[open] you are gone, you are gone, you are gone

[doneisdone]

WHO: Teren and anyone who wants to bug her
WHAT: she sad
WHEN: after Loghain's departure, before the tourney
WHERE: Kirkwall, mostly the Gallows
NOTES:

She saw him off, at least.
Teren remembers being wrenched from someone, her nails digging so deeply she left faint scars on their arms long after the iron door was shut behind her. She was in her thirties then, young but not a child, aware of the world's little cruelties but not so deeply yet that she stopped believing Zerique would come for her.

Of course, Zerique never did. And there was no one else until Loghain, whose departure isn't violent or forcible; he has things to do elsewhere, they'll keep in contact, there's a short but affectionate kiss before he turns and makes his way down the hill and away.
Teren stands still as a stone as he takes his leave, remaining there long after he's disappeared from view, her dark eyes veiled and her expression absent.


When she returns to her quarters, she doesn't lock herself in or avoid anyone. That would suggest a depth of feeling and vigor of emotion that, should she betray it, she's not sure she could ever recover. Instead, she goes about her work, cares for Boots, makes her purchase orders, darns the Wardens' socks, with the sort of mindlessness that certain rifters might attribute to automatons.

Nothing is wrong, she insists, if asked. The mildness of her response, her total disinterest in rising to her usual curtness, speaks otherwise.
She'll be fine.