She feels as though she is being hunted. From time to time she can hear the baying cries of the Dalish, but they are ghosts, and she will not give them that power over. They had hurt her enough, and there was much work to be done, people who needed to be supported through their own ghosts. Even so, she is only a person, has the limits inherent to the living, and needs some reprieve.

When her toe catches one an uneven stone and her knee drives down into the cobbling and her hand grasps one of the beds to steady herself, she realises that coming to the herb garden was a mistake. The scent of wet earth on her palm, the pain in her knee and the shock jarred up her still recovering shoulder—

Herian is afraid to look up, but she refuses to let her fear cow her. Swallows, and drags her gaze upward, to the Circle of Dalish ghosts standing around her. Taller, so much taller than they would have been, because these ghosts lived in childhood recollections. There's another figure kneeling not so far in front of her, an elven man with blond hair and a bloodied mouth, something in him that speaks to kindness and compassion where the others are all rage.