Red used to be my favourite colour. Cause Jennies, obviously, and my favourite dress. Red meant danger, yeah, but it also meant- excitement. Freedom. Getting even.
Not any more.
Red now means sickness. It means the lyrium, hot and sour and salty like someone else’s blood in your mouth, burning as it goes down my throat, where it splashes on the skin. It means running out of arrows, running out of tricks, running out of time. It means templars holding me down and here it comes again, metallic, horrible, wrong.
Red means letting the Herald die.
Red means seeing things that aren’t there, because you’ve seen the same four walls for a year now, and nothing’s gonna come and help you, Sera, so stop bloody wishing. Stop seeing things that aren’t there. Stop forgetting the things that are.
Where willows walked we-
Can’t. Shit. Can’t fucking think. Stupid. Stupid, slow Sera, dying in a cell at the end of the world.
Red means lonely, okay? It means you’re alone until you die.