The graveyard Nightmare has them chance upon is the worst thing: the most secret small characters of the private corners of their hearts laid out in plain rows, combined with the blunt threat of gravestones bearing their names. They enter all the same, fascinated and spooked, moths and a flame: there’s a draw to seeing your worst fear stated so simply, in the physicality of it, like putting it in so simple words will make it easier to defeat, and so they stumbled into the alleys; she doesn’t mean to spy on her companions’ gravestones, but she’s trying to find her own, and in doing so, she catches sight of Varric’s, and his face when he reads it, and Vivienne’s, and Solas’, and everytime she tucks her glance away, feeling ashamed.

She looks over every gravestone, and finds her name nowhere, her fear nowhere; amidst her companions standing over their graves, and the stones that show them that which makes them weakest, she’s nowhere to be found; as though the Mark pulsating on her hand had made her unknowable, unknown; erased, behind the power.