>>5951439“I see, then I would prefer-” you swallow, “to do it myself,” your hands start to sweat. Suddenly it feels harder to hold your sword.
The Stranger's eyes widen in horror as you force yourself to bring Sturmfahrerin above him, “Hey- wait, miss please!”
You bring your war knife down, stabbing the strange man in his heart. Before you can even think you bring your sword up and slash through his neck, beheading him. Blood covers the floor and your sword. The Stranger dies quickly and in fear. A tremble makes its way through your body and you feel like throwing up. You knew this would have to happen eventually when you decided to join the Inquisition but to actually take a life with your own hands? Maybe you could have asked the inquisitor to do it, he’s done so before. Maybe you could have had an executioner do it in a grand affair. But you couldn’t bring yourself to say so. This is your reality now, it’s better to accept that now than to be found wanting later.
After tonight you’ll never be the same woman again.
“First time?” The inquisitor asks.
You nod and keep your gaze on the still-breathing man. You can’t bring yourself to either speak or look at the corpse. His gaze turns softer, “Why don’t you go upstairs and heal what you can? The body and people down here will only take me a minute.”
One last time you look at the half-naked girls sleeping on the floor next to the dead Stranger. At least when you tell yourself you did the right thing the comfort isn’t cold.
Your body moves on autopilot as you heal the most grievous wounds of the inquisitor's adversaries, before lying them down as comfortably as you can make them. You focus all your concentration on healing so that you can forget the night's affairs for a brief moment. You’re not even sure when the inquisitor joined you but as you reach the main room of the tavern he’s there to accompany you, with three wet sacks. He thankfully leaves them hidden behind the counter.
“So, Oliver, how was your night?” You hear the inquisitor ask after a long while of silence in the tavern.
You turn around from your work on Clarice, people are starting to rise. Then you turn back, trying to heal the final part of her face. Her eye, however, is unsalvageable. The organ is too delicate, you're too exhausted, and you’ve spent too much of your magic. Maybe a more skilled healer could fix her, like Lyndale, but you’ve learned your lesson. You’re not her.
“Asher, Goddess, what happened?” Oliver sounds different, more relaxed than he did earlier.
“Can you remember anything?”
“Damnit- it’s all so hazy.”
“I’ll come by tomorrow for questioning then. Make sure everyone who is here right now still is when I return.”
“Sure, whatever. Hey, are you to blame for all my product covering the floor?”
The inquisitor laughs, “Not me this time, that’d be Her Highness over there.”
“Her Highness?” You hear him pause, “Asher.”
“Hm?”
“Why the fuck is royalty healing my daughter?”
