Leto had spent many years wondering what it would be like to die.
For every elf he passed in the street, gaunt and begging for coin. For every magister who fell in a duel, slaughtered by a rival. For every slave who'd been sacrificed, for the sake of some horrific blood magic.
For every day he'd gone to sleep half starved, and every whiplash that'd hit his back.
In his childhood he'd wanted so badly to believe that Andraste would never let this continue, that it made no sense for the Maker to turn His back on his first children. His mother had taught him to keep his faith, to keep hope. What had it ever done to help him? What good came of believing a pretty lie?
He kept his bony fingers twined with Anders' as they walked, sluggishly pacing through the sand. The wind kicked so much dust into his eyes, he could hardly see what lay ahead of them. It was difficult to speak.
The sun burned down onto their exposed skin, Anders' cloak the only meager protection they