It was easy to love her, he realises begrudgingly, much later on – as she lay on her deathbed, he realises that it was love, but she already knew that – contemptible woman knew everything long before it had even occurred to him. But this time he can let it slide, almost, and as she slips into sleep, he whispers it gruffly, kissing the back of her hand with a gentleness never seen before, and that will never be seen again.

The Wardens are crying, of course – she meant everything to them, and they owed her their lives on more than one occasion. He wonders idly if they will join him for a drink tonight. Tonight will be like no other night of late – no more sitting by the bed sharing the cheap wine that was easiest to smuggle in past the templars, no more late night tales of victories past, just him and a bottle of whatever he can find and the long dark night. He is not sure that he is quite alright with facing that alone today. Tomorrow, fine.. but not right now.

Her breathing is slowing now, and he realises that she is finally leaving. Tightening his grip on her hand, trying to keep her by force, just for a second – it is not enough, of course. With a last hitch in her breath – he swears he hears her voice, just beside his ear, gently chiding him for the last time – and Wynne is gone, finally. Behind him, the bard cries even harder into the arms of the blonde assassin, and the Wardens hold hands tightly as the dog – that mangy old mutt, still going strong despite being older than should be allowed – howls a mournful goodbye. But Oghren only has eyes for the mage who could keep up with his drinking, and who actually laughed at his stories, and who would never realise just how much she had meant to him.