had been dead for ages when Andraste’s grief called out to her. What remained of her wandered the drifting roads of the Beyond, betrayal an ever-fresh stain on her soul. Somewhere in the waking world, a woman’s trust was broken, her love violated, and she marched mournfully to her end. Her soul called out to the Fade, and Mythal answered.
She could not stay the fire, nor could she bring the man called Mefarath to Justice — not directly, in any case. She watched Andraste burn, consumed by flames but silent as a lamb, face upturned as she issued prayers to her Maker. Her faith was the only thing the Imperium could never take from her.
Mythal’s heart burned with righteous indignation — Mythal had been mother to her people once, as this woman was the guiding light to hers, and for this they both were sentenced to oblivion. It seemed history was doomed to repeat; Mythal could not bear to watch. She touched the Archon Hessarian’s soul to put an end to Andraste’s suffering; as the Archon’s blade spelled her end, Mythal appeared to the Maker’s bride in her final moments, and made her promise: Your death will mean something. Your people will triumph and be free. Your sacrifice will be honored by your Maker. Your name will be spoken on the lips of the faithful with reverence, and wars will be fought in your name. Your people shall inherit the earth. Your story will be told. And so it was that Mythal granted her first blessing to a mortal woman.
Centuries on, in the Korcari Wilds, another spurned woman stood grieving, crying out in search of vengeance. A fire burned in her soul, a beacon in the Fade. She sought help from a spirit to avenge her husband, and Mythal answered the call.
The spirit came to her as it came to Andraste, but Flemeth was no martyr. She was betrayed, as Mythal was betrayed, as the whole world was betrayed, and she would see that justice was done, no matter the cost to her soul. She was kindred, it was clear to see, and Flemeth rose from the depths of her grief empowered by the spirit of the goddess. Her vengeance against the Bann Conobar was righteous, but Flemeth was not done. Centuries passed and Mythal-in-Flemeth stood guard on history, a guiding hand like Andraste before them. She raised daughters and watched empires burn, bargained with heroes and villains alike. Mythal’s intervention shaped the world itself, a spirit’s blessing for every woman spurned.
When the Dread Wolf took a knife to her back, she knew it was the end. Betrayal upon betrayal; this time, at least, he was trying to make amends. Mythal wasn’t sure if she wanted him to succeed. One thing was for sure: the world would know her pain soon enough.